#morwen steelsheen

Now, yes, it seems likely to me that Tolkien intended for Morwen of Lossarnach to be dead by the time of LOTR. But Tolkien can roll in his grave all he wants if it's important to him, I am going to discuss the possibility of her being alive nonetheless because I find it interesting.

The appendices mention that Morwen was 17 years younger than Thengel, which would mean she was born in 2922. If my math holds up, that would make her 97 in 3019 when most of the major battles of War of the Ring are fought, if she lives that long. Possibly 96 if she was born late in the year, since those battles happen in spring of that year.

Erendis alone at a window watched him riding down the hill, and she marked that he rode towards Hyarastorni and not towards Armenelos. Then she wept, from grief, but still more from anger. She had looked for some penitence, that she might extend after rebuke pardon if prayed for; but he had dealt with her as if she were the offender, and ignored her before her daughter. Too late she remembered the words of Núneth long before, and she saw Aldarion now as something large and not to be tamed, driven by a fierce will, more perilous when chill. She rose, and turned from the window, thinking of her wrongs. ‘Perilous!’ she said. ‘I am steel hard to break. So he would find even were he the King of Númenor.’

- Unfinished Tales: Aldarion and Erendis

Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings.

- The Two Towers: The King of the Golden Hall

Still she did not blench: maiden of the Rohirrim, child of kings, slender but as a steel-blade, fair yet terrible.

Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. ‘But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.

- The Return of the King: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

but Éowyn was slender and tall, with a grace and pride that came to her out of the South from Morwen of Lossarnach, whom the Rohirrim had called Steelsheen.

- The Return of the King: Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

All of these steely women have a thematic connection to Morwen. The eyes of Erendis were said to be 'as bright as were the eyes of Morwen Eledhwen of old.' Steelsheen would be a very fitting epessë for the First Age Morwen, a woman of famously steely temper. In the earlier drafting of the Two Towers, Éowyn is also called Elfsheen(the translation of Eledhwen).

(5) Eowyn Elfsheen daughter of Eomund?

I have a fascination for Eowyn having had so many female relations (her mother, her grandmother and three aunts by blood plus one by marriage), but by the time she is a young woman, perhaps earlier, none of them are around.

Aside from the pressure of being the Lady of Rohan from quite a young age, and the isolation of that, I've also been thinking of how in quite a few of the races and cultures in Tolkien's work, there are less women than men, either moderately so or significantly so.

(this reddit posts breaks down the info we have about this Where are the women? : tolkienfans)

I wonder if Rohan is one of these cultures. Considering the need for women for civilization to survive, you can kind of imagine it being a point of pride that Thengel and Morwen had, along with their son and heir, had four daughters.

The loss of these women could be read as a part or a symbol of the decline of Rohan and the House of Eorl.

On that note, I'm convinced Eomer had tons of daughters. While Elfwine took after his mother's people, Eomer had a brood of little shieldmaidens hanging off him at every hour of the day.

Trick or treat!

Thanks for trick-or-treating in my inbox! <3 Here's a snippet I thought of on my bike ride home yesterday. In the spirit of Halloween, the thinning of the veil, and all the delightful Tolkien Horror Week stories I've seen floating around my dash these past few days, I decided think a little about what might go on beyond the circles of the world, and how characters who are there might perceive time and the things that happen to those characters that are yet living. This is not particularly polished, but it was a really wonderful little exercise. I've been thinking a lot recently about intergenerational dynamics between Morwen Steelsheen, Théodwyn/Théoden, and Éowyn/Éomer/Théodred. I've got a whole set of headcanons that are yet to fully set in my mind, but I decided it might be fun to muse a little on Morwen in the afterlife. Originally I intended this to be more about her perception of her grandchildren, but it became what it became. I hope you enjoy! ----

Time is strange, beyond the circles of the world. No longer does it flow in a straight path, a current tumbling over stones from source to sea, from cause to effect, from today to tomorrow. Instead it seems to flow in all directions at once, spilling over an endless fall that never ceases. It reminds Morwen of the fountain that once stood in the courtyard of her grandfather’s home in Dol Amroth. She can picture it clearly now, the memory undiminished by the limits of a mortal mind: the water bubbles upward at the center of a blue-tiled bowl and then cascades over the edges in one single glass-like sheet, to the basin below. Indeed, she is there now, in that courtyard, in front of that very fountain. She reaches forward, to touch the flow of the water. She expects the glass sheet to part around her hand, the way it always has done, but it flows on, untroubled by her presence. She sighs, though there is no breath in her lungs, and she allows herself to be moved elsewhere.

We know she came from power. Her father was descended from a Prince of Dol Amroth, which makes her kin to Imrahil’s family. But at a certain point, her dad relocated them out of Belfalas (where Dol Amroth is) to Lossarnach instead. Lossarnach was primarily known for its orchards and was a place that many Gondorians visited as a vacation destination; Morwen’s father particularly loved its “flowering vales.” It was considered so safe and rural and out of the way that it was even the place where civilians from Minas Tirith were sent for shelter when their own city was under threat. That’s all from the text.

Building from that…. I bet Morwen was bored as fuck in Lossarnach. She grew up around people with big, important jobs who were key to Gondor’s governance. Her family’s home in Belfalas would have been a bustling place, full of people and activity and surrounded by all the normal trappings of power. And maybe she thrived on that stuff. It was interesting and dynamic and could be stressful, but also so FUN to be right in the middle of important things. There’s nothing more invigorating! But, having gotten a taste for that life, then one day her dad tires of the drama and moves the whole family out to the sticks, where there’s nothing to do but admire the flowering fruit trees. No more politics. No more strategy. No more deals to cut or authorities to wield. Just quiet, peaceful country living, and it was NOT her thing.

I also bet, then, that she saw Thengel as her way out. Because honestly, what else does she need with a random Rohirrim exile for a husband? Thengel was the non-famous son of a terrible king, and he’d already given up his royal title and seemed content to live the rest of his life in humble service to Gondor’s steward. That’s not necessarily super compelling husband material, especially when you’re a member of one of Gondor’s most noble royal houses. And, yeah, maybe Thengel was handsome or charismatic or just different enough to be novel. That’s subjective. But what’s definitely true was that he offered a ticket back to the halls of power, even if they were someone else’s halls. 

When Éowyn was fourteen, one spoke of her likeness to Steelsheen—her grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach. She wondered why, and so began her quiet quest to learn more of the lady from the South—one that would shape her for years to come.

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Gap-filler; Canon-compliant; But I do have complaints about certain Tolkien settings, so I'll just fill in the gaps my way.

Main Character/POV: Éowyn Rating: Teen (PG-13)

Prologue. An Echo of a Name

The Golden Hall of Meduseld shimmered with firelight and rang with laughter. Mead flowed, minstrels played, and the banners of the Mark stirred softly in the hearth-warmed air. Éowyn sat straight-backed upon the dais beside the King, her chin lifted, hands folded in her lap. Her golden hair was tightly braided, her grey eyes clear and keen.

She was but fourteen that spring, and though still young, she had already begun to gather both murmur and marvel about her name.

She did not giggle like the court maidens. Her frame, though slender, bore the early strength wrought of long mornings with spear and sword. Théodred had taken her as his pupil, sparring with her in the yard beside the King’s stables, correcting her form with a soldier’s discipline and a brother’s care. He never mocked her bruises, nor bade her grow gentler. He adjusted her grip and praised her footwork, offered guidance without condescension—and when she faltered, he would grin and say, “Again, sister. You nearly had me that time.”

When she did well—oh, how he laughed! Once, when she bested him in a bout with the wooden sword, Théodred fell back upon the straw mat with mock despair and cried, “Béma shield me—the lady grows fangs!” And the King, standing nearby, chuckled deep beneath his braided beard. “Aye—may they grow sharper yet.”

It was the King himself who encouraged her, when she was found practicing with a most reluctant Éomer. In truth, Théoden often watched the three of them from the high ground, arms folded, pride softening the weathered lines of his face. He spoke of her as though she were his daughter, not merely his niece, and his approval gave her strength. When he said, “You ride as well as any of the House of Eorl,” she believed it.

She wished that Éomer might be more at ease. He would wince each time he glimpsed her scraped palms or dust-smeared brow—not from disdain, but from a fear deep-rooted and tender. Poor Éomer—he had seen himself as her shield since the passing of their parents, and the thought of her risking herself in battle chilled him.

“You are all I have left of our parents,” he said once, quiet and unguarded, after more ale than befitted his years. “I would not lose you to the blade of some Orc or wandering Dunlending.”

It was not that Éowyn did not understand him. Indeed, it was quite the opposite, for she loved him the same—if not more. She had been but seven years of age when their mother died of sickness and grief, not long after their father fell to Orcs in an ambush near Emyn Muil. Though still young, the ache of losing those loving hands, the embraces and laughter—and of leaving their childhood home for Edoras—had never passed from her heart. Théoden was kind, steadfast, and no less a father for being an uncle; and Théodred, a sure guide and the elder brother any soul might hope for. Yet the wound of being orphaned at the very gate of memory had shaped her early and deeply. For a long while, her silences were long, and her laughter rare. Even as joy found her in riding, and in the rhythm of steel on steel, sorrow lay quiet beneath her leather armour.

If Théodred made her smile, then it was Elfhild who made her laugh again—Elfhelm’s younger sister, three years her elder, a golden-haired tempest, strikingly fair, yet one who bore a sword with irreverent grace. They trained together when Théodred grew busy with the affairs of the Mark, and though Elfhelm grumbled ever to Théodred that Elfhild was “too wild for a maid,” the two young women sparred and sweated side by side until the guards, half in jest, named them shadows of sun and moon.

“I wish I could be as strong as they are,” Éowyn said to her once, panting and wiping sweat from her brow after a hard practice, as she watched Éomer and the others press on without pause.

Elfhild merely snorted. “Do you see the foals in the stables? A yearling is no match for a two-year-old—but give it time, and the difference shall vanish.”

“But they say men grow ever stronger than women, as they age,” Éowyn murmured, not wholly convinced.

Elfhild laughed then, as though some memory struck her as especially funny. “Men boast of many things—but we shall see for ourselves. Wait and see, my lady.”

Yet for all the delight she took in arms, a lady of the House of Eorl, dwelling in the King’s hall—even a shieldmaiden—had other duties. So that night in Meduseld, Éowyn wore a gown of deep green and sat with quiet grace. She watched the court not as a child, but as one who measured and remembered.

From the far end of one table, a woman in heavy fur murmured to her companion, “She bears the look of Steelsheen.”

Éowyn did not move, yet she heard it. Her face did not change, but her thoughts turned over the words like a coin in her palm.

Later, when the guests had departed and the embers burned low, she found her uncle—who had become as true as a father—seated by the hearth in the King’s chamber. He was polishing a sword with slow, absent strokes.

“They called me Steelsheen,” she said.

The King looked up. “Did they so?”

“Yes. Why?”

He set the blade aside. “I suppose it is because you put them in mind of your grandmother—my mother, Morwen of Lossarnach. Proud she was, and sparing of laughter. Her gaze could still a quarrel, and once her calm words alone stilled the whole court.”

“Was she cold?”

The King shook his head. “She had fire—but she kept it hidden, like a blade beneath fine silk.”

He rose and went to a carved chest that seemed long unopened and untouched. From its depths, he drew forth a silver comb, shaped like the wings of a bird.

“She gave this to your mother once. I deem it yours now.”

Éowyn took it gently. It was cool in her hands, and gleamed like starlight on steel.

“She never fought, did she?”

“No. Yet she had strength enough to make kings sit straighter in their chairs,” he said, his smile touched with remembrance.

She hesitated, then asked, “I remember her not. She passed soon after Grandfather, did she not?”

The King did not answer at once. He turned to close the chest with care, and when he spoke, his voice was strangely distant.

“Aye. You would not have known her. She was gone. When my father died, she was but fifty-eight—and yet…” His voice trailed into silence.

He did not speak again for a long while. Éowyn had seldom seen her uncle thus—only when the memory of his wife, who had died in childbirth in the days before he bore the crown, was stirred.

That night, Éowyn placed the comb beside her training leathers and stood before her mirror.

Her reflection showed a girl with pale golden braids, sun-touched cheeks, and eyes that had known misfortune and grown hard against it. A girl who did not weep, nor plead, nor ask again when she was told no.

She was not cold—but she did not warm easily.

And if they saw steel in her, then perhaps they saw true.

Steelsheen, she repeated in silence, and the name no longer seemed distant. It felt familiar—an echo from a past not yet wholly lost.

Perhaps it was but her imagining, yet in the mirror, behind her, the image of a lady seemed to gather—tall and straight, with dark hair like the shadow before dawn, and grey eyes bright as stars, though her fair face was softly blurred, veiled in mist.

My grandmother, she thought. I would learn more of her.

Next: Chapter 1. A Voice from the Past