#elphir

It was a hot and sunny day in Dol Amroth, and perfect for spending the afternoon at the beach. Boromir and Faramir were visiting their mother’s family, and they had joined their uncle, aunt, and cousins down at the beach. While Faramir was writing Tengwar in the sand with Erchirion and Amrothos, Boromir and Elphir were kicking a ball back and forth and seeing who could kick it the highest (Boromir did have a bit of a height and strength advantage since he was a few years older). Lothíriel, the only girl in the family, was sitting by herself and trying to build a sandcastle. Imrahil and Luíthril were reclining under a shade, watching their children and nephews at play.

At some point, Amrothos started getting bored with writing and wanted to play in the water. Elphir suggested that he and Boromir have a wrestling contest, with Amrothos and Erchirion on their backs. Since Faramir was too big to be carried by either of them, he offered to be the judge of the contest.

Boromir and Elphir waded out into the water until it was up to Boromir’s waist and Elphir’s torso. The tide was becoming stronger, so the two were having trouble keeping their balance. Erchirion climbed up onto Boromir’s back with ease. Elphir nearly fell when Amrothos climbed up, but he was able to keep his footing. Faramir stood knee-deep in the water and raised his right arm. Elphir and Boromir grasped each other’s hands, then Erchirion and Amrothos did the same.

“All of you be careful,” Luíthril called.

“Maer, Naneth,” the three brothers responded in unison.

After waiting for a few more seconds, Faramir swung his arm down, and the match began. Boromir’s strength and size dominated the match early on, making Elphir struggle to stay upright. Erchirion and Amrothos tightened their legs on Boromir and Elphir’s shoulders while they pushed at each other. Elphir was not going to give up so easily, however, and he tried to knock Boromir backwards by shoving his bodyweight against him, jostling Amrothos and almost causing him to nearly fall off.

“Oi! Careful, Elphir!” Amrothos protested.

“Well, hold on tighter so you don’t fall off!” said the oldest brother. Amrothos twisted his ear in retaliation. “Ow!”

A shrill scream caused the five to jump. Elphir stumbled backwards, and he and Amrothos tipped over and vanished beneath the water, both coming up sputtering a few seconds later.

“That doesn’t count!” Elphir shouted.

“Lothy, what’s wrong?” Amrothos asked, wading through the water towards the beach where his younger sister was wailing and sniffling. Their parents also got up and checked on their daughter.

“My darling, what happened? Are you hurt?” Luíthril asked while stroking the little girl’s hair.

“Did you get sand in your eyes?” Amrothos questioned.

“Nooooooooo…!” Lothíriel whimpered, her bottom lip trembling. “The sea ruined my castle!”

There was a long pause, as though no one knew how to respond. Sure enough, Lothíriel’s sandcastle had been turned into a wet hill of sand.

“Well, you shouldn’t have tried building a sandcastle so close to the water,” Elphir said. Lothíriel sobbed. Erchirion elbowed Elphir in the ribs. “What? It’s true!”

“I want this spot! Why can’t the sea go somewhere else?”

Boromir hummed in thought as he stroked the short hairs of his beard. Lothíriel couldn’t help how she felt, since she was so young, but it was evident that her brothers and parents were a bit uncomfortable about her temper tantrum. However, Boromir felt a strong urge to solve her problem. Although Faramir hadn’t made that much noise or as much of a spectacle, Boromir had wiped away many tears when they were children, and just like whenever his little brother was upset, he wanted to cheer up his cousin, too.

“Don’t worry, Lothíriel. You don’t have to move somewhere else. All you need is a deep trench to catch the water that flows in. And if you build your castle up higher from the ground, like the castle of Dol Amroth, it won’t be touched by the water.”

Elphir raised an eyebrow in confused shock—or perhaps shocked confusion. Erchirion nodded sagely. Amrothos glanced between Boromir and Lothíriel, gauging his little sister’s reaction. Faramir wore a secretive smile. Imrahil and Luíthril looked at each other with a smile before returning to their shaded spot, knowing that Lothíriel was in good hands. Lothíriel sniffled once more and lifted her watery blue eyes to meet Boromir’s.

“Really?” Boromir beamed and nodded fervently.

“Really! We could help you if you want.” Lothíriel pouted her lips and nodded. “Elphir, come help me dig.”

“Fine,” Elphir mumbled and then dropped down to his knees, shoving his hands into the sand.

“Erchirion, you and Amrothos can start creating a hill for the castle to go on top,” Boromir ordered.

“Aye aye, Captain!” said Erchirion, earning a chuckle from Amrothos.

“Lothíriel, would you like to add some shells or stones to your castle?” Faramir asked. Lothíriel nodded and took Faramir’s offered hand as they searched the beach for seashells.

After Erchirion and Amrothos had formed a decently-sized mound of sand, Boromir and Elphir made a circular trench around it, and then extended it towards the sea so the water would have a way to flow into it. When Faramir and Lothíriel returned, they set the seashells, polished stones, and a bundle of seaweed in a pile, and then set to work at making the sandcastle. Lothíriel made the first layer, and when it was too high for her to add more to the top, Faramir picked her up so she could reach. They, as well as Amrothos, added the shells and stones around the edges of the towers. Erchirion spread the seaweed on the “hill,” and then Boromir tore a strip of seaweed into a triangle, poking a thin piece of driftwood through it and sticking it on the top.

“There. Your castle has a banner, now,” he said proudly.

“What do you think, Lothíriel? Do you like it?” Faramir asked. Lothíriel jumped up and down with a bright grin on her face.

“It’s beautiful.” As she said that, a large wave swept onto the land, and it was coming quickly for her castle. “No, sea! Go away, sea!”

“Don’t worry, it’ll hold,” Boromir said. Sure enough, the water flowed into the deep trench and filled it. A little bit of the hill was softened or washed away, but it stayed solid. “See?”

“Yay, my castle survived! Take that, sea!” Lothíriel stuck her tongue out at the ocean. She then spun around to her parents. “Adar, Naneth, isn’t my castle pretty?”

“It is lovely, darling,” said Luíthril.

“What do you say to your brothers and cousins for helping you, Lothíriel?” Imrahil said with a pointed look.

“Le hannon,” Lothíriel said bashfully.

“I think the sandcastle turned out nicely,” Boromir said, mentally patting himself on the back for coming up with the idea. “The finest—”

“YAH!” Lothíriel trudged into the trench, splashing water everywhere, and then started climbing up the sandcastle, smashing it with her fists and jumping up and down on it. Boromir’s mouth fell open in dismay. Faramir’s face turned white. Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos sighed but didn’t appear to be surprised by this turn of events. After one last stomp, Lothíriel planted her hands on her hips. “Nobody gets to ruin my castle but me!”

Thank you for reading!

They had arrived less than two days ago, and it was already a disaster.

It was the first time since their Edoras wedding that Éomer and Lothíriel travelled to Dol Amroth. Since settling in Rohan and being crowned queen of this foreign realm, she had, at times, found herself much too overwhelmed by nostalgia and the longing for familiarity to carry out some of her royal obligations. At night, when all candles were snuffed and the wind raked against the façade of glorious Meduseld, she would weep until slumber and exhaustion crept in and claimed her. She missed long strolls on the shore — either on her own or with her brothers — and watching the dolphins leap among the waves in the distance, guarding ships as they depart. Her tongue longed for the hearty dishes adorned with varieties of herbs from her region, for the rich yet fresh flavours preciously preserved in her father’s wine cellar. When loneliness struck, when her nerves gained the upper hand and when doubts invaded her, she would seek any remnant of her mother’s perfume into the folds of a shawl passed down to her, but it became harder to find by the day.

So, Éomer had written to Prince Imrahil in secret, politely requesting permission to bring her back to her homeland to soothe her heart. A week, maybe two, enough for her to reconnect with the palace and the people that had seen her grow and return to Rohan with a lighter spirit. He could not begin to imagine how brutal this change had been for her, to dwell in the seafoam and be brought to the rocky mountainside. Everything in her new home was different. Her days beat to a rhythm of unknown customs, bathed in a language she did not speak. Her free hours were spent in study, replicating the Rohirric script over and over until she could write it autonomously or and decipher its letters. Her husband had employed a tutor to oversee her education in the speech of the Rohirrim, aiding her in perfecting her pronunciation and accent, although no one would reprimand her for retaining some of her Dol Amroth lilt. Éomer cherished it.

But try as he may, there was too little space allocated to her own culture, dialect or customs. No wonder she felt so homesick. As such, he decided that this visit to the coastal city would be an opportunity for him to learn about where she hailed from in return. That was the least he could do. Afterwards, he promised himself, he would make efforts to bring some of her traditions to Meduseld, or, if the court vehemently objected, to their domestic life. He would arrange for certain foods to be available or prepared on symbolic days which she could not celebrate with her kin. He would commission tapestries from the best artisans in her region to decorate their chambers and the study he had built for her and her precious scrolls. He would ensure that their children would speak both languages and that they would know the ancient songs of both Edoras and Dol Amroth, for they belonged to both lands at once.

But first, he had to survive a stay in Dol Amroth. And the prospects were not brilliant.

Upon their arrival, Éomer breached local etiquette by embracing Imrahil in front of his court. He did not understand why so many courtiers glared at him as he passed them by, or why whispers spread throughout the assembly. Without thinking, he had clapped his friend and ally’s back in a warm gesture, typical of his people. He did not learn until later that night from his wife that the court had perceived it as a vulgar affront towards the prince. As he groaned and buried his face into his hands, Lothíriel assured him that neither she nor her father saw it as an insult. Imrahil knew Éomer well enough to recognise that the gesture bore no ill intent.

The next morning, they had all shared a sumptuous family breakfast. Cheeses, steaming bread, seasoned fish, eggs, and savoury pastries had adorned the table, coaxing any onlooker into drooling. Imrahil had selected two fitting wines from his cellar, in hopes that his guest would discover the tastes of the region. While Éomer traditionally sated himself with meat in the morning, but he was willing to exchange it for the fish and complement the flavour with a crisp white wine of his father-in-law’s choosing. Finding the combination strange yet delicious nonetheless, the Rohir had not hesitated to help himself to more wine as they exchanged about itineraries between their cities. Amrothos had gently pressed a finger to the pitcher’s beak, tilting it up and interrupting the flow and Éomer’s talking. With a smile, Lothíriel’s brother had turned to one of the servants standing by.

‘An ngell nîn,’ he had said, prompting one man to step forward and fill Éomer’s cup before his confused eyes. Amrothos had then explained to the king that no courtier nor royal would help themselves to a drink, for it had to be poured for them. ‘Most of the household speaks Sindarin, so you must address them in it. Do you have any knowledge of it?’

‘I am afraid not.’

‘An ngell nîn. It simply means ‘please.’ You can go a long way with it.’

‘A gall nin.’

‘Almost.’

Later that day, Éomer, Lothíriel and her mother had indulged in a walk along the cliffs outside the city walls. Below them, the waves lapped at the mossy rocks, their foam splashing high onto the grass above. Some fish could be seen pecking at the algae in search of sustenance, fended off by orange and red crabs snapping at them to defend their territory. After spending a few minutes watching them, the family had set out for the lighthouse, crossing the white stone bridge binding the mainland to this lonesome patch of boulders upon which stood the tower, reflecting the city’s architectural style. Its guardian had escorted them to the top floor, from which they had beheld a stunning view of the sea and the horizon. Éomer had never seen anything similar. While he loved his mountains, hills and plains, there was something rather peaceful about the water, undisturbed by man-made structures. The salted air had filled his lungs, making him cough a few times, but he had grown accustomed to it much faster than anticipated. Lothíriel’s mother had taught him what lay beyond the waters around Dol Amroth. Far southward — thus to their left —, the Haradwaith lay on the other side of the Bay of Belfalas, a broad stretch of land that none of them had ventured into, awfully foreign despite the shared border with Gondor. She had showed him the direction of Edhellond, pointing out the towers the mist could not completely conceal. He had vaguely remembered the harbour’s connection with the Elves and Lothíriel had filled in the gaps with her history knowledge.

When they had descended, they had headed for the harbour so the Rohir could see the ships stationed there. They had discussed the tides with fishermen preparing to leave, watching their careful process and studying the material they would carry out to sea. Éomer saw nearly every type of vessel, from humble barques bobbing on the water to majestic three-masted ships whose sails were not yet unfolded. Further along, they had found a quiet beach of thin, white sand. He had taken off his boots to feel it under his toes, grinning as they sank into the grains. He had then attempted to bathe them into the seawater, but its coldness had chilled his bones instantly, causing him to hop out of reach with a gasp. The two women had giggled behind their sleeves, knowing better than to step further in such a weather. While retrieving his boots, Éomer had caught a glimpse of several seashells scattered onto the ground. He had picked up an empty scallop shell, holding it up to show Lothíriel.

‘This one is intact, we should place it somewhere in our chambers, a piece of your home.’

The Princess of Dol Amroth had instantly stepped forward, gently holding his wrist and lowering it towards the ground. She had patiently explained that these specific shells should never be picked up, for they had been placed there by wives and mothers in hopes that the bay’s treacherous tides would allow their husbands and sons to return from their expeditions. Stuttering apologies, he had placed the shell where he had found it, aligning it with the dent it had left in the sand.

The next afternoon, the Rohir had explored the city while his wife rode out with her father for a quiet moment together. As he had passed a tavern, he had come across Elphir and Erchirion drinking cider while playing cards. They had beckoned him inside, inviting him to join, and the three of them had played for some time, sharing jokes and talking about their families. Elphir had gleefully recounted his son’s first steps, praising him for walking earlier than most children, although he could not yet speak. He had told of the education that he and his wife wished to instil in him, of how they wished to travel across Middle-earth for his enrichment, and of how they might send him into fosterage in Minas Tirith or Emyn Arnen for his political and diplomatic education. Éomer had assured him that there would always be space for them at Meduseld should they visit, insisting that Lothíriel would be delighted to welcome them there. As for Erchirion, he had bashfully admitted to being in the midst of courting a lady from Calembel, and he hoped that both Imrahil and her father would grant him permission to propose to her. Elphir had tousled his hair, teasing his brother for being infatuated, but wished him much joy in their relationship.

When came the time to pay, Éomer had enjoyed the afternoon so much that he had decided to invite both of his new brothers. He had placed precisely enough coin into the innkeeper’s palm, thanking him for his good service. Elphir and Erchirion had not been enthusiastic. The former had enlightened the Rohir about local customs, telling him of the unspoken rule that foreigners should never pay for locals, since they should be the ones introducing newcomers to their cuisine. Erchirion had then indicated that it was conventional to thank innkeepers or any service provider with a few extra coins. Éomer had stammered in response, trying to explain that he merely wished to treat them well after their warm welcome, and that, in Rohan, the prices already reflected the quality of service, thus rendering tips unnecessary and sometimes rude. The two had patted him on the shoulders, assuring him that no harm had been done, and Erchirion met with the innkeeper again to slip some money across the counter.

And then came dinner. This time, instead of a dinner limited to the royal family, a banquet with the courtiers had been organised. Minstrels had come to entertain the guests, singing and playing their instruments, whose sounds were soon drowned by the hubbub of chatter and laughter. Éomer and Lothíriel had arrived dressed in silks and brocades, their hair braided in the intricate patterns of Belfalas and scented with mint and irises. They had paid their respects to the Prince, before mingling with the other nobles present. All had seemed to improve for Éomer, who made conscious efforts not to offend anybody this time.

But when the food was served, the tides had changed. Imrahil had given a speech about his elation for his daughter’s return, even though for too short a time, and had welcomed aloud all that he had not been able to converse with yet. Then, opening the festivities, he had called for all to enjoy the feast. Various dishes had been placed on the tables, from fish stews to generous portions of turkey, infused with thyme and herbs that Éomer did not quite recognise. Since he had missed the poultry dishes of Rohan, he had asked one of the maidens to serve him two turkey legs and vegetables, which he combined with a medium-bodied red wine. While his wife busied herself talking to another woman, Éomer dedicated himself to his meal. Perhaps if he did not talk, then he would limit the damage that his ignorant tongue could cause. With his bare hands, he lifted the leg and bit through the crispy skin, humming with delight as the flavours exploded on his tongue and coated his mouth with a fresh sensation.

Then the hall turned silent.

He did not notice it at first, so plunged into his own thoughts was he. Instead, he gladly devoured the meat from the thing bones. When he reached for his cup, he felt that all the eyes were set on him. With his mouth still full, he observed the people with a quizzical expression, slowly furrowing his brow. Imrahil had allowed them to eat, had he not?

As he licked his fingers clean, putting the turkey down, he then understood what the cause of their offense had been. All who had indulged in the same dish as he held their cutlery, cutting small pieces before eating. Not that the concept of cutlery was foreign to him — Rohan used them too. Only poultry, due to the bone structure and the manner in which the meat was cut, was much too difficult to eat with a fork and knife. It was common for the Rohirrim to use their hands to facilitate eating, and it was often a way to show how delicious the dish was. If one was willing to soil their hands with the grease, oils and herbs, then it would not be for something they deemed inedible.

But Dol Amroth had much different customs, it seemed.

He felt a knot tying in his stomach. He had made far more mistakes than he would have allowed himself to make, offending both his family and the people. Lothíriel had never done so in Edoras. Everybody enjoyed her company and the grace with which she had accustomed herself to their manners. Obviously he was not as careful or attentive as she was. Red hues coloured his well-groomed cheeks, and he contemplated running for the door to hide somewhere until they would depart for Meduseld.

Whispers rose anew.

‘How vulgar,’ one said.

‘Savage manners,’ another hissed.

He caught yet another remark demeaning his people as an ‘uneducated breed’, and it was too much for him. As he reached for his napkin to wipe his fingers, deciding to leave indeed, he heard the loud clatter of cutlery on a plate coming from his right. When he turned his gaze, he beheld both Lothíriel and Imrahil ditching their silverware and lifting their own turkey legs to their mouths. Their teeth cut through the white meat, ripping it off and chewing it without a care in the world. As shock passed through the assembly of courtiers, Amrothos imitated them, picking carrots up in the same fashion. Since none dared to express their indignation, Elphir and Erchirion joined in, coming to Éomer’s rescue.

‘It is much more practical this way,’ Imrahil declared, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘There is much we can learn from the Rohirrim.’

Out of respect, most courtiers lowered their forks and feasted with their bare hands for the first time since infancy.

Éomer watched in disbelief, struggling to conceal the few tears brimming his eyes.

He comes off as gentle and romantic and a bit dreamy but when it comes to battle he flips a switch and becomes a killing machine (there is such a strong visual in my head of him in armour, his face absolutely slathered in blood (he bit someone)). (can you tell I am on the Imrahil’s family is a bit feral agenda?)

He’s the one who actually most looks like Finduilas.

He enjoys sailing immensely and would often take his siblings out on a small boat. This was at the start incredibly loud, involving lots of yelling at Erchirion to ‘stop playing with that’ and ‘Amrothos, why are you trying to tip your sister overboard?’ and ‘Lothíriel no, you cannot be in charge’ but by the time Lothíriel’s about eight they’ve got it down to a science.

His marriage, to one of Angbor’s nieces, was basically a political move to assure other noble houses/Gondor in general that the Prince of Dol Amroth believed that there was a future for his house/Gondor at large, although he was pretty optimistic about it given that his parents picked her because they got on really well. Then the niece in question proceeded to die, but by that point the marriage negotiations had gone too far for Imrahil to gracefully say no to Elphir marrying her younger, more ‘difficult’ sister.

He and his wife started the whole thing off with a series of massive fights but after a few months (and counselling sessions with his parents and aunt and an unhelpful letter from Angbor telling them to get it together), they calmed down and got on splendidly. So splendidly that he proceeded to become a father right at the point that everyone was becoming pretty sure that Gondor was doomed. I’ll just say that Alphros’ birth was met with a mixture of joy and apprehension.

After the war, he has a daughter (whom he names Finduilas, as is hinted at in White Blossom) and then twins, a girl and a boy.

Erchirion (T.A. 2990-Fo.A. 74):

The loud one. They’re all chatty given the opportunity and when they’re in a group they’re like a flock of seagulls but he is the loud one.

He’s also the one who looks best in his knightly armour.

The definition of: ‘He’s hot.’ ‘His boyfriend thinks so too.’ Isn’t as angsty about it as you might expect, given that Dol Amroth’s attitude to that sort of thing is a bit more relaxed than in some parts of Gondor (i.e. Minas Tirith & the south), but he keeps it fairly quiet, particularly given that a fair bit of the time he’s fighting alongside men from other parts of Gondor.

The best at fishing. He and Lothíriel spent a load of their time together when she was little hunting around rock pools for crabs and cool shells and stones.

Got into trouble a load as a child for stealing, pranks and generally causing trouble. Annoyed Denethor beyond belief (Ivriniel encouraged this).

He and Amrothos once got into trouble as teenagers for whaling on a man who insulted their beloved Aunt Ivriniel’s sexual habits. Their parents gave them the most tame telling-off any of them had ever experienced.

A talented musician and has a good voice, which is handy when you need some entertainment/a morale boost. Thanks to Derufin he knows a load of mildly treasonous ditties and thanks to Forlong he knows a load of NSFW songs and thanks to Angbor he knows a very rousing Lamedon chant about hacking apart Haradrim with a sickle, so he is truly a master of many genres. (I just know that there is some song in Gondor that starts with ‘the girls from Lossarnach’ and that you cannot so much as hum near your grandmother without getting your ears boxed)

Loved and very much looked up to his cousin Boromir, partly because Boromir once saved him when he almost got killed in a battle. Probably took his death the hardest of all his cousins.

The one of Imrahil’s sons who came closest to dying in the War of the Ring. In the defence of Minas Tirith, he lost an eye and got a massive scar on his face to boot.

Amrothos (T.A. 2994-Fo.A. 70):

He and Lothíriel used to have a bit of a difficult relationship since he rather enjoyed being the baby of the family and she not only tanked that but proceeded to get a lot of attention due to the fact that she was a girl (her mum had always wanted one and Imrahil also was very keen given the fact that he grew up with two sisters he adored) but by the time she got to be about 11/12 they’d mostly worked those feelings out and they grew very close.

He’s the quietest of the kids. But despite this fact he has a close network of friends (all nerds like him, as Erchirion would tell you). There was a scandal once over how close he was with a daughter of an important knight in Dol Amroth, but it was 100% platonic.

Beautiful, gorgeous hair. Also the tallest of the kids, beating Imrahil by a few centimetres.

The one who took to warfare the least. Lothíriel noticed this and whenever he came back home from a battle or being on campaign she’d sneak over to his room that evening and they’d hang out together.

Taught Lothíriel some basic hand-to-hand combat as it became more and more clear that things were going south. They had as much fun as they could, given the circumstances and, given Lothíriel’s love for teasing him, this was a fair amount.

The favourite of the castle cats. If you cannot find him at a function, he has probably wandered off and is currently sitting beneath 1-3 feline friends.

Likes jewellery and has a host of piercings in his left ear.

Gets on best with his Aunt Ivriniel due to their shared interest in poetry. He’s too asexual to really vibe with all her lectures on niche erotic poetry from 20th century Harad but she’s nothing if not willing to expand her horizons, so they bond over that. Finduilas used to read to Ivriniel sometimes while she worked in her garden and now Amrothos does that. He doesn’t say anything when Aunt Ivriniel randomly starts silently crying while weeding when he reads a specific book.

Learned the basics of a Haradrim language from Ivriniel and then proceeded to get better at it by interrogating prisoners taken from battles with the Corsairs of Umbar. Is his accent great? No. Does he understand any of the slang? Not a chance. Can he conjugate his verbs perfectly? You bet.