#boromir/oc

[softboiledwonderland]

Gifts of the Water - Chapter 16 - theowlandtheunicorn - The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien [Archive of Our Own]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Gandalf | Mithrandir Characters: Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel, Gandalf | Mithrandir, Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin), Éowyn (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig, Other Character Tags to Be Added Additional Tags: Drama, Angst, Friendship, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Boromir Lives, Sort Of, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, a very extended redemption arc for Boromir, not that I think he needs it, but he’s getting one anyway Summary: Boromir fell beneath Amon Hen and was given to the River – and the River gave him back. What price will he and those who love him have to pay for his return? And who set it for them? Or: Boromir Lives, with a twist.

Sorry for the hideously unedited chapter last time, this one is a bit less hideously unedited <3 also 50,000 words milestone yay!!

[esta-elavaris]

Fluffy July ~ Day 6: Love Letters [Boromir/OC]

Masterlist - My AO3

Dividers by cafekitsune

The day Sybil learned that it was decidedly easier to put her more salacious words to paper than it was to speak them aloud was a decidedly dangerous one. It began, much like their love, entirely by accident. Early into their marriage, she went with a retinue to Dol Amroth - both to see the sea, and to learn of the medicine such an environment produced - but Boromir’s duties kept him from following her, at least for the first few weeks. So they wrote.

Starting off as innocent enough things, the first letters detailed her journey there, reassuring him that they’d arrived safely and without incident, and then lapsed into talk of the healing houses there, and of the flora these lands boasted. Her writings on those particular topics lapsed into a number of paragraphs - pages, really - that was quite frankly embarrassing. She’d been tempted to remove them entirely, but they’d been interspersed with bits and pieces of information that he may have actually found interesting, so she scrawled a note in the margins reassuring him that she entirely expected him to skim a great deal of the ramblings and left it at that.

Then his reply came.

If you think I should ever “skim” any of your words to me, particularly when I’m deprived of hearing your impassioned speeches in person, I must discourage you from ever believing so again at first opportunity. But only in person, where my methods of persuasion may be more effective.

If Sybil pretended it wasn’t sorely tempted to double down on that belief just to see how persuasive he could really be, she’d show herself up as a liar.

In the end, he arrived a week ahead of schedule, and two days before his rather frazzled entourage. The reunion proved to be a memorable one, indeed. It was only, weeks upon weeks later, when they were once again home in Gondor, that Sybil realised her mistake had lain in believing that would be that. So when a messenger sought her out during her mid-morning letter writing, bearing a note - a sealed note, no less - she was more confused than intrigued. It bore Boromir’s seal, and the messenger stepped back politely as she broke the wax and unfolded the scrap of paper. It was rather a short note.

This meeting is so boring that I’ve resorted to envisioning how I might take you on the table before me, in order to survive.

It took three passes of the sentence for her eyes to fully believe what they were seeing. By which point her cheeks blazed so fiercely that she knew they were crimson. And the messenger remained. Sybil blinked owlishly at him.

“Lord Boromir said you’d wish to answer his query,” the lad supplied, brandishing a slender stick of graphite in her direction.

“Ah. Of course,” she said haltingly.

That absolute bastard.

Holding the note close, she accepted the graphite and then crossed the room so that she could hunch over the table in the corner and scrawl a response. At least there’d be no waiting for the ink to dry. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to withstand that wait without bursting into flames entirely.

It warms me to know that your desire is driven chiefly by boredom, my love. How flattering.

Would I be on my back, or bent over aforementioned table?

The candle atop the table, along with the blade at her belt, helped her quickly reseal the note, and she handed it back. All while hoping the messenger didn’t see how flustered she was. He took his leave, and she managed another three lines of the letter she’d been writing before she was forced to accept she was too distracted to wield a quill. With her sentences reduced to nonsense, she’d need to begin anew. Later. When her mind wasn’t filled with the mental images Boromir’s note conjured.

Two realisations followed, one rather more delayed than the other. The first was that if she wanted to keep herself busy for the rest of the day, physical exertion was the only answer - otherwise she’d spend hours fruitlessly trying to organise her healing herbs and finding that her fingers had all been replaced with thumbs. Only once she’d changed into her riding leathers did the second realisation follow, along with the return of the messenger: ending her response with a question had been rather foolish.

She’d barely finished tying her boots when the messenger reappeared. Judging by his breathlessness, he’d been encouraged to hurry - Boromir likely knew what coping mechanism she’d fly to. With a nervous smile, she accepted the message.

I deeply apologise for my unforgivably thoughtless phrasing. I will make it clear to you how inaccurate it was at the first available opportunity.

And, to answer your question, both. The view should certainly be pleasing either way. If you think I have only the vigour for one or the other, I shall have to rectify that, too.

By then, at least, she had the presence of mind to keep her face straight. Only just. Accepting the writing implement with soft thanks, she scrawled down a response.

Bold words, but words only. I’m going riding.

The perils of goading him were a problem for her future self to deal with.

For hours, she rode hard across the plains surrounding Minas Tirith - until her legs shook, heart pounded, and abdomen ached. Her husband had secured a good steed for her once her riding was proficient enough to merit it, through strings pulled via their sister-by-law, she suspected, and by the time she set the mare trotting back towards the stables, she barely seemed tired at all by the exertions. The same could not be said for Sybil. On trembling legs, she staggered towards one of the stablehands in order to hand him the reins…and then saw the messenger, lingering in the doorway.

“I’m sorry. Have you been waiting long?” she asked, a furrow in her brow.

This game of theirs was fun, and was certainly to blame for the exertions she’d driven herself to beyond the city, but she did feel bad that he’d been drawn into it. At least until he smiled.

“I should prefer to wait here than be sent running to and from the lower levels every hour, my lady,” he assured her. “Lord Boromir said that this one should require no answer, but insisted I give it to none other than you, all the same.”

Well. Wasn’t that ominous?

At least this time, when her hands were clumsy as she opened it, she could blame the exercise.

Never in my life have I been so jealous of a saddle. I’ve half a mind to make excuses so that we needn’t leave our chambers ‘til dawn. Or perhaps beyond.

Sybil smiled. A soft, fond sort of smile. Even here, in the midst of their teasing and flirting, he’d paused to offer a thinly veiled route out, were she not in the mood.

“I think I may respond, if you’ve one last journey in you,” she said to the messenger.

He stepped forth readily with the stick of graphite. Luckily, for this message wasn’t much fit for him to recount verbally.

Do as you must, my love. I’m off to take a bath. I doubt I’ll bother dressing afterwards.

The bath was a savior to her sore muscles. After melting a balm into the steaming water, one that would rid her of any aches and soften her skin, Sybil had sunk slowly into it, closed her eyes, and simply allowed herself to steep. But while her body was tired, her mind was not, racing eagerly as she let the water and the herbs do their work.

She did not regret riling Boromir. The results were always sure to be fun. However, his stamina always far outstretched that of any other, much less hers, so spending the day riding likely had not been wise. Not because she herself saw it as a hurdle, but because she did worry that if he came home to find her appearing weary, he might alter whatever plans he’d doubtlessly spent the whole day conjuring in his mind.

Lost as she was in her daydreams, she didn’t hear his approach until the door was clicking shut behind him. Opening her eyes, one hand came up to grip the side of the copper tub, and she smiled when she saw how his eyes were alight with desire - mostly because she knew her expression was much the same.

“You’re early,” she murmured.

His eyes lingered on the surface of the water for a moment, too milky with the balm she’d added for him to see much of anything. From there, they trailed up her shoulders, her neck, then lingered on her lips for a moment before he finally met her gaze.

“I told Aragorn you’d a bad migraine and needed my assistance.”

“Aragorn is aware that I’m a healer, you know.”

“He didn’t need to believe it, he just had to grant his dismissal,” he smirked. “And migraines can last a good long while, you know. Who knows when I’d next find myself able to leave your side?”

“A more attentive husband there’s never been,” she murmured contentedly.

Boromir grinned, practically aglow with the praise. “I do what I must. Now, come here and kiss me.”

Humming, she sank more deeply into the water until it was level with her chin.

“The water’s still hot,” she hinted.

His grin widened, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a man strip so quickly in all her life.

[verya-gweinagar]

The Endless Ache

Boromir / Sedryneth (Original Character)

The Endless Ache explores what was and what comes to be of Boromir and Sedryneth’s love. Starting with their courtship, this story gives a glimpse into a young Boromir — an up and coming Captain of Gondor — and his rebellious nature toward his stubborn and abrasive father. Frolicking around the city with a nobleman’s daughter, dipping behind the white walls to steal a kiss occupies his time when he should be training to be a strong and skilled warrior. Despite his father’s distaste toward the idea of his son marrying, he agrees to arrange a marriage between the two young Gondorians not out of the grace of his own heart, but out of selfishness as he felt it may benefit him one day.

Years pass and the distinguished Captain of Gondor has a new title; da. Sedryneth gives her love the gift of fatherhood not once but three times. However, when the time comes for Boromir to run an errand to Rivendell for his father, he leaves behind a fairly pregnant wife anxiously waiting for his return.

News comes from the company of Rangers patrolling the shores of Osgiliath: Boromir has died. Sedryneth is driven to the brink of madness, grief weighing on her psyche as time passes. How does one continue on for her children when their father has left this realm? The roots of her very being have been ripped from her feet. With the help of her brother in law, she finds the will to move forward and carry on.

TLDR: This is an exploration of a young Boromir and his journey through love, marriage, fatherhood, and his wife’s experience handling the grief of his loss. I took some creative liberties with JRR Tolkien’s original story and Peter Jackson’s interpretation of the characters as well as guesstimating and alterations to timelines (ex: Faramir returns to give the news of his brother, then leaves to return to his company of rangers.) The only characters I “own” are Sedryneth, Naurmiriel and Ivandur, Ailiniel, and the three children. Everything else, obviously, belongs to the late and great JRR Tolkien (and sort of Peter Jackson but not really).

Things to note:

I (loosely) follow the timeline provided by Peter Jackson’s interpretation in the films and pull a bit from Tolkien lore, but there will be inaccuracies and liberties taken because I am but a simple human :’)

Boromir is 27, Sedryneth is 24, they met 4ish years prior when he was 23 and she was 20.

Character name meanings / pronunciations (according to their Gondorian roots):

Sedryneth (seh-dree-nehth): faithful

Giluen (gill-oo-en): pale star

Arathalion (ar-ah-thall-eyon): dauntless champion

Hirithelion (hear-ith-ell-eyon): lord of mists

At some point, there will be a character introduced that is linked to two other stories I *hope* to finish and post on here/ao3, I’ll link the works when that character pops up to reference but there will be some time until then. I’m so excited though!! I’ve never had stories web together like this before, so it’s been fun creating the connections!

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GIVE THIS OLD FANGIRL A CHANCE!!! I’m slowly dusting off the cobwebs okay :(

***

Chapter links :)

Chapter One: The Wild and The Noble

Chapter Two: An Arrangement of Sorts

Chapter Three: Of the Flesh

Chapter Four: Of Love, Of Life, Of Loss

Chapter Five: The Beginning of the End of All Things

Chapter Six: The Long Way

[southamptons]

Moths

Boromir/ofc, nothing serious, just me trying to start writing...again. Let me know if you like it or not, but in a kinda soft form

x

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

Bloody-red sun was setting down the hills on the west. The northern wall of forest become darker and growing up circlin' above the bonfire and small camp. The night was comin' and all of the life sounds were slowly muted as life creatures decided to pretend as non-existed.

'Don't you mind to stop twitchin'?' You blowin' away a hair strand from your face and stare at Boromir frownin'. 'It won't help me, you know?'

'You'd better stay calm, brother,' Faramir winked dumpin' brushwood next to the fire. 'Don't you forget what she did last time when I laugh while she was bandangin' my shoulder?'

'I don't wanna know how could you fall from that horse! Was makin' the eyes on someone? Again.'

'If I knew that your heart is open, I'll never pay attention on someone else,' he put his hands to his chest, bended and looked at you with honestly-big eyes.

'One more word and I...' You was pullin' to the closest stick on the ground as Boromir caught your hands takin' your attention. 'F i n e.'

Faramir was softly laughin' while going to unsaddle horses, you can hear his mindless whistelin' and muted steps of hooves in the distance. The fire was crackin' and the air was filled with the smells of smoke, meadow flowers and horse's fur. Small moths were desperately flyin' 'round the flame. So close but so painful. You fanally finished to clean the Boromir's wound. His strong back and wide shoulders were under your hand with wet piece of cloth. Across the left shoulder down the back was bleeding wound. The skin 'round it was inflamed but this wound wasn't fatal. You frownded.

'You have to be careful. It doesn't makes any sence to die in the middle of the battle.'

'It makes all of the sence. To die for your country, for your family, for what you love.'

'Aren't these reasons are better to live for?'

'Sure they are. But when it comes to battle all I can do is go forward and stand for this. If I'm goin' to die, that's the will of Gods.'

'Gods... I hate fate. I will do everything to fight it.'

'You always did.'

It was easier to talk with him without seein' his face. He was lookin' in front of himself as if he decided to find something in the forest among the trees. His skin were red from the fire light, his hair were redder than always. Lookin' at him was as painful as touchin' the fire. Seems that you were the silly moth too...

You silently standed and picked up the saddle bag where you always put a clean piece of cloth for different cases. Boromir was watching you sitting on the ground. His shirt and armour were neatly put next to his shield and sword. He never was messy. Order in things, order in mind as he always said. You throw a cloth to his knees.

'Faramir would do it better,' you took a wineskin with ale from the bag. 'I'm gonna take a break. There's a rushin' stream not so far, I'll be there. Can't stand this road dust on me.'

Of course mostly it was an excuse to leave. You didn't want to stay there with him while he's without any armour. Moreover you didn't want to bandage his wound. Touch his hot skin, wrap your arms 'round his wide chest. It made you weaponless, it made you weak. And those long looks from him... made you feel naked. Damn Gondor captain. You quickly ran down the short hill, and cross the small area with wide steps, avoiding the tree roots. Bubblin' sounds of water reached to your ears. You went along the streamside for a time before stop and sit on the stone bank. The sun has gone but the sky was still in bluberry colours. The first stars pale sparkling from the high. Here next to the water the air were fresher and breeze was softly touching your face, neck and hair. In the distance from halfly-naked Boromir you can literally breath deeply.

You were heading to Rohan. Éomer asked you to come for a long time, so in the middle of the summer there is no reasons left to say no. Gondor brothers were a good friends of him too so it was decided to arrive for summer solstice celebration. Éowyn might be so excited. You spend lots of time together during your last visit.

You took a sip of ale, put the wineskin aside, took off your boots and step into the stream. Your skin felt cool fresh touch of water. The stream was fast but soft.

'I'm my mother savage daughter, The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones...'

You scooped up some water and wash your face and neck.

'I am my mother's savage daughter I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice...'

You unraveled your brades standing in water, bend and wet your hair. The water were running down your neck under armour and clothes leavin' thin wet paths on your skin. You smiled, went out of water and sit down on the stones pulling your legs forward. You moved your hand on the grownd next to you to find the wineskin as a cold steel touched your neck.

You loudly signed and twiched in fright.

'You're dead,' you heard low Boromir's voice under your ear. The sword's steel dissapeared from your skin and you rapidly turned around.

'What the hell are you doin'?!' You jumping up and pulled him in his chest. Fortunatelly, he was again in shirt.

'You left your sword. If it wasn't me, you could be dead. These place aren't so safe.' He looked serious.

'Agh, is it your unique way to show your concern? To sneak up in the dark, treat me with the sword and say that isn't safe?!' last words you said with his intonations. 'You're jerk!'

He peacefully put his hands up. 'Take it easy.'

You still looked furious with your wet messy hair. Your chest went up and down.

'Already take a bath?' he tried to look serious but you see small wrinklers round his eyes and lips. He barely can't smiling.

'A bath? Yes, you know,' you made a step closer to him, 'the water is amazing', you made one more step and put your hands on his chest. 'Wanna try?' With these words you pushed him into the stream but he grabbed your shirt and pulled you with him under the water.

You shrieked so loud so Faramir could heard you from the camp. Fortunatelly the stream wasn't deep so you sat down in the water spittin' and makin' your hair.

'You're sneaky little witch,' Boromir laughed. 'I'm kinda wounded, you're gonna drowned me?'

'I wish', you made him a face and roll your eyes. He stood up and give you a hand. You took it and he easily put you up, pulled you close to him. Too close.

'You're a savage, that's true,' he raise his hand and gently put away your wet strand. Your heart suddenly rushed as a traitor. Accidentally you feel cold and a huge need to stand to Boromir closer. You have to make an effort to breath calm. Deep inside you were out of breath and your palms become cold. You saw his face so close to yours so you could feel his trembling breath. His big hot hands still hold you firmly and you were almost dying here wishin', desirin' of his lips. He bowed his head to your face so your noses were nearly touched. He made a deep breath, touching your cheek with his lips, scratchin' your skin with his beard. His look at you was deep and dark when one of his hands firmly went up to your neck and dug in your hair. He pulled your hair softly, raised your head and crushed on your lips. You sighted, opened your mouth and felt his tongue on yours. Your knees were trembling and you're wondering how could you still stand but his hands held you tightly. Your arms rounded his neck, pullin' him closer. Your wet bodies were flamin' next to each other and you almost sobbed when Boromir made a low throat sound, bitin' your lip.

He kissed you like he needed you to breath, desperately, long, deep. His tongue circlin' your lips, licked your mouth, kissin' you with those passion that he did everything with. For you everything felt unreal and far away. Even this strange crackin' of branches...?

Boromir heard it too and slowly pulled away from your lips looking in your eyes. 'Brother,' he smiled, 'we were here for too long.'

You softly free yourself from his arms, your face was blushin', you both still wet and your lips...God, your lips told everything 'bout what you were doing...

Faramir appeared in front of trees. 'I don't wanna bother you two but how 'bout dinner?' He winked you and looked at brother with a huge smile.

'We'll be in five minutes,' told Boromir taking your face in his arms again. Your face flamed in the dark of the night like a fire. You heard the receding steps of Faramir and find in yourself strengh to look at Boromir again. 'I wish you forgive me such a rudeness and will agree to have a walk with me in Rohan. I promise I do everything right.' He put your hand too his lips and left a long gentle kiss looking in your eyes.

'Yes'.

Moth touched the flame, but didn't burn.

I did this on pinterest :>

[quillofspirit]

This is better than the cinema! And the contrast between confident Boromir on the battlefield, and shy Boromir next to "his" lady? oh that was just sweet!

This is maybe the first fic that truly made me feel like Boromir is one of the youngest in the bunch and I want more!

✦ Healing Touch ✦

Fandom: Lord of the Rings Pairing: Boromir x OC  Tropes: awkward bedsharing, hurt/comfort Length: 4352 words Rating: T+ Warnings: blood, injury, canon-typical violence, Legolas being a little shit

This story takes place in the Wandering Birds AU (main fic currently in the making). It was originally posted as a WIP, in response to scyllas-revenge’s wonderful Bed Shortage series. I’ve since developed it a little. Last edit: 12 Dec 2023.

[AO3] [MASTERPOST] [MORE WANDERING BIRDS]

The Wold, Rhovanion, Middle Earth, 28th of Nénimë 3019 TE

Boromir could feel little save the sizzling rage pulsing through his veins, as he hacked at one of the last two remaining orcs, shearing the creature’s head. The other one charged at him with a spear, but Boromir managed to grasp the weapon just under the sharpened tip, deflect it and use it to pull the monster forward, effectively skewering it on his sword. At once the creature screeched and punched its shield right into the man’s face.

Keep reading

[baccarry]

Konichiwaa blessed me with even more gorgeous art for my fic! 

I’m still in awe every time I see my scenes and characters brought to life like this. 🖤

If you’ve read the fic, you’ll probably recognize these moments. If not… maybe this is your sign to check it out. 😉

[medievaliana]

The Jewel of the Sun

Chapter V: The Droplets on the Snow

Author's note: y'all, I'm sorry for showing Boromir in the worst light possible but pleaseeeeee, listen! I think it would be only logical for him to doubt Uirin, as I don't think that any man in Gondor would be used to the idea of women being powerful. To me, its only logical and I think its a good way to make a character arc, so trust me on this one and don't hate me. Luv you xoxo. Also, will start posting new chapters slower, cause I'll return to my studies soon, so I hope anyone will still be interested to read them after awhile <3 Chapter summary: The bringing of the Fellowship of the Ring: ten horsemen, brought together to traverse the dangers of the awaiting new journey. Uirin delves into her inner world along with all of the things troubling her, and sadly, Boromir further worsens her mood. Word count: 5616 Tags: @ilovedainironfoot @ravenettesblog Link to AO3 Previous chapter | Next chapter

PREVIEW:

Boromir opened his mouth, hardly containing his frustration. “How dare you insult my intellect!—“

“I am courageous to insult you, not for the possession of a foolish revenge, but for your will to oppose the notions of Gandalf and Lord Elrond,” she replied and lifted a brow. “Might I ask: who are you to oppose the excogitations of the wisest? I knew not of a lord that could carry such intellect!”

A month has passed, ‘twas the end of December. Fall has been defeated by the grim winter. All fell to peace and quiet, the incredible stillness of the season. The pearly white snow has covered the surface of the earth wholly, engraving the decomposed leaves and the frozen kindred of the lean trees. The loaded clots of snow fell down once the branches were fettered by the mass. The trees glimmered by the reflecting light of the icicles that hung like diamond daggers, awaiting to stab an unsuspecting victim in the middle of a sunny day. The wind howled, disrupting the loneliness of the nature, sometimes hitting the icicles against each other and ringing whimsical tunes. However, the stench of death lingered in the air. The footprints in the snow were not only of rushing strangers trying to return to the warmth of their home but also the crimson imprints of heavy boots, crushing all that stood in their way. The droplets of blood dyed the trunks and even branches, painted the snow, and a starving predator would taste it in desperate hunger. The bloody tears dripped from the stinging weapons of the servants of darkness as they marched closer to Rivendell and to its allies, preparing to bring each to their knees. The stillness of winter made every being uneasy, as the gusts roared like the beasts that assailed each realm; the crunches of the snow brought awareness of whether the feet belonged to an assaulter or just a wanderer; the passing shadows within the horizon resembled the moving figures of darkness. Therefore, it became complicated to predict whether a stranger could cause danger or warn of the approaching foes.

Alas, the first scouts came back to Rivendell with tidings of former events in various regions of Middle-earth, along with reports of foes and their intents, their causing disruptions of peace in the lands, and of allies. Yet, they had not discovered anything particular about the Riders or the other servants; it seemed as if there was peace before the upcoming storm.

Solitude has come to pass, and every being rubbed their hands in anticipation and yet anxiety in the face of an unknown future.

Elrond invited a short list of guests to his fine office in order to discuss a matter that overrode other duties.

Uirin appeared to be one of the members, as Gandalf was the one to call upon her: “Comest, my dear, to the vestry of Lord Elrond. It is time to receive a deal long awaited.”

A pull on the heavy knobs of Lord Elrond’s workplace and a tenuity in heart. Once Uirin stepped into the chamber, firstly Gandalf’s gaze greeted hers. The old man was leaning against the wall and observing each visitor with curiosity in his greyish eyes. Without anyone’s notice, she quietly moved beside him. Once again, he turned to her and winked, not wishing to interrupt the dense emotions with useless words. Uirin followed his example and examined the room, in which she had spent so many hours.

Elrond’s office seemed relatively small from the width; however, this was only due to the amount of beautifully carved bookcases covering almost every single wall with a vast variety of scrolls, letters, journals, skilful paintings of beloved faces, and so much more. In between the bookcases were large embrasures with colourful glass stains that were similar to others in grand halls of Rivendell, and they brought the brightness of the snow to the room. Heavy dark violet velvet curtains guarded the stunning windows. The tall arched ceiling elongated the chamber. A blazing fireplace shone behind a neatly tidied desk that was decorated with pens of exotic feathers and almost golden sheets of paper. Everything was strictly organised and quite dull in front of such an influential persona; however, it had its own charm. Regardless of the Lord’s age, all seemed in its place, as if Uirin’s sleepless study hours were only yesterday.

The view dissatisfied her, so her gaze finally shifted onto the guests. She witnessed all of the hobbits, except for Bilbo, two of whom were unacquainted with her. One of them, Frodo, sat on a chair, probably brought from another room, while the others swarmed around him. There was a dwarf, once again unfamiliar to her past, yet she remembered him from the council. He also leaned to the wall, next to Gandalf, and crossed his arms in front of his chest, tapping his fingers impatiently against his bulky arms. An elf, whom she had occurrences with in the past. He stood by the bookcase beside Aragorn, who seemed drenched. Alas, two mortal men: Aragorn, who was an authority to her, resting by the window; however, to her surprise, beside him stood Boromir, who was oblivious to Uirin’s presence, as his back faced the wall.

Elrond was sitting in a comfortable and soft chair, deeply staring into Frodo's eyes as he spoke. “The fateful hour hath come, Frodo; the bearer of the One Ring shall depart from the safe haven. I must beseech you for the final time: are you willing to embark upon this path and carry the One Ring to the fiery pits of Mordor? Hath not a keen contemplation swayed your decision?”

Frodo’s breath slightly hitched at the thought of the time of his departure finally arriving. He inhaled through his nostrils and nodded his head, while keeping a stern voice, though he shook slightly. “I will go if only Sam is allowed to keep me company,” Frodo answered, holding Sam's hand tightly.

“Verily, however, that is all I may offer you for the time being, for arduous it is to descry your journey’s endlong! You shall encounter many adversaries, lurking in every path, and the essence of the Enemy could grow ever stronger with each step taken; even so, there are allies awaiting your arrival. We have dispatched missives anent you and your role in the fate of Middle-earth, although I cannot guarantee that they shall receive them betimes, for war hath taken some important passages.” Elrond rubbed his tense forehead, yet a comforting smile remained on his handsome face. “I have forged a company of assistance to aid you in traversing the perils. Initially I deemed it wise if the fellowship consisted of nine members, as there are nine Riders. Rash it would be to doubt mine counsel, for sorely Samwise shall accompany you, along with Gandalf, as it is the greatest task given to one and perchance his last quest. The remaining members would also represent the races of Middle-earth, and they would be of the elves – Legolas; of the dwarves – Gimli son of Glóin; and of mankind – Aragorn son of Arathorn, followed by Boromir, and, as Gandalf pleaded for a newly addition, I do consider that a healer and a sorcerer would come in handy; therefore, Uirin also shall join you. I believe you have been acquainted with her ere this meeting, have you not?"

Frodo turned around with genuine surprise plastered on his face. Hostility in his expression was almost gone, as the remedies he received from Uirin’s mastery did help him greatly, and so he was more or less sure that Uirin only sought to provide aid. He nodded to her. "I have; I am pleased to hear the news."

“I am grateful to hear of the lady’s appearance in our fellowship. Safer I feel withal such tidings! A healer and an additional sorcerer would be greatly needed in our path,” said Aragorn, bowing his head to her.

Uirin only responded with a subtle smile on her face.

Yet Boromir remained silent throughout this whole time. He hastily turned his head to Uirin and threw a glare to her side, mixed with concern in the depths of his eyes. A stern expression, the one that doubted her before, appeared on his face once more. His lips almost visibly trembled as he fought the urge to open his mouth and debate whether ‘twas an excellent idea to invite Uirin to such a dangerous task, yet he calmed his senses. ‘So be it,’ he spoke with his frown. He only afforded a sigh to himself.

Uirin withheld his outrageous stare with serenity, hiding the signs of irritation while facing the exhibited disrespect. Yet her chest burnt from a sense of anger. Even though she put on a facade of ignorance, the doubt Boromir expressed hurt her pride. Her brows slightly curved, as the memory of his apology now seemed pathetic since he did not hold his words for regretting his actions. He did not regret it, she believed, but rather wanted to gain sympathy and just shake off the feeling of being at someone’s bad side. ‘Foolish man, a true noble heart,’ Uirin thought to herself, while her mind raced with memories of many doubting her, based on different reasoning. She caught Gandalf watching her, patiently waiting to shift her focus unto him. He offered a comforting gaze, as if understanding her every thought and emotion; a smile in the form of a hug, to shake this discomfort out of her.

“But I recall that Strider planned to leave for Minas Tirith along with Boromir, or have I been mistaken?” Frodo added, changing his attention to Aragorn; he was happier to hear about Aragorn’s appearance in the company.

“Alas, I shall, for the Broken Sword must be reforged once more. Until that very hour passeth, we are bound to walk together for many miles; therefore, Boromir is joining us also, for he and I must return to fulfil the destiny of Gondor. He is a brave man, fearless,” said Aragorn with a smile, offering it to Boromir also.

“And so!” Elrond continued. “One more needed to finish the portrait of our fellowship. Perchance I shall give this honour to someone of mine own kin—“

“But aren't we allowed to join them?!” One of the hobbits shouted desperately. Gandalf whispered into Uirin's ear that his name was Pippin and that he was quite a headache of his. “We want to follow Frodo!”

“Wiser it would be for you to stay here, as ‘tis hard for you to comprehend the measure of peril awaiting the company and especially Frodo. Fear dreads me that you may stand in his path...”

“I am certain ‘tis not the case,” interrupted Gandalf Elrond. “No one, not even I, comprehends the might that hath taken o’er Middle-earth and the kinds of perils that may dwell within it. If the hobbits would truly comprehend the awaiting peril, as we are referring to, they would only but enjoy their leisure in Rivendell; yet, their hearts would stop beating from the guilt of leaving their beloved friend behind. Therefore, I believe their courage and dedication to friendship are far more crucial to succour than strength or wisdom one might carry. Ponder upon it, my Lord.”

“Well then... I am afraid you hold truth in some part.” Elrond nodded his crowned head, but still doubt played in his voice. “Yet, I am compelled to decline the offer. I do propose to dispatch the two hobbits to the Shire as messengers in order to forewarn its residents of the approaching peril, as I have received missives of strange things happening around those lands... Moreover, Peregrin Took is too youthful for such a journey; I cannot permit him and Merry to travel afar to Mordor.”

“Then, Lord Elrond, you'll have to tie me down; otherwise, we'll leave with everyone else, and you won't be able to stop us!” Pippin yelled while raising his fist to the heavens with another hobbit – Merry – on his side.

“Pardon me, yet only one of you could join the company, not–“

“It’s either both of us or none of us!” Merry interrupted Elrond’s words, caught by Pippin’s enthusiasm. “Both of us will follow the company, even if you won’t allow us to!”

Elrond desperately looked at Gandalf, and he only replied with a pleasant nod, making the lord sigh with fatigue.

“My right to play part of important questions is taken by my own guests!” Elrond said, and stood up, raising his hands towards all of them as if he would be blessing the group for the upcoming fate. “Very well, you shall be the Fellowship of the Ring. Your departure is due to the approaching sennight’s end.”

✹

Meditation in a lone chamber, where only the light of the beeswax candles kept company in studies throughout the darkness. The shuffling of yellowish dirty papers and the aggressive scribbling of a pen filled the emptiness of the room along with soft whispers of ancient words. A desk covered by a shadow of a woman, a veil leaning onto the surface. Wet cauldron, pipettes, scalpels, and mortar and pestle drying off on the windowsill. Greenish gauzes surrounding the desk. Bottles of freshly brewed remedies on the glazed dark wooden floor. A touch upon dried herbs, squeezed in-between the cold fingerpads. A wrongly written word scratched within the lines of symbols. Slightly furrowed brows, shielding the running pupils of squinted eyes. No thoughts behind a meaningful expression, only deep concentration and liveliness in the moment. A straight spine and hastily moving hands, grabbing one book, a scroll, then a journal, a pen and everything close to the grip. A lick on a fingertip and a turn of a curious sheet. The same heavy lilac plaid from before falling off the shoulders, as not even the deadliest tides could bother the meaningful solitude. Many hours had already passed, and the stoic figure resembled a statue, for it did not change its position, as if thirst and hunger were only imaginary.

‘Twas the portrait of Uirin at the time of studying a beloved art – medicine. Herbs and their usages, negative and positive properties; suturing techniques; methods of extracting foreign objects from a body in the most conservative way. Surgeries. Preventions. Reported cases of complicated stories, requiring quick intervention in the questions of life and death. Scrolls of meditations that teach how to concentrate the energy used for sorcery in cases of healing. Her mind was dizzy from all of the possibilities, and the endless resources of information made her heart ecstatic.

However, staying in the same spot for an unlimited amount of time was also unhealthy, and her body begged to take a breath of clean air.

Uirin stretched her arms above her head and wiggled her back, slowly getting up from the chair. Her entire being trembled from the sensation of finally moving after the long-lasting freeze. She almost forgot that the days are shorter in winter and only then noticed the night overcoming the horizon. A huff left her lips as the fatigue finally set within her and the realisation hit her of the period spent in her study. She strained herself once again, though she did promise to never repeat it, but terrible habits are hard to abandon. Then a tiny smile appeared on her face: it was a joy to be overwhelmed only by such a privilege—no, by such pleasure.

The internal thoughts were suddenly disrupted by gentle scratches on the door, coming from the outside.

Uirin immediately realised who it was and rushed to open it. Her gaze fixed on the ground, and she offered a wide smile to the outsider. “My, my! Gandalf, cometh!”

Uirin kneeled and picked up ‘Gandalf’. A soft purring machinery. Black abyss, as she liked to call it. Yes, a soft black cat rested in her arms, yawning lazily and rubbing its head into her chest. Yes, she named him ‘Gandalf’, yet the real Gandalf knew nothing of the dubious creature.

Years ago, Uirin noticed the same cat travelling for many miles, and once, he jumped onto the back of her horse and curled up into a ball. Gradually, it crawled into her embrace until they reached Rivendell. That fateful day, she jokingly called him ‘Gandalf’, and the cat gladly chirped in response. She laughed and laughed while gazing upon this cute beast and fed it, petted it with pure affection, kissing its tiny nose whilst playing with its bean-like paw pads. Both of them grew fond of each other and were simultaneously tied to one another. The souls of travellers, bearing the news and providing comfort to those who were suffering. Well, ‘twas Uirin’s vision, as ‘Gandalf’ comforted her on many occasions – of course ‘tis a spiritual being!

Eventually, Uirin taught him to be her messenger; it was awfully difficult but worth in the long run.

Though Gandalf travelled a lot, he still had a pouch slightly touching the dirty ground; therefore, his belly was a bit greyish and stood out within its black shade.

Uirin sat down on the bed, which was quilted by warm grey fur, and laid Gandalf on the surface. The cat yawned once again and stretched on its back, exposing a belly before her. She could not contain herself and gently rubbed it. The cat purred and slowly blinked with its green eyes, wanting her to see it clearly. His tail lazily swung back and forth, making silent thumps on the mattress. Then her hand moved to his cheek and scratched it. He snuggled into her touch, flashing his tiny canines in pure delight and closing his eyes wholly. Already some strands of black fur had fallen out and covered the spot of laying.

Then Uirin’s hands finally reached Gandalf’s delicate neck and removed a loose collar with a small leather pouch attached to it. Once opened, there were miniature letters written in the smallest shrift. Uirin exhaled deeply as her eyes struggled to make out the words in the tiny pieces of paper, especially since some authors had no proper knowledge of grammar or general writing. There were messages from people all around Middle-earth, of different races, recollecting the successions of their healing progress, complications and so on. Most of them expressed gratitude and happiness for their barely visible scars, saved lives, healthy newborns and older children, and fresh strength to work and continue their tasks. Yet some dreaded her, as there were messages of folk portraying the ravaging armies of the Enemy, unknown beasts leaving their lairs. Her eyes followed the descriptions of trolls, orcs, goblins and many other beasts, including men. Elrond mentioned that his scouts did not report anything particular or dangerous, so this news grieved Uirin deeply.

A palm supported her face, cupping the mandible while squeezing it in thought.

Gandalf sensed her worry and got up slightly, only to flop on his side upon Uirin’s thighs and stare into her eyes. Oh, how much he wished to sleep, but instead he chose to comfort his matron. He meowed innocently and blinked even slower. Uirin brought her hands to him and caressed his face. Gandalf turned to her fingers and carefully licked with the rough tongue. then rubbing his face into them. It made Uirin wander away from the anxiety of the future, but it bore a strange wonder: was Gandalf cleaning himself with the help of her hand, was he begging for food, or was he comforting her?

“I must retrieve thee treats, my good fellow. Stayest, I shall return soon,” said Uirin and gently moved Gandalf to her side, laying him comfortably on the fur.

The chubby cat only meowed in response and snoozed off. To this day, it surprised her to see a creature falling asleep so effortlessly.

Wrapped in a warm fur cape, Uirin walked into the breezy night.

Alas, the sky was clear from the influence of the gloom, and the stars shone in the midnight blue heavens, blinking like the candles in the wilderness. The cheesy full moon smiled upon the face of the earth and rolled close to its surface, cherishing each pair of eyes gazing into its craters.

As feet carried her through silent halls, lonely terraces and dead gardens, her ears caught laughter—the laughter of elven children. Curiosity piqued her interest, and she hid behind one of the many pillars.

The children ran around the frozen bush of roses, one chasing the other and making the dry petals of the blossoms fall onto the snow by the swirls of air. The name of the game being Tag. She watched them attentively, as she did not see many elven kindred and them being so carefree. Their locks of hair flew around gracefully along with the elegantly sewn attire, and their giggles and soft pants reminded one not of the ordinary human children but of holier existence. Yet they were just small replicas of their parents and were similar to those of humankind: all they wanted was to play and enjoy the moment, regardless of the surrounding dangers of the cruel world. Innocence and naivety burnt in their eyes, speaking of the wonders that the world could not imagine. Once they stopped, their cheeks glistened like red berries. Then they argued loudly as one finally caught the other, figuring whether it was fair or not.

Uirin exhaled softly while watching their arguments, then friendly hugs, and then the continuing chase, with some kind of pain stabbing her chest. She did not wish to admit it, for a part of her longed for something such as this. If only she could, she would have ripped this feeling away from her consciousness and thrown it in the scorching flames, yet she could not. The instinct of finding someone so dear to one, even as dear as to grow a healthy family, made her stomach ill from secret jealousy. The elves mated once and found their partners for the rest of their eternal lives. Humans did the same, even though not as successfully, for the mortal life had its own difficulties, which were only natural. Yet Uirin perceived herself as someone beyond the labels of the ordinary, juggling the simplicity of her mortality and the sacredness gifted to her. Therefore, she believed deeply: the earthly desires were to be limited and somewhat unattainable. Not a single man would wish for a wife like her, for she could not restrain herself at the comfort of a warm home and delicious foods, the faces of their children and the love offered to and by her husband. She also remembered that the youthfulness of a maiden left her face and slowly spoke of her age as she was but a mortal woman. Beauty, even in her younger days, was not one of her strengths, as she was never depicted as a graceful dame like those of nobility. The lack of compliments did not bother her, nor did the hurtful remarks of the elves about her appearance, for she knew that she was beautiful, even if nobody saw her beauty. Being perceived as beautiful was a pleasure taken away from her; she shook her head – nay, ‘tis not so important; she was gifted her own ‘beauty’ by the One and her parents, and for that – she was grateful. Grateful to be remembered by many for her mind, for her virtues and courage, for her altruism and devotion to goodness, for her extraordinary abilities and for her passion. A saint, matron of the suffering. Uirin frowned to herself: of course, ‘tis better to be regarded for the person that you are and not by the beauty, or rather the standards given by the influence of the elves or the royalty; she was more than that – she knew it. Nay, the life of love and a family was too restricting for her boundless soul. Uirin was built to be more than her desires, even as natural as those mentioned – perchance ‘twas a challenge given by Eru Ilúvatar to determine whether she was worthy of the title of a saint.

Yet, once Uirin’s gaze circled back to the elven kindred, the dreadful feeling crept in her chest once more. The laughter, their bubbly chatters, their tiny faces and calming smiles pained her greatly. She wished to turn away from that sight, yet she was glued to it, forced to longingly gaze upon it with a knowing of never experiencing it. Her life was more than that – yes, far more.

Perhaps even a slight bit of romance experienced previously, even if it were tragic, would have cured her condition. Yet Uirin could only dwell upon that thought.

Then another figure, standing further away from the elflings, caught her attention.

Her brows twitched.

Lord Boromir.

Uirin’s instinct yelled at her to turn on a heel and bring Gandalf a meal after his long journey, but once again – curiosity got the best of her. She examined him from afar, guarded by the pillar.

Boromir’s face was hard as a rock and rough as it ought to be – lacking expression, wrinkles forming between his dark brows as he followed every move made by the elven children. Lips squeezed shut. Cheeks dipped in, highlighting his cheekbones and a sharp jawline. It was hard to distinguish what he thought, as the grey tones clouded the depths of his eyes. A heavy fur coat rested on his broad shoulders. Crossed arms over the muscular chest. From his way of conveying emotions, she assumed that this imagery did not throb his heart. And she envied him for it at that very moment. Elves did not interest him, for they were distant from his kind. It truly seemed as if he came to fulfil his duty and leave this heavenly haven as soon as he could.

Suddenly, the parents of these elven children interrupted Uirin’s analysis. As Boromir’s gaze rose up to greet them, he finally witnessed her as well. Uirin deemed it inappropriate to turn away or run off, so she offered a polite smile and bowed her head lightly, just to display courtesy for the sake of respect. Yet, she paid no more attention to him, turning back to the family that had left the scene. Yet, the corners of her eyes noticed Boromir nearing in her direction. She braced herself for the inevitable converse and held her breath momentarily, for it would be rude to run away before him.

“Good eve, my lady,” Boromir spoke firstly, bowing his head to her as per usual.

“Good eve, indeed, my Lord. Alas, the clouds hath fled the heavens,” she replied politely, keeping eye contact with him and interlocking her fingers.

“Aye. Are you well?”

“Certainly, and you, my Lord?”

“All is well.” He nodded.

Forced silence. Uirin fell mute, wishing that the uncomfortable silence would force him to leave instantly. Yet, her plan was useless.

“Now, I beseech you, take my words with a grain of salt…” he started.

“Mine judgement ought to be rightful,” she almost whispered, as her guts warned her of where this conversation was heading.

Boromir cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders.

“I deny your presence in the fellowship.”

The sudden silence was broken by shrieks of ravens.

Since this was the second time Boromir questioned Uirin’s abilities, she reacted rather calmly, as if she was prepared for the attack with a sense of harmony within. Her expression was as empty as a shell’s, and she replied with confidence, not leaving her side, “’Tis not mine decision to take part of the company, yet Gandalf hath asked me to aid him, and therefore I shall.”

“A dame’s place is not in the face of peril.”

“A mere dame’s, you sought to profess, yet I am no mere dame.”

“Your intellect does not comprehend the war and its damage…”

“Mine intellect speaketh my place is only in death and grave peril,” she replied, the sharpness of her words clicking on her tongue. “I wish not to discuss this matter any further. If all is said, farewell.”

Uirin was about to leave him as she did before at the ball, but Boromir grabbed her hand and pulled the attention onto him.

“My lady, take my words not with offence, but with a keen mind. Puissant you are – I doubt not, yet the true peril you have not perceived, and thus, you shall leave us all ere we notice.”

“My Lord,” replied Uirin, her voice still calm, “speak not of the terrors I bore… Prithee, you have been to the council, and you have heard of the tidings I have proclaimed. It would be kind of you to hark back unto the memories and ponder what I have witnessed.”

“I wish not to cause offence! I truly bestow only the best upon you, yet I do believe it would be wise for you to step aside from this task…”

“Lord Boromir, I shall repeat once more: I am not a mere dame,” interrupted Uirin, irritation slowly growing in her voice as she fought desperately. Yet, she did not pull her hand away from his tight grip, for the eagerness to win against her arrogant opponent blossomed slowly. “I have been taught of sorcery and of medicine, not for entertainment, but so I could use my might for the welfare of others. Prithee, do believe…”

“Ah, ‘twas not the sight of the true war. ‘Twas only the glimpse of what shall await us all!”

“I thank you, but I am no fool. I know of what I have witnessed. Your fondness is much appreciated, yet I must leave…”

“Never in mine life have I witnessed a dame partaking in such a task, and never will I!…”

Uirin grew bored of acting peacefully, and these words snapped her wholly.

“Then you shall. For the first time: you shall. And you shall bear this mystery withal your own intellect. And you shall comprehend it,” Uirin spoke, and her sharp mind felt pleasure while biting him.

Boromir’s eyes widened in response, and he halted. And then it seemed as if fumes were smoking out of his glare, and his brows almost pushed themselves into a singular line: a lord of Gondor’s honour has been disregarded! His hand squeezed hers almost painfully, yet the adrenaline coursing through her veins made it senseless. Their faces neared each other, yet their emotions contrasted: Boromir was slightly trembling from the unforeseen audacity of this woman, and Uirin stood as stoic and as cunning as a cursed blade.

Boromir opened his mouth, hardly containing his frustration. “How dare you insult my intellect!—“

“I am courageous to insult you, not for the possession of a foolish revenge, but for your will to oppose the notions of Gandalf and Lord Elrond,” she replied and lifted a brow. “Might I ask: who are you to oppose the excogitations of the wisest? I knew not of a lord that could carry such intellect!”

“Repeat those utterances…” Boromir almost spat in her face.

“Nay, I shall not.” Uirin finally pulled her hand out of his grip with mighty force, and it took Boromir aback as a woman, who did not bear the same muscular mass as him, challenged his influence. “I shall not defend myself ere an ignorant man, and I shall not do so at this very moment. Be ignorant once, and I might forgive such stupidity, yet the second time-“

“Pardon your words, stupidity?!—” Boromir stumbled one foot further away from her.

“Ah, your hearing is splendid,” Uirin said in the calmest tone possible, as if her words meant nothing, but to Boromir – it was another cut in this duel of pride. Now they stood further away from each other and only threw daggers with their eyes. “Harken to me, for I shall not tolerate the disrespect, regardless of your high status.”

“As a Gondorian, you should display decency to a lord of those lands!—“

“I serve no lord, only people,” she interrupted. “No lord shall e’er be higher than the One, and no lord shall e’er be greater than those whom possess lower income or status in society. For all that is gold does not glitter. Therefore, even the poorest beggar on Middle-earth shall be a lord for his kindness, for he resembles the grace of Eru Ilúvatar, yet a lord withal ignorance shall ne’er be a lord to me, for ignorance is not a trait the grand Creator possesses.”

Boromir became pale, as the wind howled along with Uirin’s words, seemingly responding to her emotions, even if she stood tall and proud. Then the corners of her lips lifted and the smile lines gave cunning cheerfulness to emotion.

“I plead: take mine words not withal offence, my Lord, for if it were true, it should not hurt your pride. Am I not correct?”

A final strike.

Boromir shook his head, feeling defeated by the sharpness of a tongue, and narrowed his outrageous gaze to the snowy ground.

“Do as you wish; all I wished for is to bring more insight.”

“I know your intents were not ill, yet I have chosen my own fate. I thank for the concern, yet now I must take my leave.”

And Uirin walked away, victorious in her justice, as she did before when they had first talked. Yet her heart bore Boromir’s doubt in her abilities, and it only fuelled mistrust in him. His action was filled with ignorance, and she knew that a hot-headed man like him did not deserve nearly as much of the attention that she had given him. She studied and ploughed hard day and night not to be doubted by a captain that has not mended the wounds of those who had seen death before their eyes.

Gandalf's munches on the pieces of fresh chicken, and the pets on his soft coat only made her delve into her inner self and wonder whether she will ever be seen for who she truly is and not what she was limited to be.

[scyllas-revenge]

Burn Like Cold Iron Chapter 35: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

Blow your horns and honk your hummers, another chapter is down!

This ten thousand word behemoth ran me over with a truck, beat me up in an alley, burned my house down, and stole my wallet. That being said, I'm pretty happy with how it turned out <3

[boromirswife]

Namesake (Boromir/OC)

(Using a Ned Stark gif because I love to imagine him as Boromir if he survived 🥰)

Summary: Boromir meets his daughter for the very first time, and Aeroniel suggests a name for her. My entry for @boromir-week Day 2, using the prompt "Son of Finduilas".

Notes: TW for mentions of two instances of past child death, and another death mention. I headcanon that Finduilas was to have another child — a daughter — but the childbirth was difficult and the child was lost. The already sickly and weakened Finduilas perished a while after. Even with those details, this is still a pretty fluffy and light-hearted fic! Hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 863

***

Boromir had been out training some of the young soldiers when he got news that his wife was in labour. It was not a difficult decision for him to make to drop everything and rush to Aeroniel’s side. He did not wish to be away from her as he had been last time she had given birth — though Aeroniel had assured him that it was not his fault that their child was lost — and so he practically ran to try to reach her.

Unfortunately, the training grounds were a fair distance away from his and Aeroniel’s home. He did not know how long it took him to finally arrive, but everything was very quiet when he walked upstairs towards their bedchamber.

An older woman — the midwife — heard Boromir coming up the stairs and came out to greet him. "It was a quick childbirth," she told him. "Your wife and child are both healthy. Go and be with them. I shall check up on them again soon."

Boromir nodded, thanking the woman before walking into the room where Aeroniel lay on their bed.

"Boromir," whispered Aeroniel when she saw her husband walk into the room. In her arms, she cradled a tiny bundle wrapped in a blanket, and she smiled down at it with love twinkling in her eyes.

Their child.

"Dove…" Boromir said as he slowly walked over towards the bed where Aeroniel lay. When he sat down on the edge of the bed, he got his first glimpse of the face of his child.

"This is our daughter," Aeroniel told him, and Boromir found himself mesmerised by the infant. Their little girl. Her chubby cheeks, the wispy strands of light brown hair atop her head, the way she looked up at him with her pale green eyes. "Would you like to hold her?"

Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but for whatever reason no words would come out. So instead, he simply nodded his assent, and scooped the baby into his arms.

Their daughter made a soft cooing noise as she was cradled by her father. Boromir felt tears beginning to prickle in his eyes, a warmth filling his heart as he regarded the little girl in his arms. She was perfect in every way, and she was theirs.

Part of him had thought this would never happen. After the loss of their son, Boromir hadn’t been sure whether Aeroniel would ever wish to try for another child, and he would never try to pressure her. But eventually, she had come to him to ask whether he would like to have a child. It had been not long after Faramir and Éowyn had left baby Elboron in their care for a few days when business took them out of Gondor. It wasn’t long until Aeroniel found out she was with child once more, and time seemed to move so quickly after that. And now, she was here.

"The midwife said that she is very healthy," Aeroniel assured him. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t help the grin on her face as she gazed upon her husband and daughter.

Boromir was still staring at the child, a few tears escaping his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. He knew in this moment that he would do anything to protect this girl, even if it killed him.

"I have thought of a name for her," Aeroniel said. "Of course, I did not wish to make it official until you had arrived, in case you had something else in mind. I would like to name her 'Finduilas'."

The sound of his mother’s name broke Boromir out of his trance, and he looked back to his wife.

Aeroniel blushed, slightly worried that Boromir might take offence to her wanting to name their child after his late mother without consulting him earlier. When Boromir had given her the ring she now always wore on her finger — which had once belonged to Finduilas herself — he had said that his mother would have loved her. "I know that I never met your mother, but from everything you have told me of her, she seemed to be a remarkable woman. I have her to thank for bringing my darling husband into the world, after all. And I can think of no better way to thank her than to name our daughter in her honour."

His mother had indeed been a remarkable woman. Kind and gentle, yet quietly strong. Even through her long illness, she had loved and taught her two beloved sons. Boromir knew that if she and the daughter she had lost had survived, she would have been a wonderful mother to his sister, too. It had broken Boromir’s heart when his dear Mama had left them, and he still thought of her often. He would not be the man he was today had it not been for her.

"Finduilas," Boromir murmured as he gazed back down at the tiny girl in his arms. She looked up at him, almost seeming as if she already knew that was meant to be her name, and that settled it. "Yes. That is what we shall call her. My mother would be overjoyed."

[softboiledwonderland]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Gandalf | Mithrandir Characters: Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel, Gandalf | Mithrandir, Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin), Éowyn (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig, Other Character Tags to Be Added Additional Tags: Drama, Angst, Friendship, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Boromir Lives, Sort Of, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, a very extended redemption arc for Boromir, not that I think he needs it, but he’s getting one anyway Summary: Boromir fell beneath Amon Hen and was given to the River – and the River gave him back. What price will he and those who love him have to pay for his return? And who set it for them? Or: Boromir Lives, with a twist.

[esta-elavaris]

I have half a mind to make this a cute little miniseries but I don't know whether I will or not.

Modern AU meet cute -- originally for flufftober, before I decided I would not be doing flufftober. I hope you guys enjoy, just a bit of cute fluffiness for this far too warm Wednesday evening.

I'll post it on AO3 eventually, but for now it's just here.

Main, tenth walker, modern girl in Middle-earth fic of these two can be found here 💜

Dividers by cafekitsune

Boromir/Sybil [Boromir/OC] ~ 2,880 words

Sybil was having what was quite possibly the worst day of her entire year.

Striding through Gondor’s vast parkland, she turned her head this way and that, tears stinging her eyes and a lump lodging itself in her throat.

“Sarah? Sarah! Oh come on, damn you – Sarah?!”

Nothing. No response, no glimpse of ruddy red between the trees, nothing. What was she going to do? What could she do? Going home alone wasn’t an option, but how much longer should she search? When did it become a matter of informing authorities? Did one even inform authorities, in circumstances such as this?

…Was she hurt? Had she been taken?

“Sarah? Sarah!”

She was so concerned with her search that she didn’t bother looking where she was going, and she realised the stupidity in that only when she tripped.

Tumbling into the grass, she managed to roll as she did, taking the brunt of the impact to her hip rather than her tailbone. She was apologising before she’d even registered the pain.

“I am so sorry!” she exclaimed to the owner of the slack-clad legs she’d tripped over.

A businessman, judging by his dress, reclined on the grass, the remnants of his lunch gathered in a paper bag at his side. He was already sitting up, caught between grabbing at her to make sure she was already and the knowledge that laying hands on unknown women was not a welcome thing.

She tried to right what she’d knocked over – a paper coffee cup, which she realised had thankfully already been empty – and then accepted his help to rise, which he offered as he did so, too. Her heart thudded in her chest as she already wondered how quickly she could leave without being rude, more concerned with her search than with this stranger who was making enquiries as to her wellbeing that she only half listened to.

Then, though, she registered who she was looking at. Boromir. Lord Boromir. The Steward’s son.

Her panic – it had to be the only reason she hadn’t recognised him from the start. How many times had his face been flashed across the television screen in her home growing up, usually accompanied by her parents shaking their heads? When she was very young, the news pieces usually despaired at his teenage antics, often debating (just a touch too gleefully) whether any typical youthful foolishness was actually an indicator of a deeper, more troubling character flaw. But as he aged into young adulthood, and Sybil grew old enough to heed the goings-on of Gondor at all, those stories shifted, instead hailing him as the people’s prince – despite the fact that he technically wasn’t one – and singing of his wartime achievements.

These days, the press took on a decidedly different turn, focusing instead on when he would finally marry. And, more importantly, whom.

Naturally, Sybil found the whole bloody thing ridiculous. Not only that, but also intrusive to any unlucky enough to be involved, and – most of all – entirely irrelevant to her life. So she paid it little mind. But now he was smiling at her, he was handsome, and she was blushing.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? I wasn’t looking, it was stupid of me – I’m so-”

“I’m uninjured,” he cut in with a warm laugh. “Truth be told, I’ve been debating on whether to offer you my assistance. You’ve lost your friend?”

If it was a friend she’d lost track of, she wouldn’t be wandering the park on the brink of tears. She wasn’t quite that pathetic just yet.

“Sort of,” she offered an embarrassed smile. “A four-legged one.”

Mostly, she just wanted to end this encounter with as much dignity and speed as humanly possible so she could get back to her search without worrying about creating a diplomatic incident.

“A dog?” he understood her meaning easily. “You…you named your dog Sarah?”

Sybil met his eye, then quickly looked away, and finally looked at him again, knowing what she had to do but doubting she had the strength.

“It’s…it’s a stupid joke.”

“Now you must tell me,” amusement coloured his tone.  

“Look, I really need to-”

“The sooner you tell me, the sooner you will secure my aid. I’ve quite a lot of confidence that I can help you.”

Quietly, Sybil muttered the dog’s full name. He didn’t catch it.

“Pardon?”

“Sarah Jessica Barker,” she repeated.

There was no way he wouldn’t understand the reference. Sex and the White City had been filmed here in Gondor, after all, continuing to shut down the fancier levels of Minas Tirith whenever an additional movie or season was dredged back up.

Lord Boromir’s lips stretched into a wide grin, his chest stuttering a little as he swallowed down a laugh, before he cast his eyes out into the distance, visibly trying to school himself back into seriousness. Great. Being laughed at by one of the loftiest men in the land in this moment, of all moments, was packing salt into a wound that still bled – and whatever momentary bedazzlement had struck her upon coming face to face to him quickly faded into annoyance, her lips thinning and nostrils flaring.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said flatly.

She spun on her heel but his voice stopped her.

“Wait – wait. Miss! I’m sorry,” he held out a hand as if to snatch at her wrist, before he seemed to remember that grabbing strange women in parks wasn’t particularly well-received in civilised society. “Please. Allow me to help you. Truly, I didn’t mean to laugh.”

He was so contrite, and so damn earnest, that she couldn’t continue to be annoyed. Not outwardly, at least. And whatever ire still had her chest feeling tight was more panic masquerading as anger than anything else – the latter feeling somehow more palatable to feel.

“Fine, but unless you’ve seen her, I’m really not sure how you can help.”

“What does she look like?”

So sincere was his contrition that any who saw them without knowing who they were might think him her assistance, standing and regarding her solemnly, his hands behind his back as he waited, prepared for any request she might have. And then there were his eyes. So warm, and shining with true concern. It was enough to do away with the last of her annoyance.

“Tall, blonde, with a fondness for high heels,” her attempt at a joke was weak, but it earned her a grin, and he at least stopped looking so damn guilty. “She’s…she’s a spaniel. A red spaniel. She doesn’t bother much with strangers, so she wouldn’t have come up to you. I’m sure you would have missed her, if you weren’t specifically looking for her.”

“Perhaps, but hope is not lost. Come – please.”

And follow she did. Not because she ascribed to the belief that his station gave him mystical powers of capability, but just for sheer lack of anything else to do. What was the alternative? Refuse, and continue to wander, her calls for Sarah going ignored? And he seemed pretty sure of himself, at least. That gave him more going for him than she had for herself.

Boromir led the way to the pond that the park boasted – a manmade feature in a rough oval shape that curled in on itself, spanning almost the full width of the park, with a bridge stretching over it that was a very popular scenic spot for proposals.

“Ah,” he stared at the water. “It’s just as I thought.”

Still addled by panic, it took her a second to realise what he was talking about, beyond a look that confirmed that her dog was not, in fact, lurking beneath the surface. The emerald green algae that coated the surface of the water by the stony shore was disturbed, broken up here where it was otherwise a thick undisturbed carpet all the way to the left and right.

It was with a heavy sigh that he spoke next.

“The ducks like to gather on a hidden ledge beneath the bridge there,” he explained. “And the dogs like to bother the ducks.”

As he talked, he stood on one foot, lifted the other with not even the slightest wobble, and began to untie his shiny black leather shoe. He was moving onto the second one by the time she broke through her shock.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned at her, the impact annoyingly devastating.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Something ridiculous – you can’t go in there.”

“I must reunite you with your, forgive me, ridiculously named hound. The ends justify the means.”

“If she really did swim under there, she can swim back,” she protested.

Apparently willing to entertain her theory, but visibly unconvinced by it, he gestured at her as if to say by all means. Then he stood, rubbing at the back of his neck as she called out to her hound. The ledge that he’d spoken of was only barely visible from where they stood, but at her call, a black nose poked around the corner of the underside of the bridge, followed by fur that usually glowed a beautiful golden red on sunny days like this, but was now a sodden algae-ridden ruddy mess.

"Sarah!" she called, hunkering down and holding out her arms. “Sarah, come here!”

The dog panted, and she might’ve wagged her tail, but otherwise she regarded the water, and then Sybil, as if she was asking far too much. As if she hadn’t just been in that very water.

“Oh, for the love of…”

With a groan, she toed off one trainer, and then the other. She wasn’t wearing white today, at least that was something – nor anything particularly nice. Just workout leggings and a long, baggy tank top reserved for dog walking and generally not being seen by anybody of consequence. So much for that.

“What are you doing?” Boromir echoed her earlier words, placing himself between her and the pond.

“I’m getting my dog.”

“I’ll do it,” he laughed as if her idea was ridiculous.

“She’s my dog.”

“It’s my father’s pond,” he countered easily. “Technically speaking. And I was the one who presided over its opening ceremony, so I suppose it’s also part mine.”

“You can’t-”

“I insist! I can’t have you stealing my thunder when I have an opportunity for heroics.”

Those brilliant, handsome grins of his could easily have her giving him the damn dog if he kept it up. As he made his insistences, he took the cufflinks from his cuffs, handing them to her for safekeeping before he began to roll up his shirtsleeves. Too stunned for words, she may have ended up staring at his forearms…and he may have caught her. The grin on his face became just a touch more boyish for it.

“Are you sure?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun as she squinted up at him.

“I insist,” he repeated. “On one condition.”

“Oh?”

“Tell me your name.”

It beggared belief. How swiftly, without being able to even pinpoint when it had happened, the atmosphere between them felt charged, somehow, now that she wasn’t driven by panic. When he saw how his condition surprised her, he looked just a little too smug, so Sybil gave herself a shake, cleared her throat, and breathed a laugh.

“Well?” he prompted, removing his socks next.

“You haven’t held up your end of the deal yet.”

She almost regretted her words when he stepped into the pond. Gritting his teeth, he hissed sharply at the cold, then looked at her as if to make sure she was still watching. When he found that she was – little could persuade her to look away – he schooled his features back into an amused sort of determination, his brow set with a smirk tugging at his lips.

Sarah watched the spectacle with curiosity.

As he waded deeper into the pond, Sybil couldn’t help but be relieved that he’d volunteered himself for the task. The water, when it just reached his hips, would’ve already been well up to her waist.

“She doesn’t bite, does she?” he called back towards the shore.

“No. I’m more worried about her making a break for it.”

If she decided she’d rather not be captured by the strange man, she could easily jump back in and swim further up the shore. All right, if she did that, Sybil could run and try to beat her to whatever patch of land she emerged at, but it would complicate matters. Especially if the dog decided this was a very fun game to play.

“I’ll catch her, if she does,” he replied, unfazed. “I’m a fair swimmer.”

Yes. She’d heard that particular tale. Although she’d never be so insensitive as to bring it up. Although the knowledge of what he’d seen, fought, and lived through, did make the sight of him wading through a pond to retrieve her dog all the more surreal.

“Faster than a dog?” she asked doubtfully.

“My lady, if you keep doubting me, I shall have no choice but to take it personally,” he levelled her with a boyish grin over his shoulder before he turned back to the pup.

She was glad for his divided attention, for it would hopefully mean he’d miss how she blushed.

Boromir continued wading towards the dog, her brown eyes fixed on him with a sort of interest Sybil knew well enough to recognise as mischief, but even still hoped she might be mistaken. It was all for naught, though. Once Boromir was just out of arm’s reach, she yapped, and then threw herself into the water, paddling happily past him and towards the shore. Once out of the water, she shook herself off with ease, and then trotted to Sybil, sopping tail throwing algae with each wag.

Yes, there would be absolutely no living this down.

Lifting the dog into her arms just for something to occupy her hands with, she slotted the lead back onto her collar, and then watched in mortification as Boromir waded his way back out of the water. They’d drawn rather a crowd.

“I am so, so sorry,” she said when he drew near, trailing water in his wake.

His white shirt was now a very strange brown-ish green, clinging to his abdomen in a way that was determined to draw the eye.

“Don’t be,” he insisted, “I mean it. A more novel lunch I’ve never had.”

Wriggling in her grasp, Sarah panted, writhing and trying to struggle in the direction of her would-be rescuer. Unhesitating, Boromir extended his arms, looking to her for permission. When Sybil granted it, he accepted the dog with warm laughter, keeping her easily in his grasp despite how she jolted, holding her just far enough away that her attempts to lick his nose would prove fruitless.

"Hello, Sarah," he greeted, eyed Sybil warmly for a few moments, and then returned is attention to the pup. “Your mother is very pretty when she’s embarrassed, did you know that?”

“Technically, I’m her aunt. She was my sister’s before she was mine.”

“I think I shall make it my mission to have her grow more comfortable with compliments, too,” he commented idly, holding the dog in one strong arm so he could scratch behind her ears with the other hand. “What do you think?”

He spoke to the dog but he looked to her, his face more tentative than his words, as if worried he was making her uncomfortable. Sybil acted on impulse. Later, she’d blame it on the sun beating down on them, the collective of people who were pretending (poorly) not to watch, and the sheer amount of genuine kindness in his smile.

“I…live nearby. And I have a tumble dryer, clothes that may just fit you, and a collection of coffee options that beggars belief. If any of that would do as thanks.”

“Ah, but you have not yet offered the thanks I am truly interested in,” he said – and then balked, appearing to realise how suggestive his words sounded, and quickly added. “Your name.”

She wasn’t the only one, she thought, who was pretty when she blushed. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she stifled a smile at how he appeared to be in no rush at all to return her dog – nor was Sarah in any rush to be unhanded.

“Sybil,” she answered finally. “My name is Sybil.”

Extended a hand, her cheeks blazed when he accepted it and then lifted her knuckles to his lips. He had to bend a little at the waist to avoid yanking her arm up at an uncomfortable angle, such was the height difference between them – and his beard tickled her skin when he kissed her hand.

“Sybil,” he repeated with a smile when he’d released her hand, “it suits you. Now, tell me more about this coffee collection.”

 She took up his shoes, seeing as he was in no hurry to release the dog, and he nodded his thanks before nodding that she should lead the way out of the park. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she didn’t owe Sarah a treat or two after all.

[verya-gweinagar]

The Endless Ache

CHAPTER SIX: THE LONG WAY

Chapter Rating: SFW

He contemplated for a moment before acting on anything, what good could this Hobbit do with something so powerful? What better would it be in the hands of the little folk than in the possession of Men, who fight wars and conquer lands and rule people. Perhaps the Ring was right to call to Boromir, to tempt him so. The visions it planted in his mind were cause enough for him to take the Ring for himself. It would serve him well as the Steward of Gondor. He would command his people with unlimited power. What would this Hobbit do with it? Conjure more mushrooms and ale? Will the hoes and rakes to till the fields unmanned?

Master List | Chapter Seven

The soft light of the morning sun eased through the windows, the cool breeze billowing through the sheer curtains. Boromir stirred slightly but his eyes remained closed as he savored the warmth around him. His lips perked upward into a smile as he felt soft kisses peppering his skin, covering his chest and the length of his neck, finding their way to his cheeks before finding their place on his own. He groaned sleepily and felt the lips against his smile. “Good morning my love.” He heard his wife’s sweet voice, low and breathy as she spoke, continuing to lay kiss after kiss across his skin. He could hear the lilting laughter of his children outside of their chamber, giggling and shrieking as they played, his brother’s voice booming after them as he joined in their game. He smiled again. This was his life, the life he dreamt of having for years, where warm languorous mornings with his love and happy children filled every hole he had in his life before. A life where his brother smiled more, a life where he loved Sedryneth every day, a life where he had no care in the world what the days had in store for him so long as he spent it with his family.

“Boromir!” Faramir’s voice carried through the hall, calling for his brother, but he lay there unmoved. “Boromir…” His wife now echoed Faramir, still Boromir remained in his slumber. The sound of his children playing continued in the distance, his brother laughing with them before calling out to him once more.

“Boromir!”

He winced and held his thigh, a sharp jab to the leg finally woke him from his dream.

“We mustn’t rest long. We have a long journey ahead.” Boromir squinted through the daylight, his eyes adjusting to the new brightness as he focused them on Aragorn standing before him. His heart ached for a moment as he processed the bliss he was experiencing in his dream after it was stripped so quickly from him.

He heard the Hobbits bickering amongst themselves over a cast iron of sizzling bacon, the aroma hitting his senses and his stomach rumbled instantly. He rose from his bed roll and stretched his aching back, cracking it and groaning as the relief fell upon him and walked to the small fire the Hobbits were gathered around. “What’s this?” Boromir picked a crispy strip of meat from the skillet and popped it into his mouth as the Hobbits protested. “We won’t ‘ave no more if you lot keep pickin’ at our rations!” Samwise whined, stabbing at the meal in front of him and shaking his head in disapproval as Boromir chuckled to himself, earning a small smile of amusement from Aragorn.

He decided to sit near the little folk, taking in the sound of their voices as they joked with one another, and enjoyed the stunning landscape of Middle Earth sprawled before him. Aragorn sat a bit to the side of him and sharpened his blade in silence, occasionally humming to himself here and there, but not once did he engage in conversation with Boromir, nor did Boromir attempt to begin one with him. Instead, he fiddled with the tiny sword of his son’s he had stowed away in one of his pockets, weaving it between his fingers unconsciously as two of the Hobbits moved from their fire to a clearing atop the mountain where they began to tussle with one another, a mirror image of a young Boromir and Faramir wrestling in their youth.

As he twiddled with the small sword in his hands, an idea was birthed. Surely these Hobbits had never wielded a blade before, surely they had not the first idea how to fight with a sword. Boromir decided he would spend his morning familiarizing them with the basics of sword fighting techniques.

He rose and approached them as Merry held Pippin in a headlock, Pippin squirming under his friend’s arms as he struggled to free himself. Almost as if he were a child in trouble caught by his parent, Merry released him and stood stiffly in front of Boromir as he towered over them. He smiled at the two as Pippin straightened himself, pulling his waistcoat down to release the wrinkles. “Feisty little buggers. You’d do well with a blade. Come.” Boromir placed his broad hands on a shoulder of each of the Hobbits and led them to the center of the clearing. He rolled his sleeves to the bend of his arm as he began addressing his plan with the two for that morning.

“We’ll start with sparring. Here, you need to steady yourself and ground your feet to the earth.” Boromir assumed the position, spreading his legs and driving his feet into the dirt, bringing his hands before his face, balled into loose fists. Merry and Pippin mimed him and tried their best to match Boromir’s position. “Good, good. Bring your paws up a bit more to protect your face.” He approached and corrected Pippin’s fist to be higher for proper protection and kicked at Merry’s feet to widen his legs, grounding him more. “There. Now strike and return. Like this.” He jabbed his fist forward, punching the air. Merry and Pippin smirked at one another, amused at the idea of fighting one another eventually, and followed Boromir’s lead by striking the air.

Boromir continued teaching the two fighting techniques and defensive positions, then finally moved on to proper sword fighting. He handed each a sword and showed them how to hold the blade, firm and steady at the hilt, keeping their wrists tight and strong as they swiped the blade at the air.

“Two, one five.” Boromir clanged his blade against the small one in Pippin’s grasp. “Good! Very good.” Pippin smiled to himself, pleased at the praise he received for his performance. “Move your feet!” Aragorn directed as he watched, sucking on the tip of his pipe while sitting on a rock to the side of Boromir’s training session. “Hmm, quite good, Pippin.” Merry added to the compliments and earned a proud grin from his friend.

“Faster!” Boromir began striking at Merry now, catching him while his guard was down, attempting to teach them the valuable lesson of never letting the enemy have a moment to throw them off, to always remain present in a fight. The metal clangs echoed over the mountain and through the valley from where they were, their feet scuffed in the dirt and rock as they danced, and Frodo’s laughter at Sam’s disapproving mutterings skirted through the air.

Just as Pippin was catching a rhythm with Boromir, his hand was caught by Boromir’s blade, causing him to wince and drop his sword as Boromir desperately tried to apologize.

“Sorry! Sor—” As Boromir spoke, he earned a kick in the shin from Pippin as he held his maimed hand, causing him to yelp in pain. While he was thrown for the moment, Merry took the opportunity to strike his thigh and take him down to their level so that the two Hobbits could tackle him, piling on the giant man who lain in the dirt now. “For the Shire!” Merry shrieked as he laid atop him. “Hold him down, Merry!” Pippin pleaded with his partner as he struggled to pin Boromir’s shoulder down under his weight. Aragorn watched in amusement for a short time as the little ones attacked this mighty Steward of Gondor, taking him down exactly how he had just taught them, betrayed by his own pupils.

Boromir laughed as the two tried their best to hold him down, their tiny hands grasping at him, tickling his sides as they did so. He had a moment of familiarity as he was pinned there, lying and laughing, cheeks hurting from smiling. He felt as though he were back in Minas Tirith, playing with his children out in the courtyard. Arathalion proper tackling his legs as little Giluen tickled his ribs. The Hobbits' laughter was similar to that of his children’s, loud and boisterous, not a care in the world.

“Gentlemen, that's enough.” Aragorn came over now and attempted to break the trio up, but somehow became a part of the maul now as the Hobbits swiped his legs and he fell onto his back. Boromir and the two laughed as Aragorn grunted when he hit the ground with a loud thud, satisfied with their conquering of the men this morning.

Amidst the horseplay and tusseling, the mood became serious fairly quickly as the attention of everyone was now drawn to a dark mass in the sky closing in on them.

“It’s moving fast…against the wind…” Boromir observed, panting from his fight. “Crebain from Dunland!” Legolas exclaimed as the ghastly crows came into view. “Hide!” Aragorn shouted and moved quickly to cover, Boromir called for the Hobbits to follow him as they found a place to hide.

The Crebain shrieked and cawed as their razor-like wings flapped furiously above the company as they hid under rocks and in crevices and behind bushes. Boromir peered through the thin branches of the bush he found cover in and examined the flying beasts above. They were larger than the gulls that frequented Minas Tirith, their wings were jagged and almost like that of a bat. Their shrieks were horrendous to hear, piercing one's ears as they shrieked through the sky. He thought these would be the perfect beast for a children's fairytale, where a brave man fought off a flock single-handedly and came out of it unscathed. As he lay under the bush watching the flock pass, he created a story in his mind to tell his children when he returned, one where the hero slays a gaggle of Crebain.

The flying devils circled overhead once more and returned on their path away from the Fellowship, their caws fading in the distance as they went. When all was clear, the company left the safety of their hiding spots and brushed themselves off.

“Spies of Saruman. The passage south is being watched.” Gandalf glared off toward the flock of Crebain as they shrunk the further away they became. “We must take the Pass of Caradhras.”

The Fellowship turned to the mountains on the horizon. Boromir, taken back by their grandeur and beauty, stood with his mouth agape, panting once more from the adrenaline the Crebain inflicted upon him.

***

The Fellowship traversed over the snow covered mountain face, the wind cold and nipping at their exposed skin, burning their lips and eyes. 

“Frodo!” Aragorn’s voice echoed over the wind as the little Hobbit tumbled from the rest of the company, losing the reason for this quest somewhere in the snow.

Boromir followed behind his trail when the glint of gold caught his eye. He knelt down and took the chain between his fingers, suspending it in the air as if he clutched the tail of a mouse.

“Boromir…” Aragorn called out breathlessly, the altitude tiring him, as he watched his companion nervously. “‘Tis a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing…such a little thing…” Boromir spoke in a low tone, only loud enough for himself to truly hear over the blustering wind whipping around them.

His free hand mindlessly rose to the Ring, dangerously close to touching the golden hoop. His mind raced with visions of desire, of victory, of power. What this tiny thing promised him, he could only dream.

“Boromir!” Aragorn’s voice pulled him from the trance the Ring sent him into. “Give the Ring to Frodo.” He demanded impatiently, brows furrowed and eyes examining his every move. Boromir panted, the lack of oxygen from the mountain top beginning to take effect, and looked to the Hobbit stood before Aragorn, his eyes pleading with him to return the Ring to him.

He contemplated for a moment before acting on anything, what good could this Hobbit do with something so powerful? What better would it be in the hands of the little folk than in the possession of Men, who fight wars and conquer lands and rule people. Perhaps the Ring was right to call to Boromir, to tempt him so. The visions it planted in his mind were cause enough for him to take the Ring for himself. It would serve him well as the Steward of Gondor. He would command his people with unlimited power. What would this Hobbit do with it? Conjure more mushrooms and ale? Will the hoes and rakes to till the fields unmanned?

“Boromir!” The wizard’s voice boomed behind him, once more taking Boromir out of his mind and placing him back into his body. He smiled uncomfortably, laughing slightly as he approached Frodo, returning the ring, though hesitant, to his tiny hand. “As you wish, I care not.” He looked to Aragorn, hoping to see his caution ease as he returned the ring, but was alarmed to see his eyes staring straight through him, as if they were steel daggers piercing through his mind, and his worn hand firmly gripped the hilt of his sword now. Boromir averted his eyes and rustled the curly mop atop the Hobbit’s head, the way he would do to his son, and laughed nervously once more before turning to join the rest of the Fellowship.

As he inched closer to the group, he felt their eyes boring holes into his very being, staring with judgment and fear, weary looks were passed between the other Hobbits, trust for this man was dwindling now and Boromir was to blame, no one else. He tried to shake that biting voice calling to him in his head, drawing him to that thing on that silver chain, hanging off of that little Hobbit’s neck. The things it promised, the desire it stirred within Boromir, the temptation…

***

The Fellowship scaled the snowy peaks, the two men in the company carrying a Hobbit in each arm as they trudged along through the thick snow. Legolas seemed to float beside them, his light footsteps allowing him to remain above the frigid snow below, the surface never breaking beneath his Elven feet. He gained on the rest of the Fellowship and looked off into the distance, as if he were searching for something through the blistering winds.

“There is a fell voice in the air!” Legolas shouted through the noise of the air whipping around them. Boromir raised his head now, exposing his face to the freezing snow, and listened for this eerie low chanting echoing through the mountain valley. “It’s Saruman!” Gandalf turned and exclaimed to the rest of the company as rocks tumbled from the peak above, just barely missing them all.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain! Gandalf, we must turn back!” Aragorn yelled from the rear of the group and pleaded with the Wizard. “No!” Gandalf argued and went to the edge of the pass they trudged through, extending his arms to the valley and began countering the wicked tongue with the elegance of Sindarin.

Boromir recognized a few words Gandalf uttered to the mountains, having learned a bit of Sindarin as a young man, though he cursed himself for not paying closer mind to his lessons, he wished he could make out the whole of what the wizard was casting to the wind, his voice dueling with the disembodied one in the distance.

As soon as the battle between echoing voices was over, a bolt of lightning struck the tip of the mountain peak, causing an avalanche and covering the Fellowship in feet of snow. Boromir squeezed the two Hobbits close to him, Pippin whimpered as the man’s hold around his small waist squeezed the air out of him. 

After a few moments pass, one by one the Fellowship uncover themselves from beneath the layer of snow. Boromir dug both Merry and Pippin out from under the heavy snow, the two gasping for air once they were freed. He brushed off of their shivering shoulders and shook his head in distaste. They couldn’t keep going this route, this would be the end of all of them.

“We must get off the mountain! Make for the gap of Rohan, and take the West Road to my city!” Boromir shouted over the noise of the violent wind, practically demanding the wizard they change their path.

“No, no, no…” He heard a faint voice behind him and turned to face Aragorn, shaking his head now in disapproval. “The gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!” His voice carried through the air and reached Gandalf who looked stricken with grief and stress, unsure what to do next.

“If we cannot pass over a mountain, let us go under it. Let us go through the mines of Moria.” Gimli spoke up now, his billowing strong voice adding to the confusion of Gandalf, though the old man seemed none too keen on the idea of passing through the belly of the mountain. Boromir saw a look of despair wash over his weathered face. What did Gandalf fear that the rest did not yet know they too should fear?

After contemplating his answer, weighing the fate that awaits them with all the suggestions, the Wizard finally spoke. “Let the Ring bearer decide.” Defeated that Gandalf had not chosen his desired path, Boromir turned to Frodo, the Ring bearer of this quest, waiting to hear what he decided their fate shall be.

When moments passed and Boromir felt the Hobbits shivering beneath his cloak, he shouted one last plea to Gandalf to make a decision. “We cannot stay here! It will be the death of the Hobbits!”

“Frodo?” Gandalf urged him to make a decision, aware that the time they are wasting here now on this mountain face is only drawing the evil that lurks and hunts after them to draw nearer. The Fellowship turned now to look to Frodo for his choice, his cheeks were rosey and frost bitten, his nose was dripping and frozen, he shook where he stood next to Aragorn, mostly buried in the deep snow they walked through. He paused for a moment more before stuttering out an answer. “We will go through the mines.” Gandalf sighed to himself and nodded slowly, seemingly unpleased with the choice made by the Hobbit. “So be it.” His tone lowered, and he directed they all turn back and head for the Mines of Moria.

***

The Fellowship wound down the snowy face of the mountain, through the rocks as the snow melted the closer they came to the foot of the rock giant. They reached a lake by dark and Gandalf hurried to the rock face, smiling to himself as he examined the cold stone.

Boromir looked around cautiously, unease had begun to creep around him as he took in the dark undisturbed surface of the lake before them. This was no ocean or river delta he was used to retreating to during the many hot afternoons of his youth, the one he met his love at, the ones he and Sedryneth spent hours lulling about in, forgetting every worry they had in their young lives. This lake carried something in it, something dark and horrid.

“Ithilden,” the wise old man stroked at the rock face, tracing the carvings with his fingertips, “it mirrors only starlight and moonlight.” As if the wizard conjured it, the dark wisps of cloud and mist revealed the bright glowing moon behind. Boromir stared at the perfectly round orb in the sky for a moment before he heard Pippin gasp in front of him. He observed the carvings in the stone glowing an iridescent blue, so bright and cool it was nearly white. What sorcery… he thought to himself as he looked on in awe, savoring the moment so that he could give his children every single detail of this account when he returned to them.

“It reads, The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.” Gandalf pointed to each word in elegant Tengwar, some of which Boromir recognized but could not quite translate to perfection. If Faramir were here, he’d translate the whole of it. He thought of his brother practically pressing himself against the rock wall, beaming from ear to ear as he explained each and every slope of the graceful Elven script, translating it all the while and giving all interpretations in each dialect of Quenya and Sindarin. Faramir studied Elvish heavily as a young man, he claimed it was something to fill his days when training became uninteresting. Boromir, however, felt the opposite. He’d rather wrestle with his men than spend his afternoons in the study, reading over old scrolls and texts.

Gandalf pressed the head of his staff to the center star motif of the carvings and spoke Elvish, though it did not sound as eloquent as it is in his gruff worn tone. The company anticipated a passage to reveal itself when the old man finished, but stood in confusion when it did not. Gandalf scowled and tried once more, using a different phrase this time, raising his arms as he spoke, but alas, the rock face did not cave.

“Nothings happening.” Pippin spoke, stating the obvious, and Boromir felt the urge to flick the back of his curly head like he would with Faramir as young boys whenever he spoke out of turn. Gandalf turned to the Hobbit and grimaced once more before pressing his weight against the carvings, hoping to free the doorway from the ancient earthen crust that sealed it. “I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves, Men, and Orcs…” the wizard muttered to himself and tapped his foot impatiently against the rocks below.

“What are you going to do, then?” “Knock your head against these doors Peregrin Took. And if that does not shatter them, and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words.” Gandalf shouted at the Hobbit impatiently and Boromir couldn’t help but snicker to himself as he did, though he stifled it as he saw the small frame of Pippin slink downward as he dropped his shoulders in defeat. He placed a large hand on him after a moment had passed and gave him a reassuring grin when the little one met his gaze, alleviating his misery for just a second.

The company sat scattered along the dank shoreline of the swampy lake, taking advantage of the lull to rest their weary bones from the journey as Gandalf attempted to unearth the password for the Dwarven doors. Boromir held back a scoff of disappointment, a bit displeased with the absurdity of the situation. This wise old man who seemed to understand the inner workings of everything in Middle Earth was stumped, and the Fellowship must sit by and wait like sitting ducks until he manifested this sacred code to grant them entry.

He sat on a moist rock and stared into the endless night sky, the stars shining through the mist that rose from the lake, the chattering of the Hobbits the only thing ringing through the air around them.

To his right, Aragorn was comforting a distraught Samwise as he sent off the pony the lad had grown quite fond of. Bill is the lucky one here, Boromir thought to himself, the sense of unease having never left him as time passed. Part of him had wished he were accompanying that pony, creating a great distance between himself and whatever was waiting for them.

His thoughts were disturbed as he heard the surface of the water breaking beneath the weight of a tiny stone, Aragorn rushed over to Merry and Pippin and scolded them like a parent would, pulling them back by their shoulders.

“Do not disturb the water.” He spoke in a hushed tone, though loud enough for Boromir to hear his warning from where he sat. Boromir looked out to the black pool before them and noticed a swelling here, a ripple there. He rose slowly from his place beside Gimli and approached Aragorn, who seemed to have noticed the disturbance in the water as well.

The swelling manifested into a tide, one that raced toward the shore as the men and Hobbits stared frighteningly from. Just as it neared, the Doors of Durin crackled and a passage was revealed to Gandalf and Frodo, unaware of the evil that was brewing in the waters before them.

Boromir, eager to be away from the dark lake’s waters and whatever creature lurked beneath its surface, ushered the Hobbits toward the door with him, Aragorn following behind as they went through the door. The two men kept watch of their backs, turning every few steps to ensure the beast of the lake did not follow them through the passage.

***

The company entered into the pitch black of Moria, the light of the full moon illuminating only part of their path through the doors. “Soon, Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves.” Gimli’s gruff voice echoed through the endless abyss of night as he spoke. “Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone.” He spoke enthusiastically, his hairy cheeks plump and round as he smiled. Boromir could feel his mouth begin to water as he imagined the feast the Dwarf was describing.

Gandalf illuminated the end of his staff now, providing them with enough light to safely guide them through the mines. However, the path was not the only thing the light had revealed before the Fellowship.

“This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin, and they call it a mine. A mine!” Gimli continued gleefully, unaware of the scene surrounding them. Boromir looked in horror,

Dwarven bodies, now mummified and decayed, strewn all about. Scrawny carcasses of bat-like goblins and creatures of the night lay beside them. A gruesome battle had occurred some time ago, but why did Boromir sense that this battle was all but over?

“This is no mine. It is a tomb.” He spoke breathlessly, Gimli gasped as he realized the scene and muttered to himself before shouting. “No…NO!” His wavering voice echoed through the dark walls of Moria. Legolas pulled a jagged arrow from the socket of a Dwarven skull. “Goblins.” He announced to the Fellowship, Aragorn and Boromir unsheathed and readied their blades, poised to strike whatever beasts came from the shadows.

“We make for the Gap of Rohan.” Boromir, though ready to fight, attempted to speak reason with the rest of the company once more. “We should never have come here.”

”Now, get out of here. Get out!” He shouted and the Hobbits backed their way to the doors, afraid to turn completely and be attacked from behind.

Boromir looked forward, his eyes searching the blackness before him, straining to find what waited for them in the depths of the mines, when suddenly he heard a yelp from one of the Hobbits. “Frodo!” The three shout for their friend, Merry and Pippin yank with all of their might, trying to pull Frodo from the clutches of the slimy tentacle as Samwise called for Aragorn. “Strider!”

Boromir runs with Legolas and Aragorn to the Hobbits’ aid, shocked to see at least a dozen tendrils shooting from the murky waters, one dangling Frodo’s flailing body. Legolas shoots an arrow to the limbs of the creature as Aragorn and Boromir slice and swing their blades against the thick tentacles, their legs numb from both adrenaline and the cold water of the lake seeping through their trousers and drenching their bodies as they fight. Boromir thrust a final blow, freeing Frodo from an unfortunate fate and landed him in his arms.

“Into the mines!” Gandalf ordered and the Fellowship did not hesitate. They scrambled for the doors, Boromir carrying Frodo still. The beast attempted to squeeze its way through the stone doorway, reaching for its prey, its strong tendrils tearing down the rocks and trapping the Fellowship in.

Black. That was all that surrounded them. The only sound is the panting breath of the Hobbits.

“We now have but one choice.” Gandalf’s voice broke through the darkness, a bright light blinded them all for a moment as he ignited his staff once more. “We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard.” The wizard commanded as he walked with determination through the abyss. “There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

Aragorn shared a passing glance with Boromir, who held the rear of the company. The two men dripping wet from their tussle with the lake monster, chilled to the bone and still catching their breath from excitement.

”Quietly, now. It’s a four day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.” Gandalf’s voice, though but a whisper amongst the Fellowship, echoed slightly against the stone that encapsulated them.

***

For the first time in a long time, Boromir felt the chill of paranoia and fear trickle down his spine as they maneuvered through the never ending darkness of Moria. Every hair on his body pricked upward, warning him of following eyes hidden in the shadows. The mines were far too quiet for comfort, the air was stifling and thick, the smell of death and dank earth filled their noses.

His nerves tingle at his back, the sensation one feels when they are being followed, overcoming not only Boromir, but Aragorn as well. The Strider turned his body and looked behind him, wide eyes meeting Boromir’s. He nodded at his fellow man, as if to say they were at an understanding, both weary of what lurked in the darkness around them.

The Fellowship continued through the mines, winding and turning and climbing the ancient decrepit stairs, clinging to the rock faces, walking warily along the thin overhangs circling the endless drop to the mountain floor.

A spark catches the corner of Boromir’s watchful eyes, then another and once more. He thought for a moment that one of the Hobbits was striking a flint before him until he saw another spark much higher than the height of the little folk. He turned his gaze to the rock face and exhaled in awe. The stone glimmered against the fire light, like silver stars against a dark night sky.

Gandalf raised a weathered hand to the glittering veins that ran along the wall, tracing the silver bolt pattern with the pads of his fingers.

“The wealth of Moria was not in gold…or jewels…”

Gandalf raised his staff and illuminated the stone around them. The Hobbits gasped as the walls sparkled. “Mithril.” Gandalf stated, moving his staff to the gaping expanse below them, revealing the endlessness that awaited them if one should lose their footing.

Boromir looked on in awe. Never in all his years had he imagined he’d ever bear witness to such a sight. The glittering mithril reflected off of the metal surfaces of their gear. Gimli’s helmet held stars, Aragorn’s hilt glimmered, even Sam’s cast iron sizzled with light.

“Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him.” Gandalf’s aged voice echoed off of the walls of the neverending drop below them, his words doubling, then tripling before hitting the floor of the cave. “That was a kingly gift!” Gimli huffed out as he followed close behind, his armor clanging ever-so as he moved.

“Yes! I never told him, but it’s worth was greater than the value of the Shire...” The old wizard’s words trailed off.

Boromir lost himself in thought as they moved further over the thin stretch of rock. His mind spun thinking of the wealth this entire ore filled mountain could bring his city. He thought of a plan to discuss business with the dwarf after this endeavor was over, perhaps he could acquire a share of the mountain in exchange for something. That is, if they survived the trek through the mountain to see the light once more.

***

The Fellowship climbed the jagged stone steps, crumbling beneath their feet from age and neglect. Pippin lost his footing for a moment, causing the others to panic until he steadied himself.

They continued onward once they reached the top of the stairway and were greeted by three entrances; where they led to, no one knew.

“I have no memory of this place.” Gandalf muttered to himself, looking from door to door inquisitively, desperately trying to recall whatever memory he could of the path they must take.

The rest of the company paused while the wizard sat in contemplation, muttering to himself and puffing his pipe.

Boromir and Aragorn sat together in silence, the only sounds reverberating off of the cave walls were the distant mumbles of Gandalf and the whispered bickerings of the Hobbits. Boromir smiled to himself, the sound of Merry and Pippin reminding him of his children. He closed his eyes and listened to the echoing voices, transporting himself to his bed, laying with his wife as their children’s voices carried through the chambers of their home.

He stayed there, in his mind, savoring the warmth of his wife’s body pressed against his chest, the smoothness of her cheek against his lips as he peppered her with kisses. Their moment of bliss in the morning always short lived as the children barreled into the room, jumping onto the bed and wrestling their father as a chambermaid tried her best to chase them away, only to be waved off by Sedryneth.

“He’s remembered!” Pippin’s voice rang through the cave and woke Boromir from his daydream. He blinked repeatedly, trying to rid his eyes of the tears that seemed to form as he sat with the vision of his family.

[eodred]

Day 4: Teen Years, Captain of Gondor, Friend of Rohan

Prompt filled for: @boromir-week

I mixed up the days and accidentally posted my fic for Day 4 yesterday — here it is, in case you missed it!

But I also want to share some illustrations for my main Boromir/Rohan OC fanfic — I think they fit well with the prompt

(Well… maybe she doesn’t exactly look like a “Friend” of Rohan, haha —but trust me, he’s not complaining 😏)

The artwork was created by one of my readers, who goes by Konichiwaa on AO3: She doesn’t use Tumblr, but I got her permission to share.

And as a little bonus — here’s a drawing of my OC by the same artist! 😊

[annabthesolitarywriter]

BOROMIR WEEK 2025 - DAY 1

Prompt: Protector and Teacher

Title: A Fine Young Man

Rating:Teen and Up Audiences

CW: mature themes (talk of d*ath and similar topics, hence the Teen and Up Audiences rating. But I do not think it's excessive).

Characters: Boromir (obviously!) and Elbarad (OC; he is included in my Reunited Kingdom OC profiles).

All of my OC profiles and additional details concerning my AUs can be found on my Tumblr Masterlist, which also happens to be my pinned post.

Synopsis: Boromir and his Captain's young son engage in a deep, heartfelt conversation about insecurities, love and other matters.

**IT REFERENCES CHARACTERS AND EVENTS WHICH WILL TAKE PLACE IN MY MAIN WIP**

**Read at your own risk**

Beginning Notes: I will not be giving too much away as I think most of what needs to be said is explained within the context of the story.

This one-shot references characters and events which will take place in the rewrite of my—by now discontinued—WIP The Lady of Ithilien. While that story followed Tolkien's canon more closely, the rewrite is/will be, among other things, a Boromir Lives! AU.

In the rewrite (which is currently being planned and still does not have an official title), it is implied that Boromir survived Amon Hen as he shows up to Aragorn's coronation with rest of the Fellowship.

He is on that occasion created Lord of Osgiliath and it is also at the coronation that he meets his future wife Idhrildin, daughter of Idhrion, the Lord of Anórien. They are both OCs and, while I do not have a a faceclaim for her dad yet, I certainly do have one for Boromir's lovely wife. She is included in my Reunited Kingdom OC profiles and, before long, her dad will be as well.

Idhrildin is also related to Forlong the Fat of Lossarnach (in my AU, Forlong has a sister—another OC of mine, which will probably not appear in any of my writing unless I specifically write a one-shot about her) and Idhrildin is her daughter. So you could say that Boromir found himself an extremely well-connected wife, but that is most certainly not why he married her. Boromir married for love and Idhrildin also fell in love with him. She possibly had a crush on him before they even met. It is my headcanon that many women—both ladies and commoners alike—had their eye on the Captain of the White Tower. Who's surprised? I most certainly am not.

Based on my current headcanons (they constantly change and I have the bad habit of coming up with different and new ideas nearly every day), Boromir and Idhrildin marry in the year 3020 of the Third Age. Following his father-in-law's death and following the the birth of his first child (the two events occur in the span of just a few weeks), Boromir is officially created Prince of Anórien as a sign of gratitude for his long service in the defense of Gondor. He is essentially given a promotion and Idhrildin's status is also further elevated. She is her father's only heir so...I thought it appropriate. Also, the people of Anórien and Gondor probably asked for it. They demanded it.

Faramir is canonically created Prince of Ithilien and is Lord of Emyn Arnen and I think it's fair that Boromir also gets to call himself a prince and lord of a city that clearly matters a lot to him. Since he is a prince he also has his own personal guard; his own Company. Aragorn aka King Elessar has his Grey Company, Faramir has his White Company and Boromir's company is...the Silver Company. It's official symbol is, of course, a Silver Trumpet. I was sort of thinking of including the Broken Horn of Gondor as part of the heraldry, but since Boromir never died...it probably doesn't make much sense. I will have to think about it. As of now, the official symbol is the Silver Trumpet. I got the idea specifically from this scene from FOTR.

It's one of my favorite scenes from the first movie so...I think it's fitting.

Elbarad, the young boy featured in this story, is the teenage son of the Captain of the Silver Company and, as you will find out, he has his own demons and issues to deal with. My Gondor is...very problematic.

AO3 LINK

End notes: I hope you liked it! I hope it was a pleasant read and I can't wait to know your thoughts about it! Thank you for reading!

Original character faceclaims:

Callum Wharry (Tommen Baratheon in the first two seasons of the TV show Game of Thrones) as Elbarad.

All of Elbarad's faceclaims

This photoset, as well as many others, can be found in my Reunited Kingdom OC profiles (as mentioned in the beginning notes, check my Masterlist!)

Dominic Ricci (childhood), Callum Wharry (pre-teen and teenage years); Jonathan Keltz (late teenage years and adulthood)

That's all from me for today!

Thank you for reading!

Tags: @boromir-week, @lucifers-legions, @emmanuellececchi, @eodred, @saurongorthaur9, @fictionalmenjusthitdifferent and anyone else who may be interested in reading!

[If you want to be tagged, please let me know and I'll add you!]

[beautifultypewriter]

I’m not gonna lie… things are not good over here, but also… I have so many feelings about this and it’s the only thing that is keeping me going. Boromir was born to be a girl dad and while the poll I did was for a different story where he doesn’t get to be a dad, I had to write a universe where he actually got to raise his daughter. Also I’m going to use my oc, but only her name, there’s no description and I’m going to write in 3rd person. I have so many thoughts about this. Keep your eyes peeled for some new Gondor Girl content. And quick timeline Boromir and Limmeth get married about 2 years before he leaves for Rivendell and their baby is born a month before he leaves. Also warning: brief mention of labor/childbirth, but nothing detailed or graphic. It's over 2k words, so it's under the read more. @streets-in-paradise Lu, sorry to bother you, but I need you to see this.

Boromir as a dad:

Boromir is ecstatic when Limmeth tells him that she’s with child. Like he is so beyond happy… for about 2 minutes and then the worry starts to settle in his chest, he keeps smiling though as she’s smiling up at him because the last thing he wants to do is worry his sweet wife.

But he can’t help it. There is a WAR going on and Mordor is RIGHT THERE and he already has so much on his shoulders, worrying about his people, his city, his father and brother, Limmeth herself, and now this? Man is stressed.

And although he tries to hide it, Limmeth sees right through him. She puts her hands on his cheeks and gently kisses his lips, “This is a good thing. Everything will be fine.”

He repeats those words to himself nearly everyday for the duration of the pregnancy. It helps keep him grounded and it helps the happiness shine through. He’s able to focus more on the pregnancy and the fact that soon there will be a little baby, that hopefully looks just like Limmeth, in the world. And a little baby that looks like his sweet, perfect Limmeth will certainly bring light to the darkness that they often find themselves in during these times. 

Then the day arrives. Boromir is with Faramir and few other men, making plans and going over resources when a maid scurries into the room and whispers in the captain’s ear.

Boromir doesn’t think twice before rushing from the room, with zero explanation to anyone else by the way, and making his way to where his wife has started her labor. He beats the healer to the room, and he rushes in, quickly grabbing Limmeth’s hand and placing a kiss to her forehead. 

Hours and hours later, Limmeth is propped up by some pillows with their baby girl in her arms as Boromir sits next to her on the bed, his own arms wrapped around her. He’s blinking back tears as he stares down at his little girl. 

Unfortunately the peace is interrupted as Denethor enters the room, Faramir trailing behind him. The steward is smiling as he approaches the couple, but that smile quickly drops as Boromir introduces him to his granddaughter. 

Denethor glares at Limmeth, blaming her for this in his twisted mind, before he storms out. Limmeth is on the verge of tears and Boromir is seething. 

Fortunately, Faramir is still there, and he steps up and gushes about how beautiful the baby is and how lucky they are that she looks more like Limmeth than she does Boromir, which makes his brother roll his eyes and his sister by law laugh. 

Then he asks what his niece is to be called and Boromir and Limmeth look at each other for a moment. Because they never really discussed names and now they have to navigate hazy thoughts of what their daughter will be called for her entire life. They both get what they believe to be a brilliant idea at the same time. 

An argument breaks out over whose mother they should name her after. Limmeth wants to name her after Boromir’s mother and Boromir wants to name her after Limmeth’s mother. Both of them refuse to back down. Faramir is rubbing his temples as the little baby snoozes through the argument. Finally, he steps up and suggests that they choose a new name, one not related to either of them. 

The idea is considered for a moment before they ultimately agree and then they start to brainstorm. It’s hours before they land on Amathael (Glimmering Shield. Glimmering for Limmeth and Shield for Boromir). 

When Boromir holds his daughter for the first time, he cries. He tries so hard not to, but not even Gondor’s mightiest warrior can hold back tears as he looks down at what he is positive is the most beautiful baby to ever be born. Limmeth watches him with a smile on her face, tears brimming in her own eyes as Boromir gently traces a finger over Amathael’s cheek.

Unbeknownst to them they only get a month together before Boromir is traveling to Rivendell and Limmeth is left to wonder if she will ever see her husband again and whether or not Amathael will have a father. 

At some point between these two events, Denethor goes on a verbal rampage about how Boromir’s wife is useless as she did not provide Boromir with an heir and that they would have to have another child as quickly as possible to ensure that their bloodline continues, and Boromir loses it. He is able to remain pretty calm which is surprising as he sets his father straight. “You will not speak of my wife and daughter in such a manner. If I hear it again…” his jaw tightens and his fist clenches and he turns and walks away. 

He goes to his and Limmeth’s room to see her cradling Amathael and quietly singing the same Dol Amroth lullaby that his own mother sang to him and Faramir. All the tension leaves his body as he stands in the doorway and watches his whole world. 

Boromir dreads having to tell Limmeth that he’s going to Rivendell. He knows that it’s unfair to her and Amathael, but he really has no other choice in this. He tells himself that this could be the key to finally defeating Sauron and creating a better world for his daughter to grow up in, a thought he repeats to Limmeth as she cries in his arms later.

He makes Faramir promise to look after and protect Limmeth and Amathael while he’s gone and of course his brother agrees. He was going to take care of them without having made the promise. Boromir hates having to leave his girls at all, but he especially hates having to leave them with his father when the man still has not gotten over the fact that Amathael is not a son.

Amathael is only a month old when Boromir leaves for Rivendell. She’s still so tiny as he cradles her to his chest in the early morning light. He’s humming quietly, soaking in these last moments with his little girl. He doesn’t know if this will be the last time he sees her. Limmeth wakes and quietly makes her way over to the pair, resting her head against Boromir’s arm.

It’s nearly nine months later when Limmeth is reunited with her husband. Battle worn and full of grief, Boromir stumbles into the Tower of Ecthelion. He has already been given the news of his brother and father and all he wants is to see his wife and daughter.

His wish is answered when he steps into the throne room, followed closely by Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, and Éomer, to see Limmeth standing in the middle of the room, Amathael in her arms. Boromir doesn’t think twice before rushing forward and wrapping Limmeth in his arms.

Amathael fusses a little bit, not used to having Boromir around (something that breaks his heart a little bit, but he’ll never admit) and he is struck by how big she’s gotten. Limmeth has tears in her eyes as she hands the baby over to Boromir before tucking herself into his side, staying close to keep things peaceful.

Boromir holds Amathael close, his eyes closing as he gently rests his forehead against his baby girl. She soon stops fussing as she stares at Boromir with big eyes that mirror his own.

Because while Amathael is Limmeth’s twin in every other sense, her eyes are her father’s. Something that Limmeth absolutely adores.

So Boromir gets a very short amount of time with his family before he’s marching away again and although she tries to hold onto hope, Limmeth feels almost sure that he’s marching away from her for good.

BUT because I have made everything beautiful and wonderful, Limmeth’s fears are never realized and Boromir rushes into her arms once again. Amathael fusses less and even reaches towards Boromir’s face as the three of them are pressed close together. His heart soars and he takes her from her mother’s arms.

Aragorn is crowned King and Boromir is made steward. There is a lot of work to be done in the aftermath of Saron’s defeat, but Boromir always makes time for his family. He’s already lost so much time with them, and he doesn’t want to miss another second of Amathael growing up.

Family walks through the markets of the lower city. Boromir carries Amathael, smiling and tickling her as her laughter rings out. Limmeth smiles as she watches the two most important people in her life.

Boromir 100% throws Amathael up into the air and catches her and she shrieks with laughter. As she gets bigger, it gets harder, but all she needs to do is pout for a second and he’s lifting her and tossing her as high as he can.

He would do anything for her, like seriously, she has him wrapped around her finger. It delights Limmeth to no end. And Boromir is completely oblivious to it too. Like he does not even realize that he is being unintentionally played by this little baby.

Once Amathael starts walking, she is following Boromir everywhere he goes. Her absolute favorite place to follow him to is the small meeting room where Aragorn holds council. She stands in the doorway and watches her Da and her two uncles settle themselves at the table, nodding to the few other men who come in. Aragorn notices the little girl in the doorway first and he smiles as he waves her over. She runs in and Aragorn scoops her up and sets her in his lap. She laughs as Boromir looks over with a fake look of hurt on his face. Amathael doesn’t last long before she’s scrambling off of Aragorn’s lap and running over to Boromir.

She’s grinning as she climbs into his lap and pressing her face against his chest. Boromir wraps his arms around her and chuckles quietly. Faramir and Aragorn are laughing along with him. Amathael stays in Boromir’s lap as the meeting begins. She falls asleep rather quickly and Boromir cradles her as he half pays attention. Limmeth comes to retrieve Amathael and her husband reluctantly lets the little girl go. Limmeth presses a kiss to his temple before she carries Amathael out of the room.

Boromir starts to bring Amathael to the training yard with him and she very quickly becomes interested in learning about fighting. She loves watching Boromir, Faramir, and Éowyn train together and she wants to be part of it.

Limmeth will come watch them all and Amathael is constantly stopping to call out to her mother, telling her to “watch me!” and to “look at this!” Limmeth is only too happy to watch everything and cheer as Boromir lets Amathael disarm him.

Limmeth teaches Amathael how to ride horses and the three of them go on family rides together. Before Amathael was old enough to ride, she would sit with Boromir on his horse and continually challenge Limmeth to races. Limmeth would laugh as Boromir would groan and then she would take off, forcing her husband to kick his own horse into gear to catch up to her. Amathael would laugh loudly as they rode and a grin would stretch over Boromir’s face.

Amathael loves to run around with her cousins and Aragorn and Arwen’s children. Boromir loves to see her having fun with and playing with the other children. It reminds him of his own childhood and he’s glad that Amathael has friends to play with.

Boromir loves to dance with her at any kind of feast or celebration that they have. When she was really little, they did the whole standing on his feet while they dance thing and it was the most precious thing in the world.

Boromir loves and hates watching his little girl grow up. He’s so proud of her and the person she is becoming, but he wishes she could stay his little girl forever. Limmeth needs to constantly comfort this man about this. One thing that never changes about Amathael though is how much she loves her parents.

I see her future playing out in one of two ways… she becomes the first female Captain of Gondor or she marries Eldarion, Arwen and Aragorn’s son, and becomes the next Queen of Gondor. Or maybe both?

[medievaliana]

The Jewel of the Sun

Chapter III: To Trust Anew

Chapter summary: On a fine autumn day, Uirin is escaping from the panic of the nearing future and decides to give Bilbo a visit. However, it appears that he is not alone, and so she finally has a conversation with Frodo, silently fighting his suspicions and attempting to gain his liking. Tropes: slow-burn romance, mild enemies-to-lowers, mutual pining, ocxcanon, hurt/comfort. Word count: 3600 Tags: @ilovedainironfoot @ravenettesblog Link to AO3 Previous chapter | Next chapter

Preview:

“I have beheld them,” interrupted Uirin, her finger straightening the wrinkles of her dress. “I have beheld their presence before mine very eyes.”

“Have you?” Frodo replied, surprise changing the uneasiness from his tone, departing from the pain that burnt his chest.

“I have witnessed them hither and thither, in villages a while ago, as the Dark Lord regained his vanished might. Woe befalls all who witness them.”

The sun fought in a battle against the globular clouds that sought to conquer Rivendell for the winter. The growing darkness is also nearing closer and closer to the safe haven, and time is slipping away from the palms of the wisest beings.

Blinking rays of light cracked each time Uirin passed from one corridor to the next. Even though uncertainty rapidly devoured the realms of Middle-earth, yet for Uirin, days flowed with ease, further vexing the state of her mind. The roars of the waterfall strove to overcome her nerves, but to no avail. The anxiety of a mysterious task and Gandalf’s predictions of his own fortune were consuming her alive even while dreaming. Ever since, her head pulsed harsher, the pain swelling up during evenings, and with time—it became unbearable to the extent that she swallowed drops of valerian. Thankfully, it provided temporary comfort. Uirin disliked indulging into her fears and avoided agonising over her emotions, as she learnt with experience that it raised greater concerns within her. Panic was her deadliest enemy, and that enemy she fought ever since, sometimes hiding it deeply in the back of her mind, even if it damaged her spirit and body. Therefore, she kept herself occupied with the vast options of activities: studying her craft, learning about different techniques of healing, plants that were used for unique cases, praying, surrounding herself by nature, and at last—engaging in conversations.

That was the precise reason why she currently stood in front of Bilbo’s door. Uirin gently knocked on the solid wood, which sounded unlike any other door ever made—so pure, so calming, and gentle like the falling rain. Then she waited for an answer. It took only a couple of moments for the lock to click and the entrance to open fully. She bowed her head to the host with a sincere smile lighting up her face. “Greetings, my beloved friend, may I ask to join thine company?”

Immediately, once the short and old hobbit recognised Uirin’s face, his glare changed with joy. His hands clumsily adjusted the edges of his wine-red vest and gesticulated for her to enter the chamber. “My lady, what a pleasant surprise! Please, be my guest; come in, come in!”

Uirin did as asked. She headed into the room and, to her wonder, witnessed Frodo’s bright blue eyes piercing right through her, trying to find any malicious intents within her soul. Both of them did not anticipate encountering each other. His face seemed exhausted even if he slept more than required: the grief drawn in his face and the sorrow written in just his slouchy posture were more than apparent; dark circles painted his eye bags, and his outgrown dark curly hair blinded him, which, combined, made him look older than he truly was.

“Forgive mine intrusion. If needed, I may take my leave,” she expressed worry while looking directly at Frodo.

Bilbo came up to her side and neglected her fret, “Nonsense! We are more than glad to adopt your divine company. Do you agree, Frodo?”

Frodo remained silent for a couple of moments with slight suspicion and curiosity lingering in the depths of his gaze. Not long after, a small smile appeared on his face, and he shook his curly head. “Of course, if you wish to accompany us, then it would be a pleasure.”

Uirin sensed uncertainty in his tone but decided to stay, as she felt the need to dive deeper into her interest: to take a closer look at the One Ring’s bearer. She sat down on one of the three violet velvet armchairs that stood in the centre of the chamber, just in between the other two. Hand-sewn and detailed tablecloths covered an elegant so-called ‘coffee table,’ and a small fireplace flourished before them, carefully providing warmth for the temporary residents. There was a king-sized bed placed closer to the wall. The walls were painted in the shade of lavender yet plain, for only the rims of the ceiling were covered by simple symbols. The ceiling was high and arched, forming a circular view. Combining the elements of modesty—the chamber appeared less grand compared to the others, although to a hobbit it may appear large and perhaps impressive.

However, small details brought cosiness to the plain room, for example, Bilbo’s ink and pens carelessly thrown over the desk that stood beside the bed. Some precious items of previous journeys standing proudly above the fireplace. Even if these elements display the messiness of Bilbo’s nature, the chamber still looked quite neat and tidy to an outsider. There were portraits of his own making hanging on the lavender walls or standing on the desk, exhibiting the faces that faded into memory—as of relatives. One portrait caught Uirin’s eyes, as it depicted the stoic and rigid expression of a heroic dwarf that has been long forgotten by the face of the earth—Thorin Oakenshield. It seemed realistic, as if his austere glare would truly boil each perceiver at the very moment, and his silvery shining attire made him a mighty warrior. Although one could feel reverent fear while beholding the face of a long-lost king, there were signs of softness within: the gentle depth of his eyes, stern yet tender smirk, merciful wrinkles carved on his skin. His portrait, out of all, was constructed with delicate care and precise recall of memories, seemingly brushing each stroke with grief that was still existent to Bilbo.

“My lady, allow me to bring you something; would you perchance prefer tea?” he struck Uirin out of her thoughts with a question.

“I thank thee, yet I wish not to cause discomfort…” she replied, shaking her head slightly, as if coming back from the portrait to reality.

“Please, I wish to be at your service!” said Bilbo and then turned to Frodo. “Take care of our guest while I bring something for all of us… Maybe I will find treats along the way; just wait and behold!”

With that, the two remained in the comfort of the chamber.

They sat in complete silence, and only the crackling of the fireplace voiced the void. From Frodo’s mien, it seemed that he had no intention to start the conversation by any means possible, as he only focused on the tongues of fire. Worry lingered in his gaze—not even glancing at Uirin for a tiniest moment. Perhaps he did not care for the guest that sat beside him; perhaps fatigue wearied him. However, his apathy gave Uirin an opportunity to observe the hobbit freely, paying attention to every detail.

Her mind could not wrap around the thought that someone so small could stand against such grave danger. Frodo’s emotions that shone in his manners seemed too familiar for her existence: more than troubled, even if his journey had just begun. While dwelling in the depths of his eyes, she remembered her first mission, first patient, first spell, and the first burden that split her apart spiritually—that estranged feeling. Therefore, Uirin felt empathy for this small being, even if he was not as young as he may have appeared to be; to her it did not matter—pain and loneliness approach anyone who is willing to receive them.

"Is Rivendell treating you well?" she asked out of courtesy, finally breaking the cycle of solitude.

“Very,” he replied with lips forcing a simper, though his being concentrated on the blaze.

“Is it to your liking?”

“Without a doubt.”

Uirin had a tough time thinking of what to add to the conversation—it seemed to dry her throat. “And how are you feeling after the fare?”

“Rested.”

Silence.

“Gandalf hath toldeth me that our foes injured you. Are your wounds healing properly?”

“Yes, thank you for your concern.”

Uneasiness settling in once again.

“Pardon my intrusion; do you wish for me to abandon this chamber?”

“No.”

“Is mine presence vexing you?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you not mistaken?”

“Why does it matter?” Frodo’s eyes finally turned towards her, highlighting no signs of irritation, but rather something else—something tenuous, something difficult to understand.

“If sooth, I am delighted,” said Uirin, holding her face by her palm, “prithee, do tell, how hath it cometh to pass that a Halfling possesseth the endeavour of carrying the One Ring to Rivendell?”

“I do recall your distrust in the council, and, frankly, I see no reason to remind me of it,” he remarked, his brows furrowed, and wrinkles deepened in response.

 “I have no intent to offend you. I only desire to revoke remembrance of the days of yore,” a smile plastered on her face as she dwelled in the memory lane. “I recall a sojourn when I first beheld the Halflings. At that time, I rode to Shire in search of Gandalf, and faith whisperedeth to mine being that triumph may be within the reach of a hand. However, a few Halflings that appeared right in front of my horse, pleading for my aid so dearly, interrupted mine designs. I obliged to assist them as I may, and hastened into the woods. They chattered about a wounded friend and pondered if fate hath it whether he was still there. It appeareth that they played with bows and arrows and were successful in shooting their friend in the leg! Bleeding and incapability to stand tore him, and if a soul proceeded to move his body, then do harken to bloody screams piercing through Shire… Therefore, I ordered him to bite down into a piece of gauze; using herbs, magic, and other equipment, I performed minimal surgery and fortuitously healed his leg wholly. Silly faces of those Halflings engraved in mine memories, as joy overtook them. As we returned to Shire, they treated me with their fine goods,” Uirin chuckled, as all of it seemed so vivid and real. “The feast of enormous victuals was too vast to inhale. I suppose it was their genuine and yet exaggerated culture of thanking mine service. Oh, there were songs, and they danced around me, celebrating the succour of the treatment. And so, I acknowledged wherefore Gandalf holdeth deep affection for your folk, and I do know the traits of your kind. Therefore, curiosity captivated me at the thought of a Halfling bearing such a grave duty.”

 “Well, I suppose we do not resemble warriors or those that portray the characteristics of brave men,” sighed Frodo, his eyes glued on the empty table before them. It seemed that Uirin’s tale lit up his mood even so slightly and managed to open a crack into his heart. “I must believe that Gandalf put this task upon me for a reason, as he, himself, could not do it and trusted me well enough to endure this hardship. I wished to help him as I could, and so I did… And I will continue doing so.”

“He sorely hath no intent to grasp the might of such a perilous material, withal this notion I do agree”, said Uirin. “Yet I still find it peculiar that out of all, you were chosen for the endeavour.”

“I wish I could tell you why I was chosen by fate to carry that ring. I, myself, question it. Mayhap my future would have been different if I truly understood the obstacles that await me.”

“Regardless of the reason, you are immune to the One Ring’s treason, are you not?”

“I suppose so, yet I have felt the weight of its power. I doubt it not,” Frodo muttered underneath his breath.

“How come? What do you seek to profess?” Uirin inhaled deeper as he spoke and leaned closer to his side, hoping to hear him clearer.

“I…” stuttered Frodo, his shield taken down—causing him anxiety. He opened his mouth to speak further, but he could not, or perhaps—wished not to.

Uirin noted his conflicted expression, allowing her back to rest on the surface of the armchair once again. She was mute while examining his shifted demeanour, not wanting to push his boundaries, even if curiosity compelled her to. Their eyes interfered while the flames of the furnace danced on their dilated pupils. Their stares radiated hostility and engrossment, and both did not intend to let each other go from sight. With the passing time, the stillness of the air became unbearable—agitation, like dust, suffocating the two different beings, as one wished to elicit and the other to stay reserved.

“All I wanted to express is that the Ring is more powerful than I could have ever imagined. That is all,” finished Frodo after a long pause, so slowly, almost whispering these words.

“Verily,” agreed Uirin, and continued observing his face. “Yet a testy matter intrigues me.”

His eyes squinted at the question. “And what may that be?”

“You have witnessed the Nazgûl, have you not?”

Frodo’s mouth gaped subtly, the words struggling to move out of his throat, as her question instantaneously bashed him. He frowned lightly, and gloom took over him. The echoes of the past awoke in his chest, and the wound near his heart burnt, reminding him of the Dark Riders.

“Why do you wish to learn about them?”

“For a need to obtain privy of our adversaries. Prithee, do forgive mine insolence, but I ask of you to dwell into turmoil not for my own possession—rather for exigence.”

He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the pain that steadily rose. “I would prefer to not recover my recollection, if I may…”

“I have beheld them,” interrupted Uirin, her finger straightening the wrinkles of her dress. “I have beheld their presence before mine very eyes.”

“Have you?” Frodo replied, surprise changing the uneasiness from his tone, departing from the pain that burnt his chest.

She nodded in response, her gaze not leaving him even for a short bit.

“How come?” asked Frodo.

“I have witnessed them hither and thither, in villages a while ago, as the Dark Lord regained his vanished might. Woe befalls all who witness them,” she spoke and straightened her neck. “Though I perceive that woe might not have dispatched you, at the very least.”

“Woe? I cannot agree with your words,” Frodo whispered, shaking his curls and lowering his gaze to his knees. His finger grazed the bandages that hid under a loose shirt, and a hiss escaped his lips. “Misery approaches all that are the targets of the Dark Riders…”

“Forsooth, I have experienced it,” Uirin disturbed the thought, her pupils following his fingers, “those who endured their wrath suffered heavy wounds, and challenging it was for my abilities to mend them! Anon they shall ride forth into the lands of Middle-earth, yet at this present moment in deep meditation they are regaining strength. Their newly wrought resolve is to cast aside tragedy upon all, and I fear that we shall not be prepared for the assail. The Nazgûl, they… They sense, they feel, and they hearken to the tidings of our allies by the remaining servants of the Dark Lord, and their smite might be the last blow at a fatal scenario. Therefore, I desire to learn of their deeds, learn of their strikes, and learn of their might as it is. For I fear them. I fear their malice may grow even more wretched, and arduous it will be to aid the suffering! Beholding the consequences of their assaults in the villages grieves me, and with a heavy heart, I must await the forthcoming assailments on innocent and defenceless folk. However, perchance mine request is too foolish; for that, I must take no heed.”

“I am afraid that this knowledge will not provide relief to your worry, and not even I could tell you as much as you wish to know,” replied Frodo with a hint of sympathy in his voice. Listening to her concern made him delve into the softness of her being and realise that perhaps everyone was troubled in their own ways.

“I believe the truth you speak of,” Uirin lowered her gaze with these words, and suddenly she gasped with a subtle spark in her eyes. “Ah, there is a remedy I would gladly offer you, as I do know your wound was given by the Nazgûl themselves.”

“How can I trust your words?” Frodo queried while examining her manner intensely. Although the tender moment of mutual sympathy softened his heart, the strings of it still held onto fear, as she was but a stranger to him.

She exhaled silently, but a comforting smile drew the corners of her lips upward as she understood his concern. “I may be foreign, yet I advise you to counsel withal Gandalf, and of my worth he shall proveth. Trust me not, however, Gandalf—you must trust. No harm do I hanker to gift, and no harm shall I give.”

Frodo stared at her bluntly for a couple of moments, scaling her words with care. Finally, he opened his mouth, with more confidence, as a secret desire to heal from the dread captured his thoughts. “Then what do you seek to deliver?”

“The essence of Kalanchoe pinnata. Once in contact with the damaged flesh, they hasten the healing of grievous wounds that perchance have mended for a long period or that are infected, overwhelmed by pus. They purge ulcers from the surrounding tissues that are necrotic—in other utterances, dead. This wondrous herb doth miracles and cometh in handy once I had the honour to tend to those afflicted by the wrath of the Nazgûl. Would you wish to trial mine remedy? If you are not fond of mine words, then counsel withal Lord Elrond, for he…”

“If your practice proves its worth, then it would be wise to test the wonder,” Frodo replied, finally a subtle smile appearing on his face.

“I am more than glad to prepare it for you. I shall bring it to you at the e’en.”

A short pause.

“My lady…” Frodo murmured.

“Speak,” urged Uirin.

“Why did you not offer yourself to carry the Ring?”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

Abruptly the door opened, and from the shadows emerged Bilbo and a new visitor—a round and joyous blond hobbit named Samwise—both holding the awaited treats.

“Forgive us for the delay!” laughed Bilbo while crossing the threshold.

Once they placed the plates of goods on the ‘coffee table,’ Sam turned to Uirin with amazement that was truly difficult to conceal. His brows lifted so high that it looked like they could touch the top of his head. He took her hand and shook it eagerly.

“Bilbo told me about you, Uirin— Oh, I mean, milady, when we were preparing the tea and—! I mean, I also heard of what you told everyone in the council, well, even if I wasn’t allowed to be there… I’m speechless, so sorry; my mind is racing with all of the possibilities of what I could do and how to show my respect! I’m honoured to finally shake your hand and to talk to someone as powerful, as brave, as unique, as—! Um… As you, yes, yes! That’s what I wanted to say! You—you… As much as Bilbo told me of some stories, you are great! Great as in big—not as in big, but as in… How to say… Ah, words, where are they when I need them the most! Oh, Samwise, you twat!” he chattered so quickly that it was hard to catch his words in time. He slapped his own forehead out of shame and gulped the saliva. “So sorry, what I wanted to say is…”

"It is a delight to greet you as well, Sam; weary yourself not over your utterances, for I do comprehend your intent. Such a lovely lad you are. Your praise causeth embarrassment, as I believe not to be as great as you claim that I am," Uirin laughed in response, trying to pull her hand out of Sam's tight grip.

Finally, after all settled down, the joy of the brought company arose in the chamber. Bilbo told stories of yore, and they were followed by Sam’s exclamations, gasps, and sighs; Uirin’s nods and microexpressions; and Frodo’s glances. They exchanged roles with each other, telling of one narrative, then another, but Frodo remained distant—immersed in his own world, only affording to listen but to speak—he could not. Perhaps the conversation with Uirin gave birth to new thoughts in his head, or perhaps chattering did not appeal to his demeanour. The tongues of flames also danced along the words of the guests, burning brighter at the unexpected turns of the tales and calming down as the tension faded away. Plates were emptying, losing their goods to the greed of the company. For long hours, their converses continued into the chilly evening; the sky was as dark as the void, and the grace of the night hid underneath the gloomy clouds.

Sadly, Uirin had to depart from the warmth that the hobbits provided and walk into the dusk, as the evening’s prayer to her almighty Lord awaited at that very hour (and the duty to prepare her new patient a remedy). And Sam shook her hand aggressively once again, repeating the same phrases (yet with less fluster than before); and Bilbo kissed the backs of her hands, thanking for her presence; and Frodo bid her a farewell, only carefully waving his hand. Worry wandered in his heart: whether it was worth to keep his suspicions high or to believe the kindness that shone in the eyes of Uirin.