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#Rian of the House of Beor

velvet4510 · 12 days

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Rían’s story breaks my heart.

She was only 10 when her dad was killed along with all the other outlaws except Beren. We don’t know anything about her mom; who knows if she was even around?

Then she fell deeply in love with a great man, they married, she got pregnant, it looked like they’d have a life together, but then he went off to war and disappeared. The grief and trauma coupled with anxiety about Morgoth’s looming presence was clearly almost unbearable for her - and she carried all that pain while pregnant.

She took all the necessary steps to ensure her baby was born healthy, but then she knew she couldn’t take care of him. She was in no mental state to do so. Postpartum depression seems likely in this situation, which must’ve only added to the emotional agony she was already in. So she let him go and went looking for the ghost of the love of her life.

Then she found a pile of bodies.

And finally she just snapped and lost all hope, and her suffering was so great that her spirit left her body behind to lie among all those brutally slaughtered by the enemy, including her husband’s.

It just guts me whenever I think about how hurt and alone she was. Morwen was clearly too preoccupied to help her and she did not seem to understand the Elves. She was completely isolated and depressed and couldn’t handle it.

I wonder if Tolkien was inspired to create this tragic character upon witnessing the grief of young WWI widows.

#jrr tolkien #lotr books #tolkien legendarium #the silmarillion #rían #house of beor #tuor #huor #belegund #rian #edain #first age #beleriand #nirnaeth arnoediad #morgoth #middle earth #morwen

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hhimring · 1 year

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Rían of the House of Bëor Additional Tags: Female Protagonist, Music Series: Part 7 of Morwen & Rian Summary:

Rian tries to practise a skill of her house that she only remembers imperfectly.

#rian #house of beor #kulning #b2mem 2023 #drabble #fixed-length

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the-heart-vigor · 1 year

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Morwen would tell her tales about the days of old, back when the House of Beor was still strong. Aerin would feel strong enough to carry on with her life when she heard those tales. But Brodda was too cruel to her and she wondered if she could help herself out.

And everyone was dead or away from her. Aerin remembered their faces. Huor and Hurin, Turin and everyone else. They were all gone, one away or another. And she didn't know if she could survive in this dangerous world. Each one of them was lost, she was lost in thought because Morwen and Nienor disappeared, just like Rian.

And Aerin was in pain again because everyone else was away from her. She didn't know what to do but she didn't hold grudges because she always pledged Morwen to save herself. She had to protect Nienor. She wished to see them again but Aerin knew she would die one day.

#my precious aerin #aerin #tolkien #silmarillion #the children of hurin

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emerwenaranel · 2 years

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Huor never imagined that he would fall in love with Rian of the House of Beor. But he loved her in the end because she was so different from him. He had to take care of her because she was so kind and sensitive at the same time. Maybe there was some reason for her to believe that the world was going to be a better place to live in one day. He was ready to kill again if he had to take care of her but he knew that he would cause so much pain to her if he killed again.

On the other hand, Huor knew that he had to fight for dear life sooner or later. He was ready to go to battle against the Enemy and his servants. But he hoped that he would see Rian again.

#rían #huor #tolkien #silmarillion

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strengthandvigour · 2 years

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Idril had met Hurin and Huor and she could foresee that she would marry Huor's son. But she never had the chance to see Rian and Morwen. When she met Tuor, however, she could see that he had inherited her talent in music and her sweet manners.

Tuor could play the harp and she loved to listen to music. He was the last descendant of the three Houses of the Edain, and Idril recalled the tale of Finrod's first meeting with Beor the Old. The harp was beloved by her people, especially by her mother. So, she felt connected to him.

She was sure that Rian would be proud of him if she was still alive.

#rían #tuor #idril celebridal

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morgancrystal · 2 years

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#Rian #the children of húrin #silmarillion #house of beor

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arlenianchronicles · 4 years

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Anybody here remember how Annael took little Tuor under his wing and became his foster-father? A wholesome, (relatively) happy family with lots of feels potential?

So far I’ve only found one piece of fanart for them. Annael’s mention in the Silmarillion is really small too, so it’s understandable that his fostering of Tuor would slip from mind ^^;; Ah but I wish they had a bit more attention! I can already imagine all sorts of fluffy scenes for them <33

But we’ll start with a sad scene for now ... In this painting, Rían entrusts Tuor to Annael (shortly before she goes off in search of the place where Huor fell). Annael promises to take good care of Tuor until Rían returns, but I have a feeling that, deep down, he knows that she won’t be back.

(This will also be a print in my shop soon!)

#i know the background isn't too good loll #they're in a cave (since they're hiding from orcs and all)#and wow bebe tuor is teeny hahaa #art #my art #tolkien #silmarillion #fanart #tuor #rian #annael #family #elves #sindar #edain #house of beor #hugs #also did you guys know that annael survived the orc ambush?#when i first read that part in the silm i thought he'd died #but then i recently went on tolkien gateway #and it says he escaped south #and got to cirdan #so it's not too much a stretch to think that he and tuor were able to reunite!#since tuor eventually reaches sirion and all #rip rian though #i do feel bad for her #apparently she was 22 when she died #i wish she'd been able to stay with tuor and annael #at the very least i'm glad she left tuor in safe hands before she left #also rian isn't super short annael is just quite tall loll

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arofili · 3 years

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three houses of the edain ✾ house of bëor ✾ headcanon disclaimer

Baragund and Belegund were the sons of Bregolas of Ladros. When their father fell in the Dagor Bragollach, they remained in Dorthonion to fight the Enemy alongside their uncle Barahir, though they sent away their own young families to safer lands. Their elder sister, Beleth, guarded over their children along the perilous journey, as both Baragund’s wife and Belegund’s husband perished in battle before they could escape. In happier times, Baragund had wed Reniel, the youngest daughter of a large family who secretly resisted the role of “gentle maiden” that was expected of her. Baragund discovered the fierceness that lay within her and encouraged her to learn the sword, coaching her into becoming a fearsome warrior. Reniel took the name Angren, the Grinning Maw, for she rushed into battle against orcs with wild laughter and delight in the freedom she had achieved for herself. Angren passed her stubborn independence and firm will onto her only child, Morwen. Angren fought valiantly to her death, refusing to abandon her husband and homeland, and was slain in a burst of dragonfire. Belegund was similar to his brother in many ways, but he chose a very different partner for his life. He married Redoron, a kind and practical fisherman who bore him two children, Rían and Orlin. Rían adored her elder cousin Morwen, who enjoyed having someone to order around, and as they grew they became fast friends just like their fathers. Little Orlin was only a year old when the Sudden Flame descended upon the place of his birth, and was raised mostly by Rían and his aunt Beleth, never truly knowing his fathers. Redoron was no warrior, but he held the rearguard of his fleeing people, and was killed by an orc just before they crossed the Mountains of Shadow into the relative safety of Hithlum. Even as Baragund and Belegund joined Barahir’s band of outlaws, their children settled into a new home in Dor-lómin, welcomed and sheltered by the House of Hador. Indeed, both their daughters would wed lords of that House, bearing sons whose great deeds would shape the fate of Arda. But Orlin, the son of Belegund, grew into a shy young man who never claimed the leadership that could have passed to him after the destruction of the rest of his family; only when he saw his home conquered a second time in the aftermath of the Nírnaeth did he harden his resolve and nurse a secret anger against the Incomers who ruled over him in cruelty. Upon the return of Morwen’s son Túrin to Dor-lómin, threatening violence against any who would stand in his way, Orlin stepped forth to confront his cousin’s child, but Túrin struck him down in blind rage without any regard for their long-forgotten kinship.

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catsinparis · 4 years

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Women of House Bëor

Adanel was a Wise-woman who helped preserve the tale of Man’s original sin, when, soon after awakening, some Men chose to worship Melkor instead of Eru. She passed this story along to her niece, Andreth, who became known for her wisdom, as well. Adanel married Belemir and bore Beren, the great-grandfather of Beren Erchamion.

Andreth was the eldest daughter of Boromir, Lord of Ladros. She was raised by her aunt, Adanel, and surpassed her aunt in wisdom. After falling in love with the elven prince, Aegnor, Andreth vowed to never marry as she could not marry the person she truly loved. She was a close friend of Finrod Felagund and often discussed with him the lore of Elves and Men.

Emeldir the Man-hearted was a matriarch of House Bëor who led the women and children of her family to safety during the aftermath of the Dagor Balloch. Due to her bravery, she was given the nickname of “Man-hearted.” She married Barahir and bore the famous Beren Erchamion.

Beldis was a woman of House Bëor. She married Handir, the Lord of the Haladin, and bore a son, Brandir, who was permanently lame. She nurtured her son’s interest in nature instead of combat. She cautioned her son against aligning with Túrin Turambar, but her son fell under the curse of Turín and died by his sword. Her son was the last Chieftain of the Haladin.

Morwen Eledhwen was the Lady of Dor-Lómin and married Húrin of House Hador. She bore three children: Túrin Turambar, Lalaïth, and Nienor. She was described as being elven-like in beauty and possessed a stern, stoic manner. She was separated from her husband and remaining children during an Easterling attack on her land. She lived under elven protection until she was eventually reunited with her husband.

Rían was the cousin of Morwen Eledhwen. She was described as being gentle of heart, a lover of trees and wild flowers, and was known to compose and sing songs. She followed Emeldir to safety during the Dagor Balloch where she wed Huor whose brother, Húrin, married Morwen. When her husband unexpectedly died in battle, Rían gave birth to a son, Tuor, leaving him in elven care before dying of grief.

#house of beor #silmarillion men #silmedit #silmarillion #silmarillion women #adanel #andreth #beldis #rian #morwen eledhwen #emeldir #tolkien legendarium #tolkien #haladin #athrabeth finrod ah andreth

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hildorien · 4 years

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A Rom-Com in Dom-Lomin.

Ataniweek Day Two: Edain.

I wrote this because Morwen and Hurin deserve a whole lot of love. They aren’t a fairy tale romance, they don’t get a happy ending, but they were deeply in love and deserved a happy ending. Only the best for the true Gomez and Morticia of Arda.

@ataniweek

A03 LINK (X)

It was no secret who Hurin, son of Galdor, loved more than any jewel in a noldor's private coffers. She was black as night and a true beauty. Sadly, she was colder than ice and had a tongue sharper than the best sword but Hurin only saw his whole universe in her. Even from the age of six, he met her dark brown eyes and that sealed his fate. He had always tried to impress her.

He climbed trees he shouldn’t have, to impress her.

He picked fights he couldn’t win, for her.

He wrote a love letter after love letter, each one more dramatic and bad as the last.

Morwen, for her part, had adored him too then and until the end of her days. It was said she regarded him as her first friend in a new and scary land she had to flee to in rags. She did not see pity in his eyes, only the shine of the sun and a mischievous tint and that meant everything to her. After that small act of kindness, it was like God, himself, granted them his blessing to go and be in love.

They had been together for years, not once did one’s heart wander away from each other. Not even the flowers found during his entrapment in Gondolin could make Hurin wander. When he returned from that place, his brother at his side, the cold rain of north east Beleriand bearing on him, he saw her on the battlement like a spirit of war with only a lantern and a cloak. He made his way through the gate, leaving his brother in the dust and ran to where she stood.

He smiled, “you waited for me.”

“You are late.”

“I’ve always been late, my lady,” he laughed stalking closer to her to cup her cold cheek in one hand. “But I hope you can forgive me.”

In her grey eyes was a fire as she spoke, “make it up to me then, Hurin.”

He smiled and kissed her, dipping her slightly despite the rain, he felt so warm as her arms wrapped around his neck. Pulling away and gazing on her soft, smug smirk, Hurin realized something.

He wanted to marry her.

Now.

But the words didn’t escape his lips before Morwen started pulling them down the stairs towards her house.

It had been a month since he returned from Gondolin and he still couldn’t find the words. He stalked around his house, his brother giving him tired look.

“I think if you just asked, she’d say yes.”

“I can’t, everytime I see her, I just freeze.”

“Fearsome Hurin, son of Glador, taken down by the steely gaze of his true love,” Huor mocked as he bit into his apple. “What a horrible things to have bard write about you, utterly pathetic.”

Hurin smacked him, “I’m being serious and don’t mock me when you can’t even talk with Rian.”

“She’s just too nice!” He whined out, his words slurred by pieces of apple that flung out of his mouth onto the table.

“Whatever,” Hurin snorted and sat down, his head in his hands. It was then that a tired Galdor came walking through the door; despite his disposition, he looked amused at his two young sons.

“I heard your hennish squawking from outside boys. What are you fighting about now?” He asked.

It was noted that Huor resembled his father more than Hurin did. He was tall like Galdor. Huor often spoke like Galdor, respectful and metaphorically. It was something among the Edain that was labeled as very Elvish; as to hide your feelings behind words and riddles rather than giving a straight answer. Even sometimes as they grew older and older, people mistook Huor for Galdor if he was looked at from the back. Most days this minded Hurin not, he did not mind being smaller than most (even smaller than Morwen), or that he was loud on the border of being too loud, or that he was blessed with his mother’s Haladin features but there were others were he wondered if his father wished the two brothers had been born with Huor as eldest (therefore heir to his legacy ) and him as youngest (the spare).

“It’s nothing important father, just,” Huor gave him a smug look. “Hurin’s just being a ninny about asking Elfsheen to marry him.”

He picked up an apple and lobbed it at him. “Don’t call her that she hates it.”

Galdor laughed, “it’s a complement to her beauty.”

“She hates it, so I hate it.”

“Devotion is a good trait to have,” his father said absentmindedly, “but please stop lobbying apples at your brother.”

“I will when he stops being an ass.”

Huor stuck out his tongue like a child.

“Then that will be like waiting for the sun to rise in the west.”

Hurin’s face broke out into a smile while Huor's turned to horror. “Father!”

Hurin imitated his words in a whiny tone, “One-Almighty! Sometimes you're so pretentious. You never called him father before Gondolin, just say Da, like a normal person.”

“The Elves in Gondolin call their Da’s ‘father,’” the younger boy mumbled munching on his apple.

“You aren’t an Elf, Huor,” Hurin rolled his eyes.

“Okay, enough boys,” Galdor put his foot down. “So you are serious about Morwen?”

“I’ve been serious since I was a babe, Da.”

Galdor smiled, “that may be true. But have‘ye asked Emeldir yet?”

“Emeldir?”

“She is Morwen’s keeper, is she not? That bear of a women,” he said with a roll of his eyes almost out of habit, though a friendly and loving lent never left his voice. Galdor and Emeldir butted heads, but it was like Hurin and Huor, a sibling relationship. The strong chieftess of the Beorians had enamoured the settlement of Dom-lomin with her striking inability not to die, not from illness, or grief. She watched over every child she brought with her as if they were her own. No one was more enamoured by her than Hurin’s own mother Hereth. The two were thick as thieves. Hurin imagined it was because Emeldor reminded his mother of the women from her youth in Brethil, who she missed dearly.

“I have not,” he gulped.

“I think it would be best if you asked her before you did anything impulsive. You wouldn’t want to upset the bear women of the Beorians by asking the hand of one of her favorite wee ones without even so much as a notice?”

Hurin could see his body very clearly thrown in a ditch somewhere where no one would find it if he did that. Nodding to his father, he made plans to visit Emeldir in the coming days.

Emeldir’s house was uttermost east of the main village of Dom-Lomin. It was located near the land designated for holy sights where festivals would happen, the highest vantage point of the whole main village. Now it was called the Grey Corner, or the Beorian Quarter since that's where the refugees located themselves. His father had given them full range to live wherever they wished, but they wished to remain almost separate from the rest of them all. Some found it odd, other a little insulting, but Hurin somewhat understood, the best he could. They had lost so much. All they wanted was a place to rebuild and remain Beorians rather than just another section of the people of Marach or Hador. He grew to see as a very Edain way of doing things; coming into a new land and making it yours despite someone else threatening to overcome you and make you them. It was early that morning when he went, the sun had barely came over the peaks of the mountains when he reached the steps of the Beorian’s chieftess' house. It was given the name “white-den” by him and some other children back in Hurin and Morwen’s youth because it was made of white wood and some children had been sure Emeldir had been one of those Bear shape changers. Hurin wasn’t one of them, but if he was going to find out if he was wrong, it would be now.

Knocking on the large door, he heard a soft “come in!”

He opened the door, he saw Rian coming down out from the kitchen area. The house was rather dark still, silent. He hoped Morwen wasn’t home.

“Oh! Rin-rin,” she cooed, her clothes were covered in dirt and she held a hoe in her hand. Hurin gave her a small smile and gave her a small hug. She refused to call him anything less than the name she gave as a babe. “Morwen isn’t home.”

“Ah,” Hurin smiled, “I am actually here to talk to Elemdir?”

Rian blinked, and cocked her head to the side, “why?”

“I needed to ask her a question.”

“Ah, I see,” Rian smiled, her smile was soft and shiny; utterly polite and coy. It was a ‘princess’ smile, Morwen called it. Sometimes it was hard for Hurin to understand that she came from the same family that produced Morwen and Elemdir. She was more of a flower than the cold rock the rest of her family was. She was somehow still soft, sweet on the eyes and the ears, more interested in singing and dancing than politics. She was a folk tale princess come to life, that is what his brother always said about her. He had always fancied her, respectfully from a distance. The two of them dancing around each other, constructing their perfect folk tale romance. It all seemed like too much work for Hurin’s take rather than to be not subtle about his feelings and have a constant bedmate. For that reason, she was never Hurin’s type.

“She’s in the barn. You can go around and see her.”

“Thanks Rian.” He turned.

“Oh and Hurin,” she called after him as he walked off.

“Yes?”

“Don’t let her scare you,” she winked. “She’s all bark and no bite.”

Hurin laughed. She may have been more a flower than a rock, but she was still a Beorian.

If there was ever a moment that defined who Elemdir was as a women, it was right now, Hurin thought to himself. She was wearing her typical black dress (that she either wore for mourning or she wore to be even more terrifying than she was), her hair was outfitted with beautiful beads and clips, her face was lined with wrinkles and her hair was looking more silver each day and yet she looked like a chieftess, no, a true Queen worthy of the throne. However, it was juxtaposed against the fact that her hands were stuck in the guts of a deer as if she was common hunter. She barely looked at him when she grunted welcome at him at him.

“Hello Hurin.”

“Hello Chieftess.” He bowed, still, respectfully as his mother had taught him.

“Why are you here?”

“I have a question for you,” Hurin squirmed.

She ripped the heart out of the animal, “and that would be?”

“I would like to ask Morwen’s hand in marriage.”

She threw the heart into a bowl, the blood splattered onto Hurin’s face. There seemed to be a chill in the air the moment the words left him. She looked at him as if examining his very soul, not a single emotion on her face. Hurin frowned.

“Is you're silence a no ma’am?”

She raised up a bloody gloved hand. “I have a question for you before I give you my answer.”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Do you love her?”

“More than the sun, moon, and stars. She’s my best friend.” Hurin spoke his cliche words with sincerity. It was the truth, and for that, he was not ashamed.

Softly a smile appeared on her weathered face, “then the answer from me is yes.”

Hurin knew he wanted to cry but he kept his face stoney as to not embarrass himself. “Thank you, Chieftess.”

“I cannot say she will say yes, though,” Emeldir said evenly.

“Even if she does not,” he smiled. “I will have her know she is the only woman who will have my heart.”

With that he turned to leave, before Emeldir called out for him, so he turned back to her.

“Your a good man, Hurin. You remind so much of my husband and my son, both of whom are lost to us all now, please,” she pleaded. “Don’t gamble away your life away for stupid reasons and leave my little one heartbroken and weathered like I am.”

“I will try not to, Chieftess.” That was all he could offer her in these times.

“That is all I ask you to do.”

It was a rush of happiness since that moment. He tried to ask Morwen to wed him so many times it was almost a joke by now but each and every time they fell short. Every time something was wrong. They were either failures on his part put to get the words out or nature ruined the moment. It just had to be the rainy season when he got his okay from Elemdir. Though sometimes much worse ruined any goodwill and happiness in Hurin. The pyre he stood in front of said it all.

“The smell of burning flesh is horrible,” Hurin said to himself as he watched his father’s body become ash with the rest of the fallen. He was chief now, and yet he still felt like a child. Too much like a child to lead his people, too much of a child to have lost his father. He felt as if someone had extinguished his flame with ice water and left him to languish in the bitterest winter blizzard. He couldn’t even comfort his mother or brother, he could barely comfort himself. He was being hailed as a hero, but what kind of hero couldn’t save his own family?

He cursed everything when he lifted his father’s body to the wise women and men to clean his body. He wondered why the One Almighty would take good men like his father away them but keep Morgoth and his monsters around to kill those good men.

In his anguish, he felt something touch his shoulders. It was fur.

“Standing here in the cold doesn’t bring them back,” Morwen was stoic as always as she stood next to him. She had left the mob of wailing women still singing funeral songs that had long had the Edain sung when they lost someone too early. Her grey eyes staring into his soul.

“Fighting didn’t do anything either. Nothing does.”

“You did what you could.”

“Then why do I feel so cold?” Hurin asked, his voice was rough and mean and he practically barked at her. She didn’t seem very impressed.

“Because you love so strongly, and you care, and you hate to lose. But loss is a part of our life, Hurin, that’s the fate of mortals like we are. We cannot linger with what we did, what could have been done, the what ifs, we can only keep going. Let the dead be dead, but do not die with them. That is what I have learned.” She it all like it made sense.

“But I, too, have lost my father, my mother, cousins, aunts, and uncles. I know loss, Hurin. This is a new experience for you, but the pain will always be fresh no matter how many times it happens. He was your father, you are allowed to feel pain, allowed to feel cold, allowed to cry. I never allowed myself to cry, and it only brought more pain. I was in so much pain before I met you Hurin, but you taught me that crying and that the pain I was feeling wasn’t weakness and neither is yours now.”

“Chiefs shouldn’t cry.” Hurin said weakly, his eyes shadowed and glossy.

She looked at him, a soft and warm hand went to his cheek. “But Hurin, son of Galdor, should.”

With only a few words, she had unravel him. He broke down; ugly wet streaks came down his face, he scooped her up in his arms and sobbed. Her arms tangled around him like wisteria on a wall. He slept with her that night, nothing happened, it rarely did these days. They weren’t kids anymore and he was increasingly more busy. Eventually being Chief got easier after a year, the pain dulled, and then after two he was finally starting to get the gist of this thing he was groomed his whole life for. It helped that Morwen was at his side constantly, a beorian through and through her mind was made for this kind of work. She could neogate and organize with the best of them. She was often the logic to his emotions, his blue to his red, often just smarter than him.

One night, they sat together late into the night piecing together Taliska and Sindarin documents and talking about crop rotation under candle light when Morwen paused and stared at Hurin.

He laughed, “was it something I said about the peas?”

“I’m tired of waiting, Hurin.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hurin, will you marry me?” She reached inside her cleavage to pull out a ring.

His jaw fell open.

#morwen #hurin thalion #the children of hurin #children of hurin #turin turambar #silm #silmarillion #ataniweek #edain #house of hador #house of beor #rian #hour #atani week #fanfic #tea with milk

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ncfan-1 · 7 years

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and never wake

Rían wanders Beleriand alone.

Written for the LLA April 18th, 2015 picture prompt, Broken Sundowns.

[CN/TW: Implied suicidal ideation/suicide, depression, trauma]

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In the winter, Rían came to the Mithrim Elves, and in the spring, she left them, her mouth painted with slim, brittle smiles, her voice high with too-light notes, her ears full of the wind. She did not strain her ears to listen for the suggestion of Tuor’s cries. Realizing that she wasn’t listening for him filled her chest with something she could not name, but it mattered little, even when it threatened to stop her heart beating. There was little that could be made to matter, these days.

She stared over the desolate gray wilderness, wondering if Orcs would jump out at her from the shadows, or if Gilrin would come tearing after her, trying one last time to convince her not to leave. This was hardly the first time Rían had had to make such a journey, and all the other times, she had been filled with such panic, as had not abated until she reached a safe haven, and each haven seeming less safe than the last. She had thought of nothing but reaching safety when she did not have it. Of living long enough to reach safety.

Now?

Now, there was no such urgency rooted in her breast. Beleriand was more dangerous a place than ever, and Rían felt nothing. She had no particular destination in mind, beyond the faint dream of finding the site of Huor’s death. It occurred to her briefly to try Dor-lómin, to try to convince Morwen and Aerin to flee, but the thought drifted away from her, too tenuous to catch hold of again. Dor-lómin must surely be under occupation by now, and most likely, Rían would never reach them to deliver any pleas.

(They were not like her, too rooted to the place in which they lived to ever think of leaving it. They were stronger than her, Rían supposed, strong enough to weather a storm without bolting, but there was no helping it, now.)

The strength of the Ñoldor and the Edain was broken, and now was the heyday of the Enemy and his Orcs, and Rían felt none of the fear she had known before. No panic, no trepidation or even watchfulness. She walked slowly through the gray wilderness of Mithrim, and did not look back.

-0-0-0-

“The battle will go well, or so we hope.”

Huor was already more solemn a man than his brother—indeed, more solemn a man than most of the Men of the House of Hador. He was good-natured, one of the gentlest men Rían had ever known, but he spoke always with seriousness, and rarely would you hear him laugh. He was rather like his nephew in this—indeed, Huor and Túrin got on famously, perhaps because Huor spoke to the boy just as he spoke to any adult, with complete seriousness.

Though Rían had found that seriousness a touch daunting when they had first met, never before has she thought it laden with worry, or doubt. Now, however…

“But you are not certain,” Rían supplied, reaching out and clasping his hand in hers.

He smiled half-heartedly. “It’s not enough to justify changing our plans, or postponing them. But I… I just feel things, at times.” He stared off into the distance, his eyes glazed and troubled. “And I dislike the idea of leaving you here alone, in your condition.”

At that, Rían couldn’t help but smile. “I’m hardly alone.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “And I think the battle will go well, if you only believe it will.”

-0-0-0-

Rían’s meandering path took her through lands burned during the aftermath of the battle, when the Enemy’s forces, giddy with victory, must have grown enthusiastic in their celebrations. She passed burned farmsteads, broken, blackened shells that shivered in the wind. She passed fields gone fallow, fields burned in the old year that were just now putting up shoots in the new. All the Edain were gone from this place, carried off to Angband as slaves, or killed, perhaps, though Rían saw no bodies.

Neither did Rían see any livestock, nor game animals she could have caught, so the knife the Elves had given her when she left them was put to use digging out and cutting roots from the cold, hard earth. Those she could still find, though not in abundance, and rarely much larger than the length and width of one of her fingers. There was nothing else in this dim, gray world.

She couldn’t name the plants the roots came from. It occurred to Rían, vaguely, that she should have been able to—she had been able to tell at a glance that they were edible. But the names she had known all her life slipped out of her mind, even when they were the names of plants she had tended in her garden in Dor-lómin. It mattered not. She would never have her garden again. The afternoons she had spent there with Aerin and Húrin would never come again. It did not matter at all.

(The nameless thing was in her chest again, battering on her ribs, insisting on being heard. Rían heard it—she could not help but hear it—but she sighed heavily rather than respond. It couldn’t make her respond. Not yet.)

She ate without joy under rock and rain, under twisted, broken tree and under rolling banks of woolen fog. Rían never could pin down the taste of the roots she ate, if they were bitter or sweet, metallic or earthen. They were rough and hard, and it took long, slow chewing to render them a mush that was as ash in her mouth, and felt like a rock in her throat. It satisfied hunger, and no more.

Memory reached back for the dim islands that were Ladros. Of when she had sat down to eat with her family—mother and father, aunt and uncle, Morwen and Beren; even Andreth could at times be persuaded to leave her home and join them. What they had eaten together escaped Rían. Its flavor and aroma, these things were overlaid by the choking smoke that had descended upon Ladros ere they fled. But the savor of companionship, that Rían remembered all too clearly. It cut into her like the edge of a sword when she had to sit out under open sky, alone.

-0-0-0-

Spring had come at last, the trees decked out in their fresh, tender leaves, birds returning home from balmy southern haunts, and the ground thawed enough that you could actually dig into the earth with your hands, rather than fear you’d break your shovel’s blade. Of that, Rían was glad. In winter, it seemed as though all the world was dying. She was grateful for spring to come again, and assure her it was not.

“Now, Lalaith, can you tell me what this animal is?”

Morwen and Húrin needed their children away from their home for a few hours. Being at loose ends, Rían was the first person they would have looked to to mind Túrin and Lalaith, and Rían hardly minded having an excuse to be out of doors for a few hours. With Túrin expressing no desire to play, Rían had taken them to a spot in the copse just outside the settlement, where the grass gave way to a smooth patch of dirt. Rían knew a few ways for them to spend their time.

“Bird!” Lalaith exclaimed, squirming in Rían’s lap and twisting around to look expectantly up at her.

Rían nodded and smiled down at her. “That’s right; it is a bird.” She pointed to the shape she had drawn in the dir. “Can you tell me what kind of bird it is?”

Lalaith turned back to scrutinizing the etching, her face hidden from Rían’s sight by her flaxen curls. The tiny girl had never seen this particular sort of bird before, though she had had it described to her at least once Rían could recall. Hopefully, she would be able to remember the name now; wouldn’t that be something to tell Morwen?

But Túrin, leaning heavily into Rían’s side as he was, seemed ill-pleased with his sister’s progress. “It’s a barn owl,” he muttered. “Isn’t it, Aunt Rían?”

“Shh.” Rían put a finger to her lips in chastisement, and fortunately, Lalaith did not seem to hear.

-0-0-0-

The land was empty. The days and weeks drew slowly by, and the land was empty, but for her. Rían saw no Elves, no Orcs, no Man either of Edain or Incomer stock. Rían scarcely saw any animals, catching sight only of the occasional hart at dawn or twilight, and the skittish things would run from her as though running from a hunter. No birdsong reached Rían’s ears. Even the flow of the water in such streams as she passed seemed muffled in sound. Only she passed through the shadowed land, and met no other traveler.

Perhaps there was no one else left. Perhaps the battle had claimed so many that Rían could wander through empty Beleriand and never find another living soul. Perhaps the forces of the Ñoldor and the Edain had not just been broken, but utterly eradicated, and they had somehow succeeded in doing the same to their enemies. Perhaps she would never see another living person, not as long as she lived.

No one to hinder her.

No one to fill her ears with talk.

No one to hold her in their arms.

No one to stop her.

She ought to have felt something to accompany these thoughts. Rían supposed she ought to have wept or screamed, rent her clothing or ripped her hair out at the roots. Certainly, that nameless thing inside her was growing louder with each passing day, its howls both ear-splitting and voiceless. But Rían felt weightless, insubstantial, far too light. It was as though someone had scooped out everything inside her that mattered, everything that might have rooted her to the ground, and sewn her skin shut over dry, hollow bones. It did not matter. Her home was occupied by their enemies. All was lost, and it did not matter. She could not bring herself to make it matter.

Rían’s weary feet carried her ever onwards.

-0-0-0-

It was summer in Ladros, and memory failed Rían in most respects but for recollection of golden sunlight shooting through trees, and Morwen walking besides her down a narrow, winding trail.

“A story!” Rían begged her cousin, tugging gently at her pale hand. “Won’t you tell me a story?”

Morwen shook her hand away, but did not frown as she answered, “I haven’t any stories you’d like. Go ask Beren.”

This had not satisfied little Rían, who kept trailing after her cousin, staring imploringly up at her. “But Andreth’s been teaching you stories. You must know more stories than Beren if she’s teaching you.”

Morwen had stopped, and sighed lightly. She went and sat down by a tall tree, and stared expectantly at the younger girl. “Well? Come here, and I’ll tell you a story you’ve not heard before. But only a short one; Mother wants me at home.”

-0-0-0-

Rían had passed into a brown, ruined land many days ago, where she could find no food and hunger clawed at her like a ravening beast, until it too receded and left her only emptiness. There were no trees in this brown land, only the empty expanse, and bitter winds choked with dust assaulted her at all times. Though she clutched her tattered cloak close about her, the wind still beat on her back and shoulders, and the dust clogged in her mouth and nose. It had a foul, bitter taste, and a reek that made Rían’s eyes water whenever she was made to smell it.

All of Beleriand will be like this, soon, she thought to herself, blinking the noisome dust from her eyes. Our Enemy delights in taking all that is good and green and twisting it to be a reflection of his own mind. Morwen said that. When… did she say that…

There’s no one left to stop him.

She slept, when weariness took her, under open sky. There was nothing here that could shelter her—no trees, no burned-out shells of homesteads, no bushes, no rocks or caves. The Moon was hidden from Rían’s sight. The stars were veiled.

One day, something green rose out of the wasteland, an island in a sea of dust.

Rían drew near to it, stood in its shadow, and her breath caught in her throat. It was a hill, a massive green hill, large enough to swallow whole the house of the Lord of Dor-lómin; its shadow drew on seemingly forever. It rose over flatlands, and with one glance, Rían knew what it was.

When so many died at once, graves were not dug for each man that had fallen. They rested together, with the earth their shield from prying eyes. But oh, who had taken the time to make the grave…

(The nameless thing in Rían’s chest went silent, dead silent.)

Here was the last hope of the Edain, crushed, broken, consigned to the earth. Here was the sum of Rían’s life: a green mound in a brown land where her kin had been laid to rest, her husband among them, perhaps, but who could say for sure? They would never fight again. There would be no new day for Men, not now.

Rían collapsed against the mound, sheltered by its shadow, breathing in the smell of the grass. Sweet, so sweet, and yet the noisome stench of the dust was such that she could hardly make it out. She fumbled the knife the Elves had given her in her hands, turning it over and again, wincing at the watery flashes of light that came when the keen blade caught the weak Sun. And when night fell, she let sleep take her.

---------------------------------

Edain—Men of the three houses (the Houses of Bëor, Hador and Haleth) who were faithful to the Elves throughout the First Age; after the War of Wrath they were gifted with the land of Númenor and became known as the Dúnedain; after the Akallabêth they established Arnor and Gondor (singular: Adan) (Sindarin)

#Legendarium Ladies April #Tolkien #The Silmarillion #Fanfic #Rian #Rian of the House of Beor #Other characters mentioned #Triggers #Trigger warnings inside

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hhimring · 4 years

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Laughing Water (by Himring)

A glimpse of Rian after Lalaith, the little daughter of her cousin Morwen, died from a plague sent by the Enemy.

Rating: Teens (Gen)

Originally written for B2MeM2019; re-posted now to my Tumblr with the text (as well as the link to AO3), because a reader asked about it.

Content warning: Implied/Referenced Character Death (see summary)

Rian stood on the bridge, gazing down into the water that swiftly ran down from the mountains and away: Nen Lalaith, namesake of her little cousin with the butter-yellow curls that was dead, had died so very quickly, before their own healer’s efforts could take hold or the healer the elves had sent from Barad Eithel could even get here, and was now buried, three days gone. Turin still lay dangerously ill and she had come away after taking her turn sitting with him, had come out of the house to breathe a few deep breaths of fresh air. It felt as if, inside, she had been creeping about murmuring, with bated breath, for days. Hurin could be hugged and had wept on her shoulder, after he had done shouting and cursing Morgoth for the plague that had swept down on them and taken his daughter. Morwen, predictably, refused any comfort that was offered her as such, so ways had to be found to soothe her more subtly, in as much as it was possible. Not that Morwen was not spotting them anyway, she was too clever for that, even in her grief and fear, but she let the hint of lavender on her shawl pass as Rian being silly. And such things did have an effect, even if it was slight, in the face of another shattering, incomprehensible loss. Rian leant heavily on the railing, stooped forward, her bones aching with all the weariness and the sadness of the past days. Her eyes followed the fitful light glancing off the surface of the water below, the playful ripples chasing each other downstream. Beneath her, the stream chuckled as before. It went on laughing, even though little Lalaith, who had been named for it, would never laugh or chatter or play again. Morwen, Rian suspected, would have been offended by that idea, even though she would have fiercely rejected such foolishness and never admitted to it. But to Rian, just then, it seemed a good thing that even though the laughter had gone out of the house it was still out here in the world. It might be flowing out and away, beyond her grasp, but it could still be perceived; she could hear her little cousin’s laughter echoing in the water. ‘I will write you a song, when I can,’ she promised the stream, her lost cousin, the laughter in the water. ‘Not now, not soon, I’m hurting far too much. But when I can.’

Link to story on AO3.

#dor-lomin #rian #lalaith #house of hador #house of beor #cw:grief

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the-lefuet-blog · 5 years

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