#*|* city of gondor's king *|* :: minas tirith | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oxbellows · 5 months

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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thewulf · 8 months

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The Ranger Called Strider || Aragorn

Summary: Request - OK so this idea is for Aragorn. Basically he is king at this point and feels like it is time to find a queen(we are gonna ignore Arwen in this instance, we love her butttttt). So he does what his like advisors are saying for hosting a ball(kinda like Cinderella).... Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh I am falling in love with writing him! Love my human King. I just know he had the biggest heart. I am LOVING all these LOTR requests, please keep them coming, I'll sprinkle them in with my older requests I was working through. It's bringing the joy of writing back for me :) Thanks for he request as always @loving-and-dreaming !

Pairing: Aragorn x Reader

Word Count: 6,900 +

TW: self-doubt, Aragorn being hot af

“None of these women will do.” Aragorn muttered to his advisor standing next to him, “I’m going on a walk. Cover for me?” He asked as if he wasn’t the King of Gondor and could do whatever he pleased.

“Aye my King.” He bowed in reverence letting the King slip out behind him. Quickly, he changed into his old Ranger uniform wanting to take to the city streets. It was easier to go out not looking like the King. Less questions were always asked. He had walked further than he normally did before he took to rest outside a small shop far away from the city center. He had a lot on his mind thinking he would never find his Queen. It was not that they were all bad choices he just could not seem to connect with a single woman. He had met hundreds tonight and felt nothing but despair. He needed air and to step away.

“Excuse me sir.” You walked over to the man who was sitting on the bench with a distant stare. When he blinked back to the present looking over to your approaching figure you continued, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” It was not often you found people you had never seen before on the streets late at night. Especially the night of the grand ball the King was throwing.

He shook his head quickly, putting down the hood of his cloak so you wouldn’t see him as a threat, “Pardon me. I was simply lost in thought.” He stood from the bench. You bit back a gulp as he stood much larger than you. You got a good look at him as the moonlight hit his features. Your sudden courage to chat with the stranger had suddenly vanished as you took in the handsome man. He was intimidating. Incredibly handsome but terribly intimidating, “I am well, thank you miss.” He bowed his head gently.

You looked at him skeptically not sure if you truly believed his words. He may have been fine, but he also looked distressed. So, you did what you did best and offered the little help you might be able to manage, “Are you hungry? I have some leftover bread I can spare. And a place to rest if you need it…”

He put his hand up, but you noticed his gaze soften at your kindness, “There is no need. I am but a close walk home.”

But something told you to press on even being as intimidating as he looked, “What if I insist on the bread? You look like you could use it.”

“Very well. Then I simply could not refuse.” He held his hand out letting you lead the way back.

You led him back to you small, shared home in a comfortable silence. You weren’t far from home, but you hadn’t a clue what to talk to the stranger about. You usually weren’t one to get so tongue tied but he had you second guessing any question you might have thought of asking.

“May I ask you a question miss?” The man stopped as you walked him back toward your home at the outer edge of Minas Tirith.

You turned back to him, “Humor me.” Nodding at him you waited for him to ask whatever had been plaguing his mind.

“Why are you not at the ball? All fair maidens were invited, no?” He asked all to curious as to why you hadn’t made it a priority to attend like he assumed everybody in the city would. It wasn’t often the castle opened its doors to everyone. It amused his interests to think there were people who simply did not care. He was assured by his advisors that anyone of interest would be there tonight. Yet here you stood.

You gave him a bashful grin taken aback by the brazen compliment you so rarely received, “You are correct sir.”

“Strider.” He corrected you quickly.

You bowed, to respect his wishes, at him ever so slightly and continued, “You are correct Strider. I would have loved to have gone. However so be it my dear mother is not having the best bought of health at the moment. I need to make sure she is well enough until the morning. That is the earliest the healer can get here.”

He frowned, were his people having to wait for help? Why had he not been advised of this? He took a step closer towards you, “Forgive me miss. But you are having to wait for a healer?”

You sighed nodding your head, “Usually it’s not so long. I believe they had prior arrangements tonight. A ball or something like that.” A ghost of a smile graced your lips, “It’s all right. There are many far fairer of maidens available for the King anyway.” You gave him a sad smile as you finished out the excuse, “I am nothing but a lowly peasant girl. I have no place there.”

He shook his head quickly, “Do not say that. For I know for a fact that is not true.” His smile nearly took all of your breath away. He was so very handsome, strikingly so. You had never seen this Strider man in your parts of the city before. You were sure you would have recognized his face had you seen him before.

Your eyes softened in the slightest at the compliment, “It is all right. My mother is far more important to me than a night of folly.” You grinned before continuing, “No matter how fun it was bound to be. I am positive my friends are having a wonderful time in my absence. One of them seems to be convinced she can woo the King.” You giggled recalling the nonsensical conversation amongst friends earlier that day. She had looked rather striking before she made the trek to the center of the city to get to the Kings Castle. If any of them could capture his attention it was sure to be her.

He shook his head finding your rambling adorable, “I do not believe that to be possible miss.” He watched as your eyes studied him in confusion.

“And why’s that?” You looked him over curiously. He seemed to bd adorned in ripped and tattered Ranger clothing which was nonsensical clean appearance. His hair was a little tangled sure, but his skin looked as clean as could be. You imagined how striking the Strider man would be cleaned up and in more proper clothing.

“I have reason to believe he left the ball early.”

Your eyebrows rose studying his face for any hint of a lie, “How do you know that Strider? Are you the Kings personal Ranger?”

“Keen eyes.” He smirked for the first time in while enjoying the back and forth that had been going on between the two of you, “I am something of that sort.” The chuckle that escaped his throat escaped you. You left it at that as you continued walking back to the home you’d grown to love as you got older. It was precious to even own a plot of land let alone a home in Minis Tirith. You were thankful your father had secured it for you and your mother before he passed in the war.

“You are a Ranger then?” You asked as you neared your home.

He nodded contemplating his next words as the two of you continued walking, “I was. May I ask you another question miss?” Elusively he answered your question but diverted before you could dig in any further.

You smiled appreciating his caution. He very much wasn’t from this part of Minis Tirith being thoughtful. You were used to very brash men who hardly ever considered your feelings for you were seen to be beneath them, “You may Strider. Ever the curious one?”

He shrugged innocently, “Why would you offer a stranger your food and a place to stay? With an ailing mother?”

You opened your mouth to speak but paused as you thought about it, “I wish that if I were in the same position I would be afforded the same fate.”

He nodded while considering your answer, “That is a noble answer.”

“Or the truth.” You hummed stopping by a door, “This is it. Mother is upstairs so she will not be a bother. Bread and spread are on the counter. You may have as much as you like.”

“Will you keep me company for a moment? A know you must check on her but I have quite enjoyed this conversation miss.” He asked once the two of you occupied your family’s small living space.

“If you wish.”

His answer was quick, “I do.” You watched as he cut the bread and put the jam on top. He walked over to the table you had been sitting out and sat next to you. He didn’t try to talk with you, just sitting and eating in silence.

Not being able to take the silence you had to ask him what had been burning on your mind, “I have not seen you around here Strider. I am at the market every day. Where are you from?”

You had given him a hint, “Aye. Do you work there?”

“I asked you first.” You crossed your hands over your chest as you studied him this time. He was even more handsome with his cloak off and hair pushed behind his ears.

“Will you answer my question if I answer yours?” He quipped back not backing down. He had to come and find you again. He was having far too much of a grand time chatting with you. Sure, he thought it a bit immoral to not reveal his true identity for you clearly had no idea who he actually was. But that meant risk to the ease of conversation you may have felt with him. He quite enjoyed the easy bickering he had managed to find with you.

“You are quite stubborn Strider.” Your smile gave way to your answer though, “Yes, I will answer your question.”

“I reside near the north side of the city.” He answered giving you a soft smile, “I did not wish to attend the ball and thought it would be time to observe this side of the city.”

You believed him for why would he lie? “You are far from home Mister Strider. I have not even been to the north end. I thought you said you were a quick walk away?” You sighed knowing he was waiting for your answer now and wasn’t going to entertain your question, “I sell my uncles crops at the market. You get to know people when you are there every day.”

“That is no job for a lady.” You swore you saw his nose flare a little. He almost seemed, angry? Surely not at you but the situation?

“It is a good thing I am no lady then, is it not Strider?” A smirk toyed at your lips knowing you had him beat there. You weren’t a lady. Ladies resided in grandeur houses and had promised marriages. Ladies had class and couth that you could only dream of. Ladies got to paint and read instead of selling crops to other peasants. Ladies had promise, you did not.

Ignoring your question with a warned look on his face he asked you, “What is your name then?” He asked to distract himself. He was angry that you had to work every day to make ends meet. He wished he had a way to help people of his city. Help you. He was the King, there had to be a way.

You tutted turning your head to him, “You did not ask permission to ask me a question.”

A small flush rose to his cheeks, “Forgive me miss…” He trailed off with a small smile rising in place of the blush. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he needed to know your name. He was planning on finding you again. And hopefully many more times.

“Y/N.” You obliged the handsome stranger.

“Miss Y/N.” He gave you a head bow, “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

The second time you ran into Strider was at the market a few days later. He strolled up near closing time with a hood wrapped tightly around his head, “How much do you have left miss Y/N?”

Your eyes snapped up in recognition of the voice that belonged to the strikingly handsome man, “Too much, uncle is going to be disappointed we did not get more today.” You admitted in a sigh of defeat.

“I’ll take the rest then.” He put down a gold piece as if it were the simplest thing to come by.

You pushed it back into his hand, “Mister Strider I cannot accept this. It is far too much.”

He smiled seeing your kindness seep right through you yet again. Any other mortal would have taken the money without so much as a second thought, “I insist. Consider it a thank you for the other night as well.” He pushed it back into your hand making sure you were holding onto it before letting go once more.

“Strider, this is too much even for that.” You bit your lip trying to figure out what to do as he was clearly not going to take the gold piece back.

“Nonsense. Not for this fine spread. Give your uncle my well wishes.” He smiled collecting the rest of the produce you had yet to sell for the day. You had to wonder what he was going to with a random assortment of in season vegetables.

“Thank you. Did you come all the way down here for this?” You handed him the rest of what was left on your table before packing up for the night.

He shook his head, “I was hoping to see you as well. I quite enjoyed our conversation the other night and was hoping you could spare some more of your precious time?”

You flashed him a quick smile as you gathered the rest of your personal belongings, “I enjoyed it too. Your much wiser than the men down this way.”

And that was how it went for the next few weeks. Strider would come and find you at the market on a random weekday, sometimes every day, making sure to buy whatever you had left. Somedays he left you with a gold piece, sometimes a bronze knowing you wouldn’t keep taking from him.

He had admitted to himself he had grown quickly attached to the pretty naïve girl with a big heart. It did not take long for his like to turn to love as you teased him relentlessly. You treated him as Strider and not King Aragorn. He loved how you always managed to catch him on his toes and make him laugh harder than even his best of friends had managed too. You had managed to hook your finger around him and pull him in without you even realizing it.

Before you knew it he was coming around almost every night. The routine was simple. He would find you at the market not fifteen minutes before it closed. He would purchase the remaining bits of produce no matter how much. He would then walk you home making sure his meleth was as safe as could possibly be. He shuddered at the thought of someone hurting you on your walk home as he sat in the castle. He would have none of that.

He usually never came inside, not wanting to intrude. But one evening it had begun to rain harder than even he had anticipated so he came inside at your pleading. You really did not want Strider to catch a cold because he didn’t want to intrude. He would never be intruding. You had grown to love the man just as much as he had grown to love you. Neither of you were great at speaking it out loud but you were sure it was being conveyed through your eyes every time you saw him. He made you feel things you were sure you were going to miss out on.

You cursed when you saw your mother sitting down at the table reading a book you had recommended she pick up. You really just wanted to keep Strider your little thing separate from your actual life. You had told your mother about him but never actually wanted the two of them to meet. For some reason

“Mother, I’ve invited Strider inside. It is pouring too heavily for his journey home.” You spoke blocking her view of the man behind you.

She smiled and nodded looking back down at her book, “That is quite aright dear. We have plenty of stew to spare. Are you hungry mister Strider?” She asked this time setting the book down and actually looking for him behind you.

Your mothers eyes went wide as Strider stepped out from beside you. It never dawned on you she had never seen the man called Strider you had grown very fond of over the few instances the two of you had spent time together.

“Are you alright mother?” You asked walking over to her. She was staring right at your new stranger turned friend that you hoped would blossom into something more. You never wanted to assume but you had to think he enjoyed you if he had come around so often.

She ignored you and stood from the table in a rush, “My King.” She bowed before pushing the chair into the table.

“Mother, are you well?” You placed a hand over the back of her forehead, “The healer said you were better.”

“I am well child. You did not tell me your friend is The King of Gondor.” She had a more than irritated expression as she stared at you, bewildered. You just stared back with the same bemused expression. Had she gone mad? Strider could not be the King of Gondor. No.

You shook your head quickly before turning back to Strider, “I am so sorry Strider… I do not know what has come over her.”

He put his hand up to have you pause like he had the night he met you, “Your mother is not wrong.” He said with so much passiveness in his voice you weren’t sure if you heard him correctly. He looked at you like he had lost a battle as a look of utter confusion flashed across your features.

“King?” You sputtered out as you stood straighter and turned to him trying your hardest to blink back your surprise of this newfound revelation.

“Aragorn will suffice.” He looked terribly nervous, just as bad as you felt. You had been so casually conversing with the King of Gondor prior to knowing of his elevated status. Had acted like the peasant you really were. He must have found something charming in it as he kept coming back. The King was visiting you in his limited time? Your head suddenly felt like it was going to explode with all of the questions you had.

Your mother spoke up a little horrified by your mistake, “I apologize for my daughter. She meant no harm for her mistake King Aragorn.” She bowed her head once more and you followed suit. Heat rushed to your cheeks in embarrassment. How had you been so blind?

“There is no need to apologize. It is I who kept this information from her.” He spoke directly to your mother letting her know it was not your fault in the slightest. He did not want you to come under the ire of your mother when he left for the night thought he knew at some level you would get a scolding from her. He watched as you kept your head down in shame. Not having the will to look the King in the eye at the moment.

Instead of speaking to you he walked up with purpose to where you were standing. What he was most afraid of was playing out in front of him. You could not even look him in the eye. He had no idea what was going through your mind, but he knew it was certainly a lot. You were an overthinker just as he was. Maybe that was why he found such solace in you.

It had only been a few weeks since you ran into him on the bench that fateful night. The night he had all but given up on love. Arwen had chosen the immortal life instead of staying with him and Eowyn was engaged to be wed to Faramir. Nobody had intrigued him like those two until he met you. A kind heart who was willing to give more than you had made him fall for you faster than he had wanted. He craved to spend time with you. To get things off his chest. To feel your warmth and comfort you so effortlessly provided for him. Only a few of his advisors had known of your existence. He wanted to keep you his little secret for as long as he could. He knew that time was ending now that you knew of his true identity.

He placed a gentle hand under your chin forcing your eyes back up to his, “You do not bow before me. You need not even call me Aragorn. Call me Strider. I am still just the Ranger called Strider. Please.” His voice wavered at the end forcing your eyes to his. He was being genuine?

“But my King…” Your eyes frantically searched his face now. How could you have been so daft? You had been to the coronation not even that long ago. You were sure you would never forget a face like his. It was funny how his tattered clothes and messy hair disguised him so well. No wonder he never wanted to stroll around in the daylight hours though. Surely, somebody would have recognized him then.

“Please Y/N?” He hardly used your name as it came out in a pleading whisper. You were sure your mother was as confused as ever. How had her daughter run into the King of all people. And why was he looking at her like that?

“As you wish Strider.” It was quick but you gave him your word. It still stung a bit though. How long was he planning to keep it a secret from you? Was he planning to disappear one day on you?

“Take a walk with me?” He asked wanting to get away from your mothers prying eyes.

For the first time you thought you should reject his request. You needed a moment to get your thoughts together, “I do not think that is a good idea Strider.”

His eyes stitched together in confusion, “No?”

“I need the night to myself.” You whispered almost afraid he’d be mad by your request.

A quick nod came from him as he stepped back giving you the space you needed, “Aye. Can I come see you tomorrow?” He hopped he wasn’t pushing his luck with you. Your expression of distrust wasn’t lost on him. His intentions were never to deceive you he had just grown to adore being treated like a human again. You weren’t caught up in the politics of it all. You had become his breath of fresh air that he needed more and more of.

“That will be fine my King.” It slipped before you could stop it. But he corrected you, nevertheless.

“Strider. I will see you tomorrow. Good evening ma’am. You have a lovely daughter.” He spoke to her before ducking out of the front door and vanishing off into the dark night. You frowned seeing the rain still pouring down. You had pushed him out before he even got the chance to prepare for the storm.

“You are upset with me.” He spoke as he caught your vacant expression. It was becoming a common site to see Strider sitting at your table after a long day at work. His days were much longer than yours you were sure of that now. Being the King and all.

You shook your head, “I am not upset... just embarrassed. I feel like a fool.” You spoke freely not being able to hide your true emotions from him. He just seemed to have a way of getting you to spill all your feelings without seeming to have to try. You still seemed to trust him although he had lied to you for the last few weeks. But then, could you blame him? There had to be a reason he kept coming back for more. He had to have enjoyed it for a King wouldn’t waste his time on somebody so trivial.

“Why?” He asked with a genuine look of confusion mixed with concern coming through his eyes.

A sigh escaped your lips as you took to the chair next to him. You had forced your mother out of the house and promised to tell her everything later. You needed this moment with Strider to sort it all out, “I have not treated you as I should a King.”

He shook his head before grabbing at your hand. He had never been so forward with affection before, but he needed you to hear him. Hear the words as the truth that they were, “I did not want you to treat me as one. All else in my life treats me as one and it is tiresome. You remind me so much of the life I miss, the one filled with adventure before this happened. My life is nothing, but politics and I grow very tired of it. Fear not though, I do enjoy what I do. I just find you so very captivating my lady.”

“I am no lady.” You ignored the rest of his statement as you didn’t want to talk about your feelings with him so deeply. This is what you were great at, avoiding. Cutting and running when things got just a little difficult. You should have known Strider wouldn’t let you go so easily though.

“Am I not the King? Can I not give you such a title?” He pressed pushing his luck beyond what he should have.

You shook your head looking down, another flush of embarrassment running its course through your body, “Forgive me.”

Once more he place his hand under your chin bringing it up forcing you to look at him once more, “I am simply messing with you mell nin.” He smirked using a nickname he failed to tell you the meaning of once more. It wasn’t fair that he knew Sindarin and used it against you so often.

You bit your lip more than feeling warm by the intimate interaction between the two of you. What the hell did this all even mean? Why had he taken to you of all people? You were a peasant girl from the southernmost edge of the city. You meant nothing.

“I do not know how to act around you Strider.” You admitted out loud for the first time. You were terribly insecure. You didn’t find it easy to have a conversation with a normal person let alone the King of Gondor.

He frowned but continued to hold your hand in his, “Treat me as you had before. As the Ranger of the North, you got to know.”

“It is not that simple though and you know that.” You sighed looking away from him.

He waited a second before you turned back to him before continuing the conversation, “What plague’s your mind then?” He began giving your hand a squeeze. It was easy to melt into his touch as he was so gentle with it. He noticed the shiver and chills that ran up your arm. A positive sign if he knew of one.

Might as well get it out. He’d figure it out eventually, “Why me? I do not understand why you choose to spend time with me of all people.” It sounded so much more insecure as you said it out loud rather than let it bounce around in your head.

“I fear I am not good with words. That is why we are where we are.” He frowned but continued to hold your hand in his, “I have not expressed how much I adore spending time with you. You said it yourself. I go out of my way to come to you because you make me feel like myself. You made me feel like the person I once was. Being a King is very tiring, believe it or not. But being with you gives me back something I’ve been missing dearly, a little bit of life.” He smiled to you with those tired eyes you had grown to adore.

“I believe you.” You smiled right back at him. It wasn’t lost on you that was the most he’d spoken of his admiration of you. He was not lying when he said he was a man of few words.

He looked a little more than relieved when you gave him the smile that had been absent for a day too long. You didn’t seem as upset with him. So, he decided to do what he did the best with you, push his luck a little, “Do you believe me when I say I meant no malice keeping the truth from you? I truly just enjoyed talking and getting to know you for you with no pressure of the crown looming.”

“I believe you Strider.”

He looked skeptical, “But?” Seeing the words fall short on your lips had his heart pounding in his chest.

You chewed at your lip, “I just do not understand why you chose me. There are many more beautiful women in the kingdom. I have nothing to offer you and that frightens me a bit. I do not know why you would stay. Why you keep coming back.”

“That is simply not true my lady. I wish you could see yourself as I see you. A beauty of a woman with the kindest heart. You offer me the world plus so much more. I would be honored to have you in my life. To have you by my side.” He spoke with confidence.

Your breath caught in your throat at the bluntness of his statement to you, “What are you saying?” You hadn’t a clue what he was insinuating. A pair like the two of you could never work. You were raised as an outsider not a royal. You could never be the asset he needed on the other side of the throne.

“I wish to court you, my lady.” He spoke with that same confidence he had

“Court me?” You asked making sure you had heard him correctly.

He nodded his head fervently, “If you will have me that is.”

“Me? Are you insane Strider?” You asked him once more making sure because it did not feel like he was being serious.

“Yes you mell nin.” He was patient as he watched you retreat into your head to think on his words. You had not outright rejected him, which was a very good sign, especially for you.

Your next question took him by surprise, “What would the people think?” You let your insecurities eat at you once more as the question slipped out. You were not meant to be a Queen. There was no way people would accept you of all people.

He shrugged, “It is easy to be critical. They will not know you first, but they will come to love you just as I have. How could they not? You will make an incredible Queen.”

Your mouth gaped at his complimentary nature that seemed to have come out of nowhere. Sure, he was always kind before, but this was over the top for him. You were enjoying it more than you should have been though.

“Do you think I could do it?”

He nodded earnestly, “I would never ask if I knew you could Meleth nîn.”

Your eyes looked over his seeing he was telling the whole truth, “Are you going to tell me what that means?”

“My love.” He smiled as he watched you take in his words. The blush that rose on your cheeks was a sight to be seen. You blinked rapidly at the confession thinking he would hold it back from you like he had so often before. But this was him, Strider, confessing it all to you. Maybe he really did want you, the lowly peasant girl from the outskirts of his Kingdom.

“And Mell nin?” He was being awfully forthcoming, so you kept the questions going dying to know what he had been calling you since early on in your meetings.

He grabbed at your hand like he so often did before, “My dear.”

“Really?” Your lips came together pondering his admittance, “Did you not call me that only on our second meeting?” You did not want to believe it but when he gave you a slow nod you felt your heart pick up at his confession.

“I did meleth nîn.”

Your eyes could not hide their surprise as he freely admitted his feelings so openly towards you. So often it was like pulling his teeth out to try and get an answer to your questions. It had become clearer after learning he was the King that he had hidden so much from you.

“So soon?”

He moved his chair closer to yours. Gently, he placed a hand to the side of your face relishing in the heat your cheeks gave off at his touch. He adored the way you physically reacted to his touch. He knew what he felt was reciprocated even if you could not seem to believe him. He’d spend the next year convincing you if that was what it would take. He had made his decision and he was going to get what he wanted, if that was what you wanted of course.

“You made it easy to decide. I have not met another woman like you…” His voice trailed off as his eyes roamed your face. First they met your own gaze, and they softened as if felt like he peered right into your soul, asking for permission to peel the layers of you back. For you too had been less than forthcoming about your very own life. Then his eyes trailed down to your lips where he so desperately wanted to meet them with his own. But he knew he must wait. Wait until you say yes, and he can take you out of a proper afternoon stroll around the city center. He knew he wanted to do anything and everything to make you his, to have your heart yearn for his as much as he did for yours.

“You flatter me Strider.” You whisper as your own eyes trail down to his lips. You wondered what he tasted like. Did his lips taste as good as he smelled? How many women had he kissed? Were you one in a long line or truly one of a kind? You cursed your insecurities for being so loud at a time like this.

“I fear I may not enough.” He countered, “Will you let me court you my lady?”

After looking him over for longer than he would have liked you answered him quietly, “I would be honored my King.” You bowed your head once more.

He would have none of that though. He stood, pulling you up with him, “I told you my lady, none of that. I am to be your husband. Your equal. My Queen.” He spoke slowly making sure you heard every word.

“But that is not…” You protested before he stopped you.

He placed a hand over your mouth. A habit he was becoming accustomed to when you began to overthink, “Not in my Kingdom. Not with you as my Queen.” He shushed you by running a gentle thumb over your lips. He let out a longing sigh, “Truly, you are the most wonderful woman I have gotten to know in quite a long time my lady. You are doing me the honor by accepting.” He pulled your hand to his lips as he gently kissed the back of it leaving you utterly breathless as you wanted to melt into him. His charm was truly like no other man you had come across. Not that your experience was nearly as expansive as his seemed to be.

“I shall pick you up tomorrow mid-day. I will take you out in the gardens of my home. I will see to it that you will quite like it.” He had told you of the beautiful gardens he had maintained at his mother’s dying request. He promised should he ever inherit the throne once more he would restore the gardens of Minis Tirith. And that he did.

Your eyes went wide before they suddenly went downcast, “But my uncles crops. There is nobody who can sell them with my mother being back to work.” Your shoulders deflated in realization of you having to turn down his invitation.

“The castle will buy it up. For the rest of his days too. We will see to it. There will be no need to go back to that dreadful market.” He grabbed at both of your hands hoping it would calm your qualms, “I will even move your family closer to the castle if it will make it easier for you meleth nîn.”

“You would do that?” It was not that you didn’t believe him, but it surprised you more that he would offer so easily. Of course, you knew there were perks of being the King of a thriving Kingdom, but it seemed so outlandish at the offer.

“Meleth nîn you have to understand that I would do anything for you.” He breathed. It became so quiet you could only hear the steady beating of his heart and the gentle breaths that followed.

Your eyes finally found his and that smile he had been searching for finally came to. He was so realized at the sight he almost missed your words, “All right. I will see you tomorrow.” And at that he too could feel his heart quicken. You had accepted. He was rather unsure of if you would say yes. You were a headstrong woman, a trait he had admired greatly about you.

His hands found your face once more. You could feel your heart quicken yet again at his more than gentle touch, “I wish to kiss you my lady.”

“You may.” It spilled out of your mouth before you could attempt to stop it for it was no lie. You wanted him to kiss you.

He chuckled. Instead of kissing you he just traced your lips with his index finger, “That would be improper my lady. I wish to do this the right way with you.” He leaned down whispering in your ear reveling in the way you shivered underneath his breath.

“Did you not say it was your Kingdom? Your rules?” You used his own words against him wanting to get your way. But you knew Aragorn was stronger than a few suggestive words.

He let out a longer laugh this time, “Please my lady. I wish to treat you as the Queen you are bound to be. Do not tempt me for I can only say no a few times.”

“A shame.” You giggled feeling suddenly confident under his lust filled gaze. He had wanted you for some unknown reason, but you were tired of questioning it. You were going to accept it full heartedly.

He stifled a groan before taking a quick step back knowing he needed to keep himself in control and touching you was making it that much harder, “You have no idea what those words do to me, my lady.” His gaze darkened a touch before he blinked it away having to keep himself in control around you. He had plenty of time to lose himself later on.

“I feel as though I do your Majesty.” You pressed taking a step closer to him. He placed his hands on your shoulders keep you at bay by a length

“You will be the death of me my lady.” He gave your shoulders a squeeze, “I will come calling for you midday. By tomorrow eve the Kingdom should know my intentions.”

“The whole Kingdom?” You felt your heart begin to speed up at the thought. Your life was going to change whether for the better. Your family would never have to work again. Your mom could finally take some time off. You would become a Queen in due time.

“The whole of it.”

Your face paled in realization. You wanted to be courted by him of course. He was lovely and everything you had wanted. But this was never planned. Never a thought. How were you to prepare? How were you to handle it all?

“I will be with you every step of the way. Do not be afraid Meleth nîn.” With more of a comforting hold than one of fierce desire he wrapped you in his arms for a gentle hug. One to reassure your fears. One to calm your qualms.

“I love you, Aragorn.” Your eyes filled with unshed tears as every emotion came rushing out. How lucky were you to have found such a man?

He smiled softly while brushing away the stray tears that managed to spill over, “I’ll always just be the Ranger called Strider for you. I love you my dear. Fear not for we have a long life to live yet.”

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tobylix-blog · 2 months

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Gratitude - Aragorn x f!Reader

Content & Warnings: platonic, fluff(ish) Word count: 3.6k Summary: Aragorn returns to become a king and pay back for the kindness of a merchant's daughter, whom he has met during his past visit to Minas Tirith.

You open the store once again. The city is wrecked. The siege was barely three days ago. But the market is the first place to come back to life. As long as it's loud and busy the city lives. Your storage is filled. By some miracle no fire or stone has touched your street. You fix the door open and hang out a long piece of cloth - a sign that the store is working. You turn back to tidy up the shelves behind the counter when someone steps in. Judging by the sound of voices several people come in at once.

"A minute, gentlemen, I'm almost with you," you say over the shoulder, not quite looking at them yet.

The voices are quiet, and for a moment all is silent in the store. Then a loud thud comes. You turn to see a whole bag of coins on the counter as a rich, melodious voice sounds from among the men.

"My friends will need the finest clothes for the coronation and so will you, miss".

Your eyes slowly rise from the counter to the man speaking. His familiarity strikes as a low blow. His appearance changed drastically and yet hardly noticeably. He stands proud and is wearing fine clothing with the White tree of Gondor on it, but the gaze of his gray eyes is as piercing as before.

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The street is busy with people. Morning rush in the market doesn't fade until noon when the sun gets just too high. Through dozens of conversations unfolding between merchants and customers bargaining over the goods, old friends who suddenly met in the middle of chaos and servants figuring out how to get it over with sooner, you hear a distinct male voice saying. "Get lost, outlander! Northerners are out of their mind if they think I will sell them even a piece of shit! Damn rangers."

You recognize the voice. The trader from the armory a few doors down the street. As threatening as he appears, he isn't usually that hostile to customers. From your point of view, two steps above the ground you can only see the dark hair of the man he scolds. Man is saying something back but his voice you can't quite hear. Instead a loud response comes from the inside of the armory.

"Put your silver up your thin arse! Get away from my store before I put a hammer through your head," this time it's the smith himself. You shiver a bit hearing his rough voice.

Stranger only stays in front of the armorer's shop for a moment before moving on. You finally see him fully when he appears from the crowd. Tall and dark-haired he doesn't seem all that different from men of Gondor. His clothes give away the fact that he is indeed a Ranger. You hear more sneers following him from the other side of the street where old men sell leather. Their tannery is actually a few streets down from here, but they still keep a display in the busiest part of the market. Unpleasant fellows. They even got in a quarrel with your father a few times trying to steal his customers. Probably that's why you take a step down from the door and call out to the stranger. There's no other explanation at all.

"Ranger! Come look at our fabrics. Best broadcloth in all Minas Tirith! Vast selection and best prices for you."

The Ranger stops, looks around for a moment, and seeing the wares through the open door makes his way down to look over them. He looks at the materials laid out on the counter over, fingers them, and seems intrigued by the selection. He reaches out to examine a particularly colorful one.

"You have a very good selection here. Are these local, or imported? They look very fine."

You may be only 13 years old, but you know the goods well. "These wools are gondorian. Look at the quality here. There are none like this anywhere in Arnor. I also suggest these linen fabrics delivered from Linhir," you say imitating your father's manner of speech.

The Ranger smiles faintly at seeing you so assured in your speech and so young. He looks over the wools and linens.

"Linhir, eh? Impressive that you get such high quality goods from so far away." He looks back at you with visible curiosity. "Are you the shop owner's daughter?"

"I am," you confirm and after a little pause pull a length of dyed linen from underneath the counter. "This one is rarely to anyone's liking but you seem to be fitting the description of 'not anyone', if I'm not mistaken. Take it. There's enough for a good shirt."

The Ranger smiles more broadly this time, and picks up the length of linen. He examines it thoroughly, and nods slowly.

"You've got a sharp eye, to guess that I'm someone who doesn't blend in, lass," he says with a touch of humor in his voice. "And this is definitely worth the coin. How much are you asking for it?"

You name the price. He rummages his pockets for a moment before cold coins drop heavy in your palm. "There's more than needed. I'll be right back…" you say and rush into the house. For a minute only some shuffling is heard. Then you return to the counter.

"Here," you tell the Ranger. "Change and well… everything."

You pass him a coin of change and a small bundle. The Ranger pockets the change, and then takes a look inside the wrap. After a moment, he smiles faintly again.

"Is it common practice for you to throw in a meal with your sales?" he asks, amused.

You feel blush creeping up your face. "If the tavern owners are half as hospitable as the blacksmiths are, you will need it."

The Ranger laughs at that, and his smile remains afterwards. "You've an excellent point, lass. The hospitality of tavern owners seems to be in constant decline. And I'm not sure about the blacksmiths either."

It's clear in his voice that he's jesting, though he is obviously remembering his earlier confrontation with the blacksmith. You watch him put on the hood of his cloak as he walks away blending in with the crowd. You don't remember much from the rest of that day, except for occasional sidelong glance from the leather men. No wonder you don't. It's been over eight years since then.

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Many thoughts arise at once, clouding your mind like a swarm. Yet they all are silenced by one phrase, that a dwarf says. "What is the meaning of this, Aragorn?" He says something else about how it's not the king's duty to walk from stall to stall, choosing fabrics, but it doesn't matter.

You slowly slide off the stool you were standing on, by some wonder landing on your feet and not gashing your knees against the wooden floor. The words are pounding in your head. Yes, that's right. People surrounding him are.. not exactly people. An elf, a dwarf and two hobbits. Just as the rumor has it. The king has friends of other races and folks.

Your body is stiff when you muster a bow to him. This tall man, Ranger you once met, turned out to be the last living heir to the throne. Some absolutely mad joke of fate that might be.

"It's an honor to see you here, my king. Though I must apologize for the disorder and lack of manner," you manage to utter finally.

He smiles faintly at your bow. "It's good to see you again, lass," he says, raising a hand to forestall any further apologies. "And there's no need to apologize. Your manner is fine, especially given the circumstances."

He leans forward a bit, eyes still sparkling with the faintest hint of mischief. "You seemed surprised just now when you saw me. As if you've seen a ghost walk into your shop."

"It isn't everyday that a faintly familiar ranger pays a visit… and happens to become a king, your majesty," you say. Your eyes dart from one of his companions to another until you settle with the image. From there on your steps are fast and words are even faster as you fall into the usual pattern of work. It helps to set all worries aside.

"Midnight blue and ink black broadcloth for Gimli, son of Gloin," you arrange the fabrics on top of the counter before the dwarf. "Goes well along with both gold and silver."

"Bright wools and soft satins for brave hobbits," you speak pulling out lengths of colored textile and showcasing them to Merry and Pippin.

"Silver silk brought all the way from Lorien for honorable Legolas of Mirkwood," you suggest, unsure yet if smuggled wares could meet the request of an elf.

"Linen from Linhir and hemp from Dale for your majesty," you offer a multitude of colors to the future king.

Aragorn's eyebrows rise in mild surprise at the speed with which you handle the various requests. You clearly know your craft, and well. You pick out the colors and patterns with ease. He runs his hands over the soft fabric of the broadcloth you picked out for Gimli. After a moment, he nods slowly.

"Excellent choice for my friend," he says, glancing at the dwarf. Gimli grins back and nods in agreement.

"It's an honor to meet your expectations, my king," you bow slightly under Aragorn's somewhat disapproving gaze.

You watch as the others look through the selected fabrics and nod in agreement, choosing the best fitting ones. Aragorn himself looks rather delighted by the wares. He picks out a length of hemp cloth, turns it over in his hands a few times, examining the weave and texture, and finally gives a satisfied sigh.

"I'm still a Ranger at heart," he says, glancing up at you. "My taste in clothes runs toward the simple and practical. This hemp is just the thing."

He sets the hemp down on the counter and smiles back at you. "I do wonder, though… which one will you choose for yourself?"

Your heart skips a bit at the question. "For myself?" The words leave your mouth before you get a chance to think them through.

Aragorn smiles at your surprised expression. "Of course," he says. "I doubt I need to tell you that the coronation will be a grand event. There will be people, nobles especially, with all the fashion sense and more coin than sense. You will be the only one in something plain and unadorned if you stay away from the occasion."

He looks down at your clothes. You're well-dressed for a trader, a clear sign that the store's profits stay high despite any turmoil, but it's clear that your dress is ordinary, suitable for an ordinary day. "You deserve something better than that."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, your majesty…" you mutter. "I might be able to watch the coronation from among the crowd, or standing on the parapet if the luck is good. But my dress makes no difference in that luck."

Aragorn lets out a small huff and shakes his head. "No, lass. You have seen me before, and you weren't among those sneering and showering me with cheap mockery. As far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to a seat of honor at the ceremony. And I'm not letting you take that seat while you've still got your old clothes on."

You look at him in disbelief. This idea seems absolutely mad. You have probably lost your mind during the siege, and now you're imagining the whole thing. That the King, Aragorn, would be in your store personally inviting you as a guest to his coronation and willing to pay for your dress because of some decade old encounter. You shake your head and blink a few times trying to get back to reality. And yet he is still here. The same smirk on his lips as he leans on the counter.

Aragorn's smirk grows a bit wider when he sees your reaction. "Don't doubt your eyes, lass," a hint of humor is present in his voice. "I am standing here. And I am inviting you."

He looks you up and down, taking in your current clothes and appearance. "And if you don't pick something suitable, I'll do it myself, and you won't like it."

At that you only shake your head yet again and turn around facing the many shelves behind the counter. You know the wares like the back of your hand and don't waste much time picking out the more delicate linens and a length of silk from southern Gondor in light blue hues. Aragorn only looks them over once and gives a nod of approval.

"An excellent choice," he says, looking up at you with a smile. "You have an eye for color."

You nod slightly, unable to speak anymore. It all seems so impossible and unreal. Aragorn pays for everything he and his friend choose as well as for the lengths for your own dress; he also leaves behind enough to pay any seamstress in the city for the gown. It's only a few minutes before you're left behind. Alone and bewildered by the meeting.

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In the next couple of days you pay a visit to a seamstress that once had sewn your mother's wedding dress. She takes the order readily and in the next morning a boy brings back a bundle with the finished gown. It's light and flowing like water in the river. You wait patiently until the day of coronation to finally put it on.

The dress seems to be enchanted somehow. You don't feel like a merchant's daughter walking through the crowd at court, being accompanied by a guard. You don't feel alien standing in the front rows among noble ladies and just a few steps away from lady Eowyn — niece to the late king of Rohan — and lord Faramir — son of the last steward of Gondor. You feel as if this could be some other life prepared for you by fate. And still you can't quite place why the king would step out of his way and do something of that sort for you.

Throughout the whole ceremony you can't tear your eyes away from his silhouette. You recognize the familiar color and texture of fabric, hugging his neck from beneath the armor. You watch him walk regally and at the same time very openly among the guests. Many are his friends. The ceremony ends with his grateful bow to the hobbits as the whole court follows his example. And with that begins the feast.

The great hall of the palace is decorated and festive. The long tables are filled with food and drinks. People flood the hall, taking their places. You watch the whole Fellowship find themselves close to the king. And your own place is somehow not that far away as well. Just among the members of the few remaining noble families of Gondor, blending you in with them.

As the feast progresses more wine bottles are opened. So far you managed to avoid the many cups of wine being offered by neighbors at the table, but it was getting noticeably harder. Some surely mistook you for a daughter of some less well-known, but clearly wealthy family, that would make for a good bride for one of their many sons. Before the direct confrontation becomes unavoidable you get away from the table and into a side gallery. Unsure as to where you should be going, you escape onto a balcony. It's empty and the scenery is beautiful. Fresh air is soothing against the heated skin.

You lean onto the parapet of the balcony, taking this chance to immerse in peace of the early night. Judging by the music, the dancing must have started, and that sounds like another perfect way to excuse yourself from the table later. But before you even decide to head back, you hear the sound of the balcony door slightly creaking at being opened and slow footsteps approaching.

You turn around and recognize Aragorn, who must have found a great time to sneak out of the spotlight relatively unnoticed. Back in the hall he looked nothing like the Ranger you once met, but here in the faint moonlight and subtle orange hues casted from the windows you can spot more similarities than before.

"Good evening, your majesty," you greet him politely with an appropriate bow.

Aragorn smiles faintly at your bow. He steps forward and leans on the parapet next to you. After a moment, he speaks, his voice more casual than it was earlier.

"You know, you don't need to call me by my title. Especially not while we're alone like this."

The suggestion catches you off guard. "I don't quite understand what should I call you then… or why that would even be possible," you confess your doubts.

He looks over at you and raises his eyebrows. "Why would it be possible to call me by my given name? Because I'm allowing it. For the time being, at least."

Aragorn turns to you completely so that he's leaning against the parapet, with one arm resting on it. The simple action bringing color to your face as you get to see him fully. "You met me before I was king. As far as I'm concerned, that means you still have the right to call me something other than 'your majesty' when we are alone, like this."

"There're many people in this city and beyond its walls who have met you before, Aragorn," his name feels almost alien on your tongue. "But I doubt that they all receive the same… treatment."

The king lets out a small huff and smiles faintly. "No, I suppose not. I doubt I'd be able to recognize any of them, for starters. You, however, were more memorable…"

He gives you a brief once-over. "You were more memorable," he repeats, his gaze fixed on you for a moment before he looks away and back out at the city. "It could be a mere coincidence, but I trust my fate and its signs. My visit to Minas Tirith eight years ago was the last one. It was the time when I attempted to make the final decision of whether to follow the path of an heir or give up. The way I was greeted with dozens of insults and many more curses in the streets of the White city was the sign that I assumed to be an advice against pursuing my right for the throne. You showed up before my eyes right when I was ready to give up. So young and eager, so welcoming and confident. I couldn't tear my eyes away from you. You seemed as the very essence of the new Era. You singlehandedly charged something within me with this new will to fight for such future."

You stand there too stunned to say a single word, your mind racing with thoughts. You would never expect to hear something of the kind. The way you acted during that first encounter was a surprise to you as well, as if… well, as if fate pushed you to be more hospitable and welcoming to this stranger.

The more you keep thinking about his words the brighter the scarlet tone on your cheeks turns. You try to get rid of the definitely wrong ideas you got, but they just keep reappearing in your troubled mind.

Aragorn glances over at you and takes notice of the shade of red creeping over your cheeks. He can't help but give a small chuckle. "And now you're blushing again. I wonder why?"

He reaches forward and carefully takes your chin, his hand tilting your face up towards him slightly. "What could possibly be going through that mind of yours, I wonder…"

Your eyes dart to his with righteous indignation. "You know what!" you exclaim rather impolitely, but continue in a much calmer, quieter manner. "How could you be speaking of fate so easily…"

Aragorn lifts an eyebrow in amusement as your voice rises then falls off again. His grip loosens a little, his fingers now resting on your cheek, still turning your face to look up at him.

"You don't like the concept of fate?" he asks, with a faint smile. "You don't think the right people can meet at the right time?"

"No, that's not what I meant. However, you sound so sure of the way you interpret those signs of fate. As humans we are only able to follow the path prepared for us, not knowing what lays ahead, aren't we?" you say trying to explain your mind's confusion. "But you seem to understand more, and that seems impossible to me. Especially, when," you pause for a moment searching for the right words. "When I somehow get involved in your fate."

He looks at your expression, studying your eyes and face, his fingers still touching your skin as he speaks.

"You are involved in my fate," Aragorn says, his voice low and serious. "You have been for a long time, whether you knew it or not. But I knew it. Not long after we first met. I knew there was a greater purpose to that encounter, even if you did not. And I made sure to be grateful for your timely appearance. Though I must admit there might be more than just gratefulness…"

He removes his hand from your face and makes a few steps towards the door back into the hall before turning around and facing you once more. "Dancing will continue for another hour, but it would be a shame if the king doesn't dance even once because a beautiful lady decided to spend her whole night on a balcony, right?"

Your gaze glides over his hopeful gray eyes and faint smile until it finally lands on his outstretched hand.

#aragorn x reader #lotr #lotr x reader #aragorn #oneshot

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sotwk · 7 months

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Taken (Eomer x unnamed OC) - Part 3 of 3

Part 1 / Part 2

Summary: After having his proposals and professions rejected by the woman he loves, Éomer still refuses to be dissuaded. He vows to continue fighting for a future with her--even if that means having to let go for the time being.

Word count: 6.7k

Dedicated to anyone who has ever known the pain of loving someone you could not have. <3

Content: Boromir lives (!), angsty romance, declarations of love, jealousy, mutual pining, class division, shield-maiden, Éomer King, Rohirrim OCs, post-RotK, non-canon pairing

Rating: T (Teens and up)

Warnings: Sensuality gets steamy, but nothing explicit. Mentions of old battle injuries.

To Read on AO3: Link

Taken

PART THREE

Third Age 3019 May 6

Minas Tirith, Gondor

“If you would allow me to propose something your Grace, I--”

“Éomer.” The King of Rohan growled the ungentle correction with an irritated shake of his head. “If I have leave from your king to continue calling him Elessar, then I will not abide frivolous formalities from you…Captain. And speak freely! It is your candor that I came here for, as much as your counsel."

Boromir chuckled faintly. “Very well.” He downed the last of the wine in his goblet before picking up the jug to refill it, then reaching across the table to serve his guest as well.

While Éomer took a hearty swig, Boromir used the extra seconds of silence to weigh his next words. The noble horse-lord had done most of the talking since his arrival at the house not an hour ago, rambling on with barely contained agitation that would have frightened or offended anyone unfamiliar with his character. But Boromir had known Théodred’s cousin since he was a child, and while he was not nearly as close to Éomer as he had been with the late Prince of Rohan, their friendship had deepened enough--especially over the past few months--to familiarize Boromir with the trigger points of his temper.

And Boromir had never before seen him more sensitive about a topic than the matter they had at hand.

Love certainly wields such terrible power over a man, the Captain-General of Gondor mused, before clearing his throat.

“I will gladly fulfill your request of watching over her in your absence, making sure she is well-treated and wants for nothing,” he began. “But a soldier can quickly grow restless without sufficient martial exercise.”

“I agree.” Éomer leaned forward to fold his arms across the table. “Has she not been here long enough for your men to grow accustomed to seeing her at the training grounds? None of them need spar against her or even alongside her if they do not wish to. She would be content to practice drills on her own. In fact, she may even prefer it.”

“My men will tolerate her presence just fine. The valor she showed on Pelennor was well-witnessed, and stories of it have circulated around our garrison,” Boromir said. “I admit she may inevitably overhear crass remarks from some passing boor among the citizenry. A woman warrior still remains an oddity in these parts. But I am sure she did not come to her status without learning how to weather such criticisms.”

“Yes.” Éomer stared at the empty goblet he rotated slowly between his hands. “She has had to bear with a lot of ignorant talk over the years.”

“Which is why I propose taking her as a member of my company while you are away. Just temporarily,” Boromir added quickly, noting the immediate change in the horse-lord's demeanor. “It will help her feel more at ease while here, separated from you and her countrymen, if she had a group to belong to.”

“She has already taken a strong liking to your Aerdis. Which, I must confess, took me by surprise.”

Boromir smiled at this, his fool heart ready to burst with joy at every casual mention of his betrothed. “My lady is an easy one to love,” he said simply. “And indeed, the two seem to enjoy each other's company. I am certain Aerdis would be happy to continue acquainting her with all of her treasured haunts within the city and even beyond its walls. But…”

He rubbed his jaw slowly, ever the unconscious tell of his discomfort with the situation at hand. But it was no use dancing around the real counsel he wished to present to Éomer King. “When it comes to daily labors, a shield-maiden will likely be happier with work better suited to her talents.”

Éomer cocked an eyebrow, clearly undeceived by Boromir’s attempts at off-handedness. “What sort of work? I sense you have something specific in mind.”

“I do,” Boromir admitted. “And I shall explain it to you plainly, although I will first say that it is both a suggestion and a request for a favor.” At this point he considered offering Éomer another refill of his drink, but the deepening scowl on the man’s face made him think better of it. “As you may have heard, I have been charged by King Elessar to lead the delegation that will treat with the Southrons. Sadhar has already come forward with an offer to parley, as soon as next month.”

Éomer’s eyes widened; he caught on even faster than Boromir had expected him to. “And you wish to include her in your delegation?”

“With your approval, yes.”

“You do not have it!” Éomer exclaimed. “And how could you propose such a thing?! Have you forgotten how she was so nearly dragged off by those animals to be taken who knows where for purposes I dare not even think of?”

“Are you really asking that of the man who came to her aid?”

It was a risky move to prod at that wound, but Éomer looked properly chastised by it. “You rescued her,” he conceded. “And for that I shall eternally be in your debt. But I cannot pretend to understand why you wish to involve her in any dealings with Harad.”

“You must see why I thought of her,” Boromir insisted. “You, who can personally attest to what she is capable of.” But Éomer continued to look too distraught to think, so he laid the rest out. “I can count on the fingers of one hand every person I know who can speak a Haradric dialect with reliable accuracy. Half of them died in the war.”

Éomer rose abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair in his state. Muttering indistinctly, he turned his back to Boromir to glare out the nearest window and brood at the rain lashing against the glass panes.

“When Théodred used to boast to me about her, I dismissed it as a mentor's pride in his fanciful protégé,” Boromir continued. “I suppose I too allowed myself to be distracted by her sex. But she really is a hidden gem in your Éored, is she not? Your cousin invested in her training with great thoughtfulness, and it has borne fruit marvelously. He really believed--”

Éomer slammed the heel of his hand on the window frame. “Théodred was not the one hopelessly in love with her for so many years! There lies the difference!” he snapped. “So when you ask for my consent to take her to meet with our enemies, consider that you are asking me to risk the life of the woman I absolutely refuse to live my own life without!”

And while Boromir reacted with silence, he stood there, breathing hard, one fist on his hip and the other hand pressed over his forehead. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. “The wine, I…and I have scarcely slept since--”

Boromir waved off the apology. “I understand your agony well. It was not long ago that I lived through the same, and just mercifully survived to a happy end. I am on your side, Éomer. I know politics and duty might make the lines difficult to discern, but I hope you can believe that.”

“I believe it.” Éomer made another weary swipe of his hand across his face. “At least I think I do. Too many things are changing too quickly, and I fear a failure to keep in step shall result in my simply being dragged along behind everyone else like an unhorsed sot.”

“Then maybe there is wisdom in her request to stay behind and out of your way. The time apart may provide you the focus you need to regain your footing.”

The tired lines on Éomer’s face tightened again. “And why must time apart involve setting her on a perilous road?”

“The mission carries little chance of peril. Peace talks, even with Harad, are nothing compared to everything she has survived to get this far. You know this.” Éomer brushed past Boromir to return to the table, but the captain’s frank reproach pursued him. “Separation from her is what you dread, not the Southrons.”

So furiously did Éomer scowl at the table surface that for a moment Boromir thought he might turn the heavy shelf over in a fit of rage. Instead he seized the wine jug, poured himself a gobletful, and drank it in two forceful gulps.

“I had hoped you could give me counsel on how I might change her mind, and convince her to simply come home,” he finally said. “Perhaps even quell her doubts in the future she can have with me.”

Underneath the anger and frustration, Éomer’s raw misery lay bare to Boromir, and suddenly he felt a swell of compassion for the young king. Would that he could offer a swift resolution to his predicament, instead of mere commiseration for the challenges that still lay ahead.

“However hard it is to hear, separation is the soundest advice I can give you today,” Boromir said. “Time and distance are most effective at calming the storm in one's mind, so that the heart may have its chance to be properly heard. Many have learned this from experience, myself included. I believe it shall be the same for your lady.”

Éomer's shoulders heaved in a ponderous sigh. “If only it did not feel like such a gamble.”

Boromir could not help a chuckle. “Then I regret I must tell his majesty, that you cast your first of many dice the moment you let her take your heart. But in the end, you shall be the one to decide how much you are willing to risk, and you alone decide when you are done.”

The anguish that resurged on Éomer's face was almost a relief to Boromir. The King of Rohan was wise enough to already know the graver half of the truth: that his new throne was in many ways a cage, and there was very little a good ruler could afford to risk in pursuit of his own desires.

* * *

“Take the names of any fools who might give you trouble,” Léodor said, unhooking the reins of his horse to start leading it across the muddy yard. “I can sort them all out on our return.”

You laughed as you followed him to the edge of the farmland property, marked by the scorched ruins of what had once been a granary. “Do you really think I could wait that long without sorting such fools out myself?”

“Anyone with the gall to harass a rider of the king’s Éored deserves a second dose of thrashing, or a third or fourth.” Your friend turned to grasp your forearm and give it a firm squeeze. “Although I sincerely hope these men of Gondor would know better, for their own sakes.”

“They are our allies, now more than ever before,” you reminded him. “And I have every confidence in their courtesy and hospitality.”

“Perhaps if you were less of a recluse and better at making friends, I would not worry so.”

Your knuckles barely grazed his sleeve as he darted away and promptly swung up to the safety of his saddle, chortling and calling, “You are only proving my point, sister!”

“Waste not a thought or care on me, and focus them all on your family!” you retorted, and stepped back as he spurred his horse forward. “Westu Léodor hál!”

You watched him gallop off across the plains of Pelennor, back to the distant towers of the White City. Tomorrow, he and the rest of the Éored would finalize preparations for the greatly anticipated journey home. But as soon as he heard that you had been tasked with staying behind, to remain with the body of Théoden King, Léodor alone took the time to come looking for you.

Whatever his suspicions regarding Éomer's selection of you as the one to leave in Gondor, Léodor spoke nothing of them. He was content to spend his entire visit sharing the cask of ale he brought, and talking your ears off about all the things he planned to do with his wife and son and infant daughter upon their reunion.

How far your relationship had come, you mused, as you watched the shrinking speck finally melt into the shadows of the deepening twilight. With him and with the rest of the men in your company, when you had once sworn, in tears hidden, that they would never accept you. Now their departure would sting as though you had been orphaned for the third time.

It is only for several weeks, you told yourself, to ease the weight of doubt that sat upon your chest. As you turned to walk back toward the cottage, a fierce wind rose and ripped off the cloak that was loosely draped over your shoulders. With a startled cry you grabbed for it, but not quickly enough to save it from landing in a large puddle.

You retrieved the soaked fabric from the mud with a sigh. A fat raindrop landed squarely on the top of your uncovered head, and was immediately followed by another and another. Spontaneous rain had been pouring on and off over Gondor since the King’s coronation, and you heard the locals welcome and praise this tumultuous weather as a blessing, a sign of war’s filth being washed away to cleanse the lands for rebirth.

Shielding your eyes from the sudden deluge, you looked up at the roiling clouds overhead, further entranced by the sight of jagged lightning flashing over the White Mountains. But when your gaze dropped back down to the horizon, you were alarmed to notice a horsed figure crossing the fields through the storm, approaching fast, in your direction.

It was him. Without proof of his face or voice, or even the support of logic, you just knew. It was him.

The very thought of that froze you, mind and body, in place. Pale and immobile and increasingly drenched, you stood like a deeply rooted tree while the rider drew closer and closer, on a horse powerful enough to sustain its determined gait over the sodden ground and lashing winds. Dumbfounded and dazed, you remained, until at last he came to a stop just several yards away. He dismounted Firefoot, his heavy boots squelching in the muck, and that sound snapped you to your senses.

“My lord,” you rushed forward with the soiled cloak twisted uselessly between your hands. “The stables are around the back. Let me take Firefoot there while you get out of this rain.”

“I shall stable him,” Éomer said sternly, but not unkindly, to warn you against arguing. “Go and wait for me inside the house.”

Without speaking another word or sparing a backward glance, you obeyed your king. You shut the cottage door behind you to keep out the ill weather, hung your wet cloak on a peg, and crouched by the warmth of the fireplace to dry off as best as you could. You kept your jittery hands busy feeding the flames with more wood, but your mind refused to be calmed as easily.

What is he doing here?! The agreement had been for you to report to him the following day, to receive in full detail your last set of orders before the entire Rohan contingent departed. Éomer had granted your request to stay behind quickly enough, and with so little argument that you had hoped perhaps the issue between you was settled, at least for the time being.

If he was not prepared to completely abandon his fatuous notion of asking you to marry him, then time apart would surely set his mind back to good sense. The Éomer you knew could always be trusted to do the right thing. You clung firmly to this thought while you waited the agonizing minutes for him to return from the stables.

As soon as he entered, you offered him the last clean towel you could find to dry himself with. He raised his eyebrows at your attempt to give him royal treatment, but graciously swiped the cloth several times over his face, neck, and hair, before tossing it over the back of a chair.

“So this is the place.” He peeled off his riding cloak to reveal clothing underneath that was just as soaked as yours; he may as well not have bothered with the outer garment at all. “You said it belonged to Lady Aerdis’s late…uncle?”

“A relative of sorts,” you said. When you confided in your new friend your wistful desire to be housed outside the city, where you could have more quiet and solitude, she had been quick to offer the empty cottage in near Pelennor that was recently willed to her by deceased relations. “There are things I can work on to help restore it while I am here. Even my meager skills will serve a farm better than sitting on my hands in the city barracks watching everyone else in their labors. I wish to remain useful, and do my part in the rebuilding.”

“I understand. You have explained all that, and well,” Éomer said slowly. “But regretfully, I must rescind the permission I granted for you to live outside Minas Tirith. You can stay here for the remainder of this week, to rest and do as you please. But afterward, I would like for you to go back to the city and remain there until my return.”

You bit back a protest, determined, now more than ever, to reaffirm your position as his servant. “May I ask what I am to do there, then?”

“Lord Boromir petitioned me to loan you to his company, and I granted it. He shall assign your duties, and you will take your orders from him while I am gone.”

Although it surprised you to hear this, it was a welcome prospect. Of all the men in Gondor you liked and trusted Lord Boromir the most, having known him since you were just a girl, albeit not intimately. This would provide an opportunity to improve on the connection. “Lord Boromir honors me with his request. And as always, it shall please me to do as my king commands.”

Éomer responded to your formal pledge with a weary sigh. He braced his hands on the back of the chair in front of him, and the way his knuckles whitened in the tightness of his grip, while he searched for his next words, did not escape your notice.

“Make no mistake, this command does not align with what I desire,” he said thickly. “Leaving without you violates every instinct in my body, but if that is what must be done to make you see reason, then I shall bear it.”

“Reason?” you repeated stiffly. “What conclusion are you hoping I might come to?”

Éomer raised his eyes from the floor to meet yours across the room. “I know you believe that putting distance between us may somehow alter how I feel about you. But I in turn believe the time apart will help you accept how deeply in love you are with me.”

The heat that flooded your face burned through your mask of composure. “I am not--”

“Enough.” The sadness that bled into that single word made it a plea instead of an order. “I did not come to reopen discussions on the matter. Especially not if denials are all you have left to say to me.”

“Then pray tell, what has my lord come for?” you challenged him behind your icy courtesy. “How else may I serve you, Éomer King?”

The hurt that crossed his face came on so suddenly, looked so profound and real, it was as though you had physically struck him. He stared at you in a dead silence, and you forced yourself to hold his gaze while you held your breath, guilt sinking into your gut from the knowledge that you were the wretch who had gone too far.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. “Clearly there is nothing more to say, other than farewell.”

He picked up his cloak, turned, and left, leaving you utterly dumbfounded, staring at the door that slammed shut behind him.

The longest seconds of your life passed before your shock and indecision were overcome by a wild hysteria that made your entire body grow cold.

You leapt for the door and wrenched it open, and stepped into the downpour in time to see him vanish around the corner of the house, heading back to the stables.

The loss of him from your sight smashed through your bravado, and you cried out into the storm.

“Éomer!!”

Before you could grasp your reasoning for why you did it, or what you planned to do next, he reappeared, every footstep leaving puddles as his approach backed you up into the cottage. His eyes bore down at you, his expression now guarded and inscrutable and expectant. Gusting wind drove in sprinkles of rain through the door left open and ignored.

I am sorry. The whisper sitting on the tip of your tongue was smothered by a hostile inner voice.

Let him go. It is your duty. It is what’s right.

But your stolid face collapsed under the weight of your anguish. A grimace squeezed out the tears that blinded your eyes, finally betraying your shameful truth. I do love you, Éomer.

Gentle fingers settled lightly over your lips, stilling their feeble quivering. A voice even warmer and more tender than this touch eased your struggle.

“I do not need words. This is enough.”

As the hardened pads of those fingers brushed across the plane of your cheek, you closed your eyes and at once forgot all else that existed. Such was the power of his touch that for years you so vigilantly avoided, until that fateful moment of weakness after the coronation exposed your secret. That moment could never be undone, no matter how hard you tried to bury the truth now.

Éomer murmured your name, his breath warm on your temple, and then his hands stilled where they lightly cupped your face. In that pause lay a question, and the last time you answered it, you had hurt him. Foolish liar that you were.

“Yes.” The whisper passed from your lips to his as his mouth wasted no time seeking yours. You clasped your hands around the back of his neck, urging him closer as your own hunger surged. You felt the tremor that ran through his shoulders when you slipped your tongue against his. How could you have ever chosen to cause him pain, when you could have given him this instead?

He broke the kiss to let you catch your breath, but nuzzled your chin upward to gain access to your neck, so his lips could continue their quest to the hollow of your throat. You gasped at the scrape of his teeth on your collarbone, then moaned when he remedied his offense with reverent strokes of his tongue. His arms wrapped fully around your waist, pulling you greedily against him, fingers threading and tugging at your hair as he moved his worship to your shoulders.

But it was your touch, the scrabble of your hands over his hips and stomach as you held on to him for balance, that elicited a low growl. In just a few hurried steps, he backed you to the furthest corner of the cottage, until the side of the bed hit the back of your legs.

Your name was still the only thing he could utter, muffled in between the kisses he could not stop lavishing on every bit of your skin he could reach. Your hands found their way to his hips again, this time sneaking underneath the wet fabric that clung to his torso, then brazenly gliding upward, past his belly to the taut muscles of his chest, high enough for your thumb to circle his nipple.

An ungentlemanly word suddenly rumbled from Éomer King's throat, so startled was he by the sensual touch. Within moments his shirt lay discarded on the floor, your back made contact with the mattress, and there he was, leaning over you, bare from the waist up to your hungry eyes. You gave yourself an extra second to appreciate the sight before hooking a hand over his nape to yank him back into a kiss. The fervor in his response left you writhing and whimpering and completely vulnerable in your weakness.

A deep haze settled over you as you began to lose yourself to the pleasure of his ministrations. With every inch of you, you wanted this, and the way your body reacted to his every action, shaking in desperation for more, would surely tell him that. And yet… yet as you felt his fingers grope for the fastenings of your dress, felt his palm brush the back of your knee to your thigh, felt his hardness press against your hip… something inside of you jerked in reawakened panic.

“Éomer. W-wait.”

So soft was the protest, you were not even sure you had said the words aloud. But almost immediately, Éomer stopped and pulled back. He took one look at you, your disheveled state, and whatever expression lay on your face, and he sat up fully, turning away, dragging your heart out of your chest with him.

“Éomer, please. I am… I just…”

“No, I understand and I agree. To carry on would be unwise.”

He rubbed both hands roughly over his face, shaking away the stupor induced by his desire.

“All these years I have ordered the men to give you the respect you are due. I cannot risk your virtue or reputation now, however long I have wanted this. Wanted you.”

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. “You are my King, and it is my duty to protect you and your reputation. We must behave prudently.”

He nodded, but still looked so pained you could not help but lift your hand to try to soothe the scowl from his face. He angled his head to kiss the inside of your wrist.

“I will have you,” he muttered, his diverted gaze making it seem more a promise to himself than to you. But when he turned his eyes back on you, the wanton lust pooling in them stirred the heat in your belly. “I will wait for the right circumstances, however long it may take, but I will have you.”

He rose and walked a few steps across the room, perhaps in need of distance from you. As he stood closer to the fireplace, the light illuminated a view so rarely seen by anyone, many people in Rohan had come to believe that Éomer was simply hale and hard of body beyond the limits of mortal men.

The numerous scars that decorated his body testified to both his fragility and his strength. Many of his wounds had been tended to by you on the battlefield, carrying terrible memories that were now also moments of pride and achievement that you shared with him.

Éomer seemed to feel your intent gaze upon him, and he stretched out a hand to you, beckoning you to rejoin him. As soon as you were within reach, he wrapped his arms around you again, drawing you against him, sighing contently as your touch drifted over the bare skin of his chest and shoulders.

Your hand moved with intention, skimming down to his lower abdomen, probing carefully for the large scar you knew sat just below his ribcage. That injury was less than two years old. It still amazed you how it had managed to heal with little issue, under the constant strain of the many violent battles Éomer fought in since.

So close. A chill ran through you as the memory rose unbidden: you pressing down hard to staunch the bleeding, screaming for someone to help carry the barely conscious Marshal to the nearest shelter, where you could safely attempt to clean and suture the wound. If the orc blade had sunk in only a fraction of an inch deeper, it would have been beyond anyone's power to save him. You came too close to losing him that day.

Eomer's lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he interrupted your reminiscence with a whisper. “How can you still doubt that we belong together, when already you are part of me?”

Your fingers passed over several other scars from injuries you had tended to over the years, and came to rest over the tattoo on his upper right arm. The black dragon curled around the edge of his shoulder was identical in design and location to the mark borne by every rider in your Éored. Your possession of that dragon mark bound you to Éomer intimately, but also defined your role in his life. Sharing his bed, or even being with him just once, was not your place.

“None of these give me any right to claim you,” you said softly. “You must still marry. And it is your duty to marry well.”

He caught your elbow as you started to move your hand away, and guided it back to slide over his waist, to rest over the scar once more, willing you to hold fast to the memory it carried, and hold fast to him.

“What does it mean to marry? Is it not just the giving of one's entire self--mind and body, heart and soul--to another?”

He hooked a finger underneath your chin, urging your downcast gaze to rise and meet his.

“How am I to dispose of things that are no longer in my possession? I have long been taken, solely and utterly, by you.”

And with that gaze he set upon you, you wondered: how many glances must have he given you in secret all these years, with eyes that burned with something more than the devotion of one comrade-in-arms to another? What willful blindness had you clung to for years, for you not to have noticed it?

“I must fulfill my duties to Rohan, this is true. But not even a king can be asked to do the impossible.”

“But to wed a great king to a lowly servant--” You shook your head. “Many would argue that is the real impossibility.”

A new expression akin to anger flashed across Éomer’s face. Before you could wonder what you might have done wrong, he dropped to his knees before you, both knees, his hands wrapped tightly around yours.

“My lord!” you cried, aghast that he would debase himself, even in private. You tried to force him back up, but he would not budge.

“Never speak of yourself as lowly again,” he admonished. “King or peasant, there is nothing more lowly or humbled than a man so wretchedly in love, as I am with you.”

“Éomer…” You sank to the floor with him. “If only things were so simple. I wish it could all happen as you say, but I just do not see how. I do not know what can be done.”

“Let me hold your love for a while longer, and wait for me,” he said gently. “That is all I ask. The rest is mine to accomplish. As long as your heart is mine, and I know you have given it to me freely, I will fight for my right to keep it.”

You felt his grip around your fingers grow tense in the long seconds of silence that followed. At last, you brought his knuckles to your lips, kissing the hands you adored with such devotion.

“When you leave, you shall take my heart with you,” you whispered into his palm. “But I fear it will be a greater challenge than you believe, to keep others from wresting such an unsuitable offering from your hands.”

“They may certainly try, if they wish to test me.” The ice in his tone unsettled you, even though that veiled threat was certainly not for you, while the warm caress on your cheek was. “Not for a moment will I appear unclear or undecided when it comes to my intentions towards you. I will never make that mistake again.”

“B-but the Council of Eorl. The lords…”

“They answer to the King,” Éomer interrupted. “Do not privileges, as well as duties, come with this crown? Trust me. Please.” He bowed to rest his forehead against yours. “While we are parted, I will prove to you that it can be done, that I will do whatever I must to marry you, and to honor and protect you thereafter.”

“Marry?” you murmured. The idea still seemed no more than a ludicrous fantasy. But then Éomer kissed you again, deeply, as though determined to memorize the taste of your lips, urging you to focus on the present moment.

Because he was yours, even if just for that night. Even if by dawn, it could all crumble under the pressures of the world outside these walls. Éomer loved you, and held you in such high regard to want you as his wife and queen. You would swear to anyone that this knowledge alone was already a dream fulfilled.

And yet. If you were brave enough to hope, maybe…just maybe, this would not be the last impossibility to come true for you.

* * *

They do not know. Hundreds of Gondor’s citizens bearing streamers and flowers lined the streets of Minas Tirith that morning to join King Elessar in sending off the departing Eorlingas. But it occurred to Éomer how strange it felt that none of them had any awareness of a matter that was not only monumental for him personally, but carried significant consequences for all of Rohan.

Soon that will change, the young king vowed to himself. Soon his Council will hear the truth, and afterward all of Rohan, and then the rest of their allies. But for the moment, discretion--no matter how bitter the pretense tasted.

No one except for Lord Boromir and his betrothed, the lovely Lady Aerdis, who both stood next to her, understood what truly lay underneath the courteous gestures exchanged between the King of Rohan and his shield-maiden. A simple bow, an exchange of a few words, and a locking of gazes that was all too brief. Had they not spent that one evening together, Éomer would have remained trapped in the false belief of her indifference towards him. The memory of her kisses would have to suffice for a while, and he could only hope he had given her enough to remember him by, as well.

He brushed the edge of his hand over his lips just as he turned away, and forced his feet to carry him down the line of assembled well-wishers.

A noticeable hush descended on the crowd of onlookers as Éomer came to the end of the road where, closest to the ruins of the Great Gate, the King of Gondor himself met him, flanked by none other than Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and his only daughter.

“Lady Lothíriel.” As Éomer took the hand she courteously offered him and brushed a kiss on her fingers, he became aware of the wan smiles that surrounded them, and the unsubtle tittering of a few ladies watching. “Your presence this morning is an unexpected and most delightful gift.”

Lothíriel was astonishingly beautiful indeed, with such radiant grace and sweet smiles, that it would not have surprised Éomer if many citizens of the White City came out just to catch a glimpse of her. “I wish you, Lady Éowyn, and all your men a safe journey, your Grace,” she said. “And may you have great success in your labors, so that we can soon celebrate your speedy return.”

“You are kind, my lady. I certainly hope for the same,” replied Éomer. “We leave behind treasure beyond price here and shall be eager to return for our own.”

Two Rohan lords had already swooped in to engage Imrahil in quiet conversation, and only stepped aside when Éomer himself approached to exchange farewells. Éomer’s admiration for the Prince only grew the more he learned about him and spent time with him, but the unabashed thirst of his counselors for Dol Amroth’s friendship irritated him. Yet another issue he intended to settle in the ordering of his House’s affairs.

Finally, Éomer came before Elessar, who embraced him tightly and honored him with a bow, from one king to another. “Worry not, my brother,” the man once called Aragorn said quietly to him. “I shall see to it that they are cared for, these ones whom you so dearly love.”

He smiled at the look of mixed wonder and apprehension on Éomer’s face, and dipped his head in another show of reassurance and of farewell.

With that, the Rohirrim set off on the North-way in a procession over a mile long, accompanied by the fanfare from the people that continued to line the road stretching across Pelennor. Countless flags in a multitude of colors and sigils from the different regions of Gondor fluttered in the air, and from every direction, enthusiastic cheering and waving followed the Riders across the fields.

At the head of the procession, behind his standard bearer and with Éowyn at his side, Éomer quickly fell into a brooding silence that did not escape his sister’s notice.

“I truly did not think I would ever see the day when the two of you would be willingly separated,” she said lightly. When Éomer looked at her with raised eyebrows, she shrugged. “I am sure you have good reasons for choosing her to stay behind with our uncle.”

“Many reasons,” Éomer grunted.

Éowyn regarded him thoughtfully. “Has the time finally come when you would allow yourself to be open with me about these reasons? And the other concerns weighing on your mind and heart? It is just you and I now, Éomer,” she said softly, stretching out her hand to him. “I may not have uncle’s experience or Théodred’s cunning, but I love you beyond words, and would do anything to see you happy. Let me help you.”

Éomer smiled at this, and reached over to take her hand and squeeze it. “Perhaps I can aspire to the happiness you have found with Lord Faramir.”

“Having my affections stolen by a High Man was not what I aspired to,” said Éowyn, trying to look annoyed but unable to hide the blush on her cheeks. “But love, it seems, is the wildest beast of all. It will not be tamed, or bridled, or even reasoned with. It goes where it wills. Éomer…” Éowyn’s sweet face turned stern. “You have suffered enough, and have been forced to carry so many burdens, not least of all our uncle’s crown, which I know you never wanted.”

“It is my honor to take the throne in Uncle and Théodred’s stead,” Éomer said firmly. “And why do you make assumptions about the things I want?”

“I know who it is you have wanted, for a long time now,” Éowyn said with a stout confidence that took Éomer aback. “You are discreet, brother. But I have watched you and looked out for you, more closely than you realize.”

Éomer shook his head. “I am still learning the many ways I have been underestimating you, Éowyn. Soon I shall believe myself unworthy of your care or help.”

“Someone has to care for you, during the frequent times you would not.” Éowyn glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still out of hearing range of the rest of his Éored. “Especially now that you have left her behind.”

Éomer pressed his lips in a tight line and returned his gaze to the road ahead. “I will be back,” he said. “There is much to do in Rohan before then, but with Uncle waiting in the Hallows, I can hardly afford to dawdle or delay.”

And she is waiting. Éomer caught a glimpse of his sister’s suppressed smile that told him she had already thought the same thing. Another person with strong opinions to contend with.

Éomer spurred Firefoot forward to signal the standard bearer, who promptly blew one quick blast on his horn. As the King took off in a steady gallop, the thunder of hooves rose behind him as nearly a thousand other Rohirrim picked up their pace to match his, drowning out the excited shouts of the Gondorians that started them off at last to their journey home.

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ass-deep-in-demons · 10 months

Text

✦ Seeing White ✦

Fandom: Lord of the Rings Genre: slice of life, comedy, romance Characters: Faramir, Eomer, Boromir, Eowyn, Lothiriel, Legolas, Merry Rated: G Length: 3119 words, one-shot

This work is dedicated to @emilybeemartin and directly inspired by her art, and also these recent posts circulating in the Boromir fandom: [slutty white shirt] and [rain soaked Boromir].

I am tagging the folks who got tangled in the Wet Shirts Shenanigans: @sotwk, @scyllas-revenge, @thetempleofthemasaigoddess, @konartiste, @emyn-arnens, @nihilizzzm, @emmanuellececchi. If you didn't want to be tagged I'm sorry, pls ignore :)

✦✦✦

Minas Tirith, 1st of Lótessë 3019 TA

Yes, thought Faramir. This is a great idea. The Ladies will be thrilled.

The day was perfect, too. From the windows of his chambers in the Citadel, all across the White City Faramir could spot the many signs of the long awaited Spring. Together with the verdant Gondorian flora awakening to life after the months of darkness and cold, so, too, were the people of Minas Tirith rising from their knees past the indignity of War. Just as the trees were dressing themselves up in colourful bloom, so were the inhabitants of the old Minas Anor decorating the streets for the impending coronation of their new King Elessar. The merchants, like wandering birds, were returning from distant lands to their abandoned shops and stalls, striving to make up for the losses sustained recently by the Gondorian economy.

It was, for Faramir, self-evident that such a day would be best spent in the Archives of the Grand Library. Granted, if it were for Faramir to decide, all days would be library days; this day, however, was especially well-suited to that purpose. Having the confidence of the palace wait-staff, through careful intelligence he had ascertained that Lady Eowyn, the bold and beautiful sister to the King of Rohan, had today off. It would be delightful to guide her through the collection of scrolls depicting the Fall of Numenor - Faramir could not imagine more romantic circumstances. If not his humble person, then the priceless works of illuminatory art would certainly impress the White Lady.

There remained the question of propriety, naturally. Here, too, he had both luck and days of prior careful planning on his side. Out of all of the birds flocking to Minas Tirith after the thaw, perhaps the most colourful (and certainly the loudest) was his little cousin Lothiriel. The lass was come from Dol Amroth with her brothers to join the upcoming celebrations. This was her debut among the Minas Tirith nobility and so Boromir and Faramir were expected to escort her on occasion, as a courtesy to their uncle the Prince.

What a splendid opportunity to marry duty with pleasure: give his young cousin a lesson in history and spend time in the company of the White Lady. The White Lady in the White City - such an occasion called for the whitest, most pristine of his shirts, and also his best doublet. On this day he was allowed a bit of vanity and he was quite pleased with the results, when he checked himself in the mirror one last time.

Faramir left his chambers and descended to the Courtyard, where he was met with the view that had never failed to cause a pang in his heart, ever since the tender years of his boyhood. In the centre of the sun-bathed plaza, on an islet on the Fountain grew the White Tree of Gondor. In the past, its name referenced its lush white bloom, the beauty of which, if the legends could be trusted, was an echo of the mythical Trees of Valinor. For centuries now the name had only been associated with the Tree’s dry and dead white wood, from which the bark had long been peeled off by the weather. Nary a bud had been spotted since the long gone days of Steward Belecthor.

On that day, though bare as ever, the Tree did not stand there all alone. Under its branches, seemingly caught up in his thoughts, the young King of Rohan was strolling and admiring the Fountain. Faramir, who himself had never been to Rohan, had met Eomer King only recently, in non-too-happy circumstances. All the Lords of Gondor had had the honour of attending a vigil around the bier of the old Theoden King, who had fallen in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Even though several weeks had passed already since that ceremony, the shadows of the battle past could still be spotted lurking on the noble face of the Horse Lord Eomer. Still, his good humour seemed to be gradually returning to him, if the sharpness of his gaze and the healthy colour on his cheeks were anything to judge by.

The young King of the Rohirrim was, coincidentally, just who Faramir needed at that moment, as without his blessing Faramir’s plans would all be for naught. The matter needed to be carefully broached. Luckily, Faramir was nothing if not subtle.

“Eomer King!” he hailed and politely inclined his head in greeting.

“Just Eomer would suffice,” said the Man of Rohan. “My brother Theodred bore great love for your own brother and always hosted him gladly at the Golden Hall. For all the stories I’ve heard about you growing up, I feel as if we were best friends already, Lord Faramir.”

“And who am I to spurn the friendship of a King?” said Faramir and smiled. “Eomer, then, and you must call me by my name as well.”

“Do you think it will sprout leaves again?” asked Eomer, and Faramir understood that he was talking about the Tree. “You know, after Aragorn’s Enthronement?” This did seem too good to come true. Even though from under the Tree’s roots water continued to spring and feed the Fountain, it was difficult to believe that the dry branches held even one drop of sap.

“That, I would want to know myself,” said Faramir wistfully. He felt gooseflesh erupt on his arms at the thought that he might yet witness the Tree blossom in his lifetime. “I would very much like to see the face of my brother, when that happens,” he added quietly.

“And how fares your brother?” asked Eomer. “I’ve heard he’s been through an ordeal during the War of the Ring.”

Faramir hesitated. An ordeal would be an understatement, he thought. Boromir was not himself ever since he’d returned from the War. Faramir could see right through his brother’s facade. He had been pushing himself to the limits, working day and night like a madman. But Faramir was loath to share his worries with Eomer just yet, so he opted for a diplomatic answer.

“My brother is dedicating his every effort to the betterment of Gondor, as was always his way,” he carefully admitted. “I don’t think he’ll allow himself a moment’s respite until Aragorn is seated on that throne, at last. Thank you for your concern, thought. The sentiment is much appreciated. In fact,” Faramir grimaced, “it is rather I who ought to be enquiring about the wellbeing of your Lady sister.” He looked at Eomer and saw the man’s features soften at the mention of Lady Eowyn.

“She is better than I could have hoped for,” said Eomer with a tentative smile, “in part thanks to your patient encouragement, back in the Houses of Healing… for which I am much obliged, by the by. Of late, she’s been out more. I deem it a good sign.”

“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Faramir, and then he quickly checked himself. “Erm… I mean, I’m glad to hear her spirits have improved…” He gathered his courage. “In fact, I am grateful for the opportunity to talk to you on this very matter. You see, I’ve devised a plan, which needs but your approval…”

“A… plan?” Eomer echoed, visibly apprehensive.

“Indeed. I’ve been meaning to take my little cousin Lothiriel to the Archives of Minas Tirith today, to show her our priceless collection of painted scrolls. Perhaps the Lady Eowyn could be persuaded to join us. It would be good… for her moods, I mean!”

Eomer raised his brow at that.

“Now that is a peculiar coincidence. You see, I had planned to take my sister out for a horse ride today, and I was meaning to propose that your cousin Lothiriel would join us in this entertainment. The other day, during dinner, she mentioned her interest in the steeds of Rohan…”

Faramir frowned. His carefully devised plan was now falling apart for this new development. Though he had started his riding lessons as soon as he had learned to walk, aware of his strengths Faramir knew: he had a far better chance at impressing the Lady with his wits than with his equestrian prowess. This matter with Eomer King required a subtle approach. He decided to try dissuasion.

“Curious, indeed. Last time I witnessed my cousin in the saddle, she fell off and broke her ankle. She has been wary of horses ever since…” Faramir mentioned casually. Granted, Lothiriel had been seven when that happened, however Eomer did not need to know that.

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. A vein on the Horse Lord’s temple started pulsing, Faramir noticed.

“And you, my good man, do not know mine sister, if you think a day among old parchment could ever improve her mood,” Eomer bit back.

Faramir felt a wave of hot anger roll through him. Eomer’s comment stung. Was it possible that Lady Eowyn, so eager to listen to his tales of Gondor’s history back in the Houses of Healing, could indeed reject his offer of a good time in the Archives? Reluctant though he was, he had to admit: where she was concerned, his usually clear mind became clouded. For the first time in his life, emotions made him doubt his better judgement. Eomer, however, seemed to be faring no better, judging from his face, which was getting visibly… flushed?

“Hold on, Eomer…” Faramir put two and two together. “You mean to… spend time with Lothiriel? You do!” Now this sat ill with Faramir, who was used to thinking of his cousin as a little girl, and not a woman grown, ready to be courted. “Have you any idea how young she is? Barely seventeen, I’d wager!”

Eomer levelled Faramir with a deeply unimpressed look.

“You’d loose, too, for she is twenty, and I am eight and twenty! Which is perfectly respectable, and also none of your business. The Lady’s father, the Prince of Dol Amroth, has already consented to my courting her,” siad Eomer icily.

Faramir felt momentarily mortified about his outburst. Ah, this was bad. Of course the most pressing matter for Eomer right now would be to marry well, and of course the noble, beautiful and now decidedly of age Princess Lothiriel would be his intended. And if that were so, then Faramir might have just offended his prospective brother-in-law. Still, he was convinced he could use this unfortunate situation to his advantage.

“He has? Oh, that is well then. I wish you all the luck with securing the Lady’s favour. Unfortunately, my uncle Imrahil has also already approved of my plans to take Lothiriel for a history lesson to the Archives today. You are most welcome to join us, if you will. As is the Lady your sister, with your approval,” he added hastily, hoping to repair some of the damage caused by his ill-advised words.

“Denied! I am taking my sister for a ride today, and that is that,” said Eomer, who seemed to have taken offence from Faramir’s questioning of his motives regarding Lothiriel.

“I beg, Eomer, reconsider…” Faramir began, but then something strange happened. He felt a firm shove upon his shoulder and the ground was abruptly swept from under his feet. He flailed his arms, but that did not avail him - he toppled over the edge of the Fountain and…

SPLASH!

Next he knew, he was taking in a lungful of its fresh water. When he emerged to the surface, sputtering and coughing, he was met with the sight of his brother, who took his place next to Eomer at the water’s edge. Boromir was fresh past his training, already out of his plate, only sporting an unbuttoned surcote over his shift. He was flashing his teeth in a wide grin, his arms crossed cockily over his broad chest.

“Of course it is you, brother,” said Faramir somewhat bitterly. “I see your signature subtlety has not left you over the course of the War.” He could not stay mad at Boromir for long though. Not when his moments of good-natured mischief and levity, so frequent before the Ring, were now so few and far between.

“Forgive me, little brother,” said Boromir, affecting solemnity, “but only you could have thought taking a Lady to the library would serve you well. As your elder it is my duty to tutor you in the ways of women.”

“Hold on, he wanted to woo my sister with books? Hahaha!” Eomer was in stitches about the concept. “Oh, that is rich indeed! Wait ‘till she…”

SPLASH!

Eomer landed in the Fountain right beside Faramir, giving out a most undignified squeak. This did serve to improve Faramir’s mood a great deal.

“Only I get to make fun of my brother,” said Boromir, putting his hands on his hips. “King or no king, you’d do well to mark that, young Eomer! And you will not be telling your sister about any of this. She would…”

Faramir rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed under Boromir’s bulk, as the elder brother, too, inevitably hit the water with a great -

SPLASH!

“Do not presume to speak for me, Boromir of Gondor!” warned Eowyn, towering over the three of them. “And you too, brother! I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs, thank you very much.” She had pushed Boromir into the Fountain with such effortless grace, and told both of Faramir’s tormentors off without a hint of hesitation! She was perfection, Faramir knew. Had he not been in love with her already, he would have fallen head over heels for her at that moment. “I would be glad to join you for a tour about the Archives, Lord Faramir,” said Eowyn, and honestly, it all seemed too good to be true.

“I have never seen you pick up a book in your life, sister,” said Eomer, “save to throw it at our tutor.” He pushed his wet hair back from his face and attempted to stand up, only to slip and plop down once again.

“Slander!” cried Eowyn, and the most beautiful blush crept onto her face. “I love books! I definitely have read a lot of books in my time! And I happen to take a great interest in the history of Gondor, of late,” she fumbled visibly, which only added to her charm in Faramir’s eyes.

He stood up and shivered. His elegant brocade doublet, which he had picked especially for this occasion, was now entirely ruined. He hastily shook it off, not wanting the richly coloured fabric to stain his white shirt underneath. He wiped off the water from his face, and finally deeming himself presentable (for a given definition of the word) addressed the Lady.

“I would be delighted to personally recommend to you the best historical monographs from our Library, my fair Lady Eowyn,” said Faramir and bowed, smiling widely. “Going through them will of a certainty take some time, but I wholeheartedly offer all the assistance I could give in your studies.”

“You know not what you have signed up for, Lady,” said Boromir, who was still sitting in the water up to his chest, and not in any rush to get up.

“Oh, I think the Lady knows perfectly well what she has signed up for,” the merry voice of Prince Legolas of Mirkwood sounded from behind Eowyn, and it was only in this moment that Faramir realised the White Lady had not come here alone. Distracted by her radiant presence, he had failed to notice the Elf, who was standing a little way off with Meriadoc Brandybuck, one of the Perians, and a furiously blushing, uncharacteristically quiet cousin Lothiriel. The three of them appeared to be carrying… hammers and chisels? Although the girl seemed to have dropped hers and focused on fanning her beet-red face instead.

“We were just off to the City, to help with the renovations of the houses on the Third Level. Master Gimli means to teach us stonemasonry!” Meriadoc supplied, excitement brimming on his features.

“Though I have noticed the Ladies are acting somewhat distracted,” said Legolas. “I wonder if they are up for the task after all, or maybe they would rather stay here and admire the views that the Citadel offers on this fine day.”

Faramir suddenly felt very self-aware. He suspected he was blushing at least as strongly as Lothiriel. Luckily, Lady Eowyn did not seem to mind, or even notice. She appeared to have forgotten his face was up here and not down there. Ah, well. A gentleman must make allowances for the sake of ladies.

Boromir looked suspiciously pleased with himself. He stood up, took off his wet surcote and shook the water off like a giant dog might, splashing on both Faramir and Eomer.

“Pardon our indecent state, Ladies,” Boromir said then, jovially. “I think we should all go and help with the renovations today. Many houses have suffered during the siege and I, for one, am impatient to start rebuilding.”

“A worthy cause! One I’d be glad to join once I get the chance to change into something dry,” said Eomer, who had just managed to get up, after a few mishaps. He put his mighty arms to use and wrung out his soaked shirt. Faramir was sure he heard Lothiriel actually squeal.

“I don’t know that you should,” said the Perian, who seemed bent on making the situation as awkward as possible. “We would get more crowd engagement with you three coming as you are.”

To this, Legolas snickered with malicious glee.

“It could do wonders for the population’s morale, true,” the Elf mused. “Alas! We’d get plenty of volunteers, but very little actual work done, I expect.”

✦ BONUS: ✦

“Gondor is beautiful at this time of the year, is it not, my Queen?” said Aragorn.

He was meant to be reviewing the list of guests for his Coronation, but got distracted by Arwen’s movements about his new office. Something outside had caught her attention, apparently, for she’d spent a good while gawking through the window. And his beautiful Undomiel, ever graceful and unperturbed, could only very rarely be caught gawking, and only in private. He had to assume she was not immune to the splendour of the White City, and he was well pleased that she approved of her new domain.

“Pardon?” she startled, and a faint blush tinged her alabaster cheek. “Oh, yes. The nature is in full bloom. But, I am not your Queen. Not yet, at least,” she said, and smiled a very secretive, private smile.

Aragorn suspected a hundred years would pass before he’d learn to decipher all the subtleties of her expression. He was content to just admire them, for now.

[MY WRITING MASTERPOST]

#lord of the rings fanfiction #faramir #boromir #eomer #farawyn #lothiriel #eowyn #lotr fanfiction #ass deep in demons #[arda]

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emyn-arnens · 10 months

Text

For Charity

Minas Tirith hosts its first-ever Charity Auction for Widows and Orphans of the War. Some of the participants are less enthusiastic than others. Feat. Boromir, Faramir, Éomer, Aragorn, Éowyn, Lothíriel, and Imrahil, with a side of Eothiriel. 2k. Also on AO3. I was inspired by @emilybeemartin's art of Boromir in a wet shirt and @hobbitwrangler's tags on the post, and this happened.

Boromir picked up the shirt laid out upon his bed. It was a flimsy white thing, hardly worthy of being called a shirt. And it was, according to Faramir, explicitly required. With a long-suffering sigh, Boromir pulled the shirt over his head. For charity, he reminded himself.

He looked down at himself. Every inch of his skin showed through the shirt. He might as well not be wearing a shirt.

As he left his room, Boromir refused to look in the looking glass that hung upon the wall.

Catching sight of Faramir turning down the corridor, Boromir raced to catch up. “You must do everything you can to ensure that Éomer wins,” Boromir said, falling into stride with his brother.

Faramir turned and laid his hand on Boromir's shoulder, smiling broadly. “Dear brother, the outcome is in the hands of the crowd. Do not expect to get special privileges from me merely because I am your brother. I have only a small role in the event as it is.”

Boromir groaned.

With a chuckle, Faramir clapped Boromir on the shoulder and started off down the hallway again. “But fear not!” Faramir said over his shoulder. “Éowyn and I have plans set in place.”

“What sort of plans?” Boromir called after him.

“You will see,” Faramir said evasively. Boromir could hear the laughter in his voice.

Not for the first time, Boromir wondered if it might have been better to have fallen in battle than to deal with Faramir and Éowyn’s machinations.

The sky above the Pelennor was grey and sunless. A fine mist of rain fell over the field, where brightly colored tents and canopies dotted the ground around the outer wall of the city in anticipation of Minas Tirith’s inaugural charity auction for the widows and orphans of the war. Many of the onlookers gathered underneath the tents, little deterred by the weather. From the conversations Boromir caught as he walked by, it sounded as if they were already placing their bets.

Éomer beckoned Boromir to join him near the stage. He had rolled up the sleeves of his own flimsy shirt, revealing his forearms. Beads of water clung to his hair, and his shirt, stuck to his skin from the misty rain, left little to the imagination.

A glance at his own shirt told Boromir that he looked much the same. Blast this auction.

“Why are we doing this again, Éomer?” Boromir grumbled.

“It’s for charity,” Éomer said without looking at him. His gaze was fixed to the right, where Éowyn and Lothíriel sat beneath a canopy, reclining upon cushions and eating from a bowl they shared between them. “It’s for widows and orphans.” Éomer turned with unnecessary force, sending his hair fanning about his shoulders—Boromir suspected for Lothíriel’s benefit, for she and Éowyn watched them with great interest—as he turned to face Boromir.

The distance was not so great and the drizzle of rain not so thick that Boromir could not see the way that Lothíriel’s gaze followed Éomer appreciatively. She and Éowyn bent their heads together and whispered furtively.

“I am not certain the widows are here solely for the charitable donations they are about to receive,'' Boromir said, for indeed many of the widows, gathered next to the stage so that donors might see those they were assisting, looked upon Éomer, Boromir, and the other men of Rohan and Gondor assembled near the stage with open admiration and many a wandering glance.

“All the better for them.” Éomer grinned.

Boromir picked at his shirt. The fabric only clung to his skin even more. “Must these be so thin?”

Footsteps sounded behind them. “You have stayed in fine form, my friend,” said the king’s voice, tinged with laughter. Aragorn stepped into view and thumped Boromir on the back. “I am certain the widows are appreciative.” He clasped Boromir’s shoulders firmly and looked him up and down. His lips twitched with barely contained laughter. “Very appreciative, indeed.”

Boromir crossed his arms and bit his tongue.

“You should stand that way on the stage,” Éomer put in. “It’s very flattering.”

Boromir quickly uncrossed his arms.

Aragorn laughed. “Good luck, my friends.” He bade them farewell and went to join Arwen.

Imrahil’s voice rang out over the fields, bidding the onlookers welcome and laying out the rules of the auction. The crowd was to bid upon who they thought was the most handsome of the men of the Mark and of Gondor, and all proceeds would go to the widows and orphans. “And the prize of this auction,” Imrahil said, pausing for effect, “is a kiss from the man who has received the highest bid. He shall bestow it upon the willing recipient of his choosing.”

Boromir heard more than one sigh from the direction of the audience.

Boromir had already decided that if he were to win, he would bestow the honor upon Beregond’s young daughter, Míriel, who was starstruck by her Uncle Boromir and Uncle Faramir. (Beregond and his wife, Idhres, had chastised her many times for calling the princes thus, but Boromir did not mind.) The rules, after all, did not state the nature of the promised kiss. A kiss upon the forehead or hand was still a kiss.

Faramir stood behind the stage, directing the men into a single line. He had declined to participate on the grounds of being a married man.

Would that Boromir had such an excuse. Bachelorhood had its disadvantages.

Imrahil introduced the first man, one of Éomer’s former Éored, if Boromir was not mistaken, though ahead of him Éomer seemed not to notice. Members of the audience shouted bids, and Imrahil recorded the highest in his ledger.

The bidding continued on in a drone of voices. Boromir paid no mind to it.

Éomer stomped impatiently and tugged at the low neck of his shirt. He turned to Boromir. “How do I look?” If Boromir did not know Éomer so well, he might have said that his friend seemed nervous. But Éomer had never been one to fear.

“Wet. Nearly shirtless.” The mist had turned to a light rain by now, and their shirts had become entirely translucent. Boromir pushed his dripping hair from his face.

“Do you think—” Éomer was cut off by Faramir gesturing for him to ascend the steps to the stage.

Boromir waved Éomer away. “Go. Take all of the bids for me.”

Éomer climbed the stairs, and Imrahil announced him. “And now, the King of the Mark! Who will bid upon this paragon of Rohirric—”

“Virility!” The shout came from the direction of Éomer’s guardsmen, who nudged each other and laughed, saluting their king with their steins of ale.

“Virtue,” Imrahil finished drily, though Boromir knew the man well enough to recognize the slight twitch in his lips that belied his humor.

The men of Rohan booed good-naturedly.

“Do I have a bid for Éomer King?” Imrahil called.

“We will bid!” several voices shouted.

Boromir squinted through the rain. Three men were standing up in the middle of the crowd—his cousins. That meant trouble.

“What is your bid?” asked Imrahil, sounding suddenly weary.

“Two hundred castars,” Amrothos said. Only a prince’s purse—or several, as it were—could bear to part with such a sum. And it was, to Boromir’s dim recollection of the morning’s bidding, the highest bid that had been named yet.

“Does anyone have a higher bid?”

Silence fell over the onlookers.

Imrahil sighed. “Very well. Bring your money to the collection table to be counted.” He noted the sum in his ledger.

Faramir gestured for Boromir to climb the stairs to the stage. Clearly biting back laughter, he patted Boromir’s shoulder. “Good luck.”

“I have no desire for good fortune,” Boromir groused.

“Then I wish you luck in losing.”

Boromir climbed the stairs to applause from the crowd.

Imrahil smiled warmly at him, then turned to the crowd. “Who will bid upon Gondor’s very own captain?”

Various voices shouted bids, but none reached the sum named by Imrahil’s sons. Boromir breathed a sigh of relief and descended the stairs on the opposite side of the stage, picking out Éomer in the crowd and moving toward him.

Éomer clapped him on the shoulder. “You need not have feared.”

Boromir shook his head, laughing. “My cousins seem intent on your winning. Knowing them, they have contrived some plot.”

Éomer stilled.

Boromir studied him, recalling Faramir’s words that morning. Perhaps his and Éowyn’s plan was connected to whatever Imrahil’s sons had concocted. It would be very unlike his brother, who had never had close friendship with their Dol Amroth cousins, but it was possible.

Éomer’s affection for Lothíriel, and hers for him, were readily apparent to all. Imrahil’s protectiveness of his only daughter was equally apparent and had appeared to be a sticking point in anything coming of their feelings for each other.

Hiding a smile and leaving Éomer to his worries, Boromir turned to watch the rest of the auction. He had had no need to fear, indeed.

The last bid was called, and Imrahil tallied the bids in his ledger. Éomer had grown steadily paler during the rest of the auction, and he now was visibly fidgeting.

“The bids have been tallied!” Imrahil’s voice rang out over the field. “Éomer King received the highest bid. Please come to the stage and make your selection.”

Éomer walked to the stage with all the enthusiasm of a man headed to the gallows. Sudden movement at the front of the audience caught Boromir’s eye. Amrothos and Erchirion had moved to stand in front of something—or someone.

Boromir glanced at the tent where Éowyn and Lothíriel had been sitting. Lothíriel was gone, and only Éowyn and Faramir stood beneath the tent, whispering to each other.

“Who do you choose, Éomer?” Imrahil said.

Éomer stood before the stage looking far less confident than he had earlier that morning.

“Perhaps our sister?” came a shout from the crowd. Amrothos and Erchirion pushed Lothíriel in front of them.

Éomer froze. Imrahil crossed his arms, visibly displeased.

Boromir bit back a laugh.

“She is very beautiful, do you not think?” Amrothos pushed Lothíriel closer to the stage until she stood an arm’s length away from Éomer.

Éomer appeared to be having difficulty speaking.

Whispers ran through the crowd.

Éomer finally stirred and reached out to take Lothíriel’s hand in his. He bent and quickly kissed her hand, then stepped back.

But Lothíriel did not pull away. Rather, she tugged on Éomer’s hand and drew him closer, then kissed him sweetly upon the lips. Her brothers erupted in hoots and hollers, and the crowd broke out in cheers.

Imrahil’s frown deepened.

Lothíriel stepped away from Éomer, looking only slightly abashed, and mouthed an apology to her father.

Éomer stood like a man knocked over the head.

“That concludes the Charity Auction for Widows and Orphans of the War,” Imrahil said at last, just barely audible over the excitement of the crowd.

Smiling and shaking his head, Boromir stepped away and made his way to Faramir and Éowyn’s tent, where they stood clapping.

Boromir joined them. “Could you not have told me of your plans beforehand?”

“And risk spoiling our plans? Look how happy they are,” Éowyn said. Indeed, Éomer seemed more at ease surrounded by Lothíriel’s eager brothers and bolstered by the cheering of the crowd, and Lothíriel was smiling widely.

“They only needed a little nudge,” Faramir agreed.

“I am surprised you took part in this conspiracy,” Boromir said to his brother.

Faramir wrapped his arm around Éowyn’s waist. “I wish for everyone to have the happiness that I have found. And it was Éowyn and Lothíriel’s plan.” That was less surprising. Éowyn and Lothíriel were fast friends.

Faramir patted Boromir's shoulder. “Did you really believe that I would let you suffer so?”

“Yes,” Boromir said.

Faramir and Éowyn laughed gaily. “It will be your turn next time,” Faramir said with a grin.

Boromir cuffed him.

#also featuring questionable depictions of auctions for the sake of shipping #this is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing i've ever written #enjoy #lotr #boromir #faramir #eomer #eowyn #lothiriel #imrahil #aragorn #my fic

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rangers-arecool · 3 days

Text

For: Boromir :: @menelvagor Muse: Almáriel Place: Minas Tirith

She hadn't intended on getting a temporary one way pass to the Healing Halls of Minas Tirith. Hadn't been anywhere close to needing the assistance of their Healers. Not when she was used to dealing with this type of injury on her own. A Ranger of the South, who's permanent post was just inside Mordor's border with Ithilien, keeping silent watch over it.

But apparently Faramir and Anborn thought differently.

Which, seeing as the golden haired young woman had actually passed out, might have been a good call by her Captain. Dark grey eyes blinked open and stared up at the familiar ceiling of her rarely used apartment, just behind the main part of the Healing Halls. As very few people actually had access to aforementioned place, it meant Faramir had actually brought her here himself.

Barely a second after that thought, the memories of why she had needed the Healers in the first place returned. Faramir nearly getting himself caught by the Dark Lord's minions. The pain never registered as Almáriel shot into a sitting position and straight into a coughing fit, alarming the younger of the Steward's sons.

"Pass me that glass of water please, big brother? Mari, breathe."

"What the everlastin'.. fuck do you.. think I'm tryin'.. ta do, Faramir...?" She answered, the coughing fit beginning to ease so that she could finally straighten. Only then, did the Ithilien Ranger notice who else was in the room with them.

"Lord Boromir."

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 1 year

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Turning Points

Pairing: Éomer x reader (who doesn’t want to imagine themselves hanging out with Éomer??). Plus an Elfhelm cameo because I love that dude.

Summary: Éomer’s lifelong best friend reckons with how much and how quickly his life has changed as a result of the war and wonders what that means for the life she had hoped to have with him.

************

The clear, deep sound of horns rang out in the distance and alerted all of Edoras to the imminent arrival of the army, home for the first time since that urgent, panicked ride to Helm’s Deep more than two months ago. Although word of their subsequent deeds and victories in Gondor had already reached the city, many details were yet unknown, and the mood of those who gathered in the streets was celebratory but tinged with anxiety as hopeful eyes prepared to scan the returning éoreds for a first glimpse of deeply missed loved ones.

The terrace in front of Meduseld quickly filled with people, and you slipped easily into the crowd as the first few companies of horsemen began to climb the hill. The riders smiled broadly at the cheers and flowers that rained down on them, though some still bore clear evidence of painful wounds and fractures. Others led behind them riderless horses, the mounts of those soldiers who would never return. You whispered a quiet prayer of gratitude, knowing from the messengers who had gone back and forth from Minas Tirith that both of those most precious to you were safely in the host.

No sooner had you finished your prayer than a cry went up from the crowd–“Hail, Elfhelm, Marshal of Edoras!”—and your father came into view. As gregarious as he was popular, he played shamelessly to the crowd, doffing his stallion-crested helmet and waving a shield that had clearly been confiscated from some defeated Haradrim commander. When his eyes finally landed on you, he gave a joyful whoop and sprang from the saddle. Throwing the helmet and shield aside, he ran to you with the speed of a much younger man, and the strength of his embrace forced the breath from your lungs. He spun you around several times as you kissed his sunburned cheeks, and when he placed you on your feet again he grasped your shoulders and gazed for a long moment at your face.

“Many nights have I dreamed of just this view,” he said. “There is no finer one in all of Middle Earth.”

You gave his hands a squeeze. “I have not known a moment’s peace since you left. Now that you are back, I may never let you leave again.”

“I am at your command, my lady,” he said with a smile and an exaggerated bow. “But I do not flatter myself so much as to think that I am the only one you have been missing. The royal household will be arriving soon, and I am certain you are as eager to see the new king as he must be to see you.”

Your heart leaped in your chest at the mention of Éomer, but this was not the time or the place to open the gate that held back those feelings. “For my part, I shall certainly be glad to see him home and safe. But a man such as Éomer has many friends, and no doubt he desires to see them all.”

He burst into laughter. “Do you speak such nonsense on purpose, or have I really raised you to be so naive? I know that you do not admit it to others, and perhaps not even between yourselves, but I have watched the two of you for many years now and I know love when I see it. Let us not pretend you are just one friend among many, a single star in a crowded sky. You are his sun, just as he is yours. I may be old, but I am certainly not blind.”

Your face flushed in pain and embarrassment. If your father had perceived all of this, likely others had, too. It was true that you loved Éomer, and you had always believed he loved you back. You felt his devotion in the way he trusted you and watched out for you, in the look on his face when you walked into a room. But neither of you had ever stated it outright. Perhaps you had been wrong all along, reading a great deal too much into a cherished friendship. Or perhaps what he felt was no longer relevant given his new responsibilities and duties. Either way, when Éomer married another in a few months' time, your crushed hopes would be on display for the whole city to see and discuss.

“Things have changed, father. You know that. The Éomer that I have known all my life was Éomund’s son. He was not heir to the throne of Rohan and certainly not its king. His life is very different now from the one we might have expected just months ago when Théodred was still alive.”

He sighed. “Much has happened, I concede. He has gone from nephew to heir to king. He nearly lost his sister. He comes home with much to reflect on. But his heart itself has not changed.”

“Has it not?” Despite your best efforts, your voice broke and tears began to slide down your cheeks. “Then what of the news that has already made its way back here in advance of your return? Amongst word of your victories and the death of poor Théoden, it also said that Éomer is to marry the princess of Dol Amroth. They say she is considered a proper match for a king of the Mark, and that none less than the new king of Gondor himself proposed it. If I have heard this, surely you have, too.”

Your father reached up to gently brush a tear aside. “Anyone who would claim that you–the finest woman in all of Rohan–are not a proper match for our own king does not have sense enough to offer an opinion on the subject. I have heard this talk of Dol Amroth, it is true, but I have not heard any of it from Éomer’s own lips. And I will not believe it unless I do. His choice was made long ago. You will see.” He put a finger under your chin and tipped your face up to him. “Now, I would stay here and debate this with you all day if your mother were not surely waiting for me at home. And if she thinks I have not hurried there with sufficient speed, she will soon accomplish what all the swordsmen of Harad could not!”

You smiled in spite of yourself and kissed him one last time before he remounted his horse. He gave you a wink as he rode on, and you dried your eyes before turning back to the procession of riders making their way forward.

Before long, the king’s banner appeared at the bottom of the hill. Even at that distance, it was easy to identify Éomer among the many men of his household–you would always recognize his frame and the way he carried himself even if he were not wearing his distinctive horse-tailed helmet and sitting astride Firefoot, who had now been arrayed with a saddle and bridle that sparkled with the gold of a monarch.

As he came into closer view, you could begin to discern the new trappings of royalty–the beautiful green cloak trimmed with shining gold embroidery, the neatly braided hair, the fur-lined boots. But underneath these superficial changes, he still looked like your Éomer. The same man who shared with you a lifetime of confidences and mischief and private jokes. The one who cried in your arms when he missed his parents. Who doted on you whenever you were sick and angrily confronted anyone he thought had hurt your feelings. Who stole your breath every time he turned his hazel eyes and dimpled smile in your direction.

His company dismounted near the bottom of the terrace, and he moved toward the stairs, trailed by attendants, guards and throngs of well-wishers eager to greet their new king. The clamor presented a perfect opportunity to slip away now that you had confirmed with your own eyes that he was safe and unharmed. It was the coward’s way out, but even one more day before you had to directly confront your new reality would be a gift. Just as you began to turn away, however, the sound of his voice carried over the tumult, calling your name.

You froze in place as he approached, feeling immediately uncertain of everything–how to stand, where to look, what to do. A lifetime of affectionate greetings and easy companionship had not prepared you to meet under these circumstances, not as intimate friends but as ruler and subject. Beloved and left behind. Hearing nothing but the sound of your own blood pulsing in your veins, you bowed and looked down.

“Hail, Éomer King.” When you finally raised your eyes, you could see uncertainty written on his face as well. He took another step toward you but stopped, and tentatively reached out a hand before dropping it back to his side. He looked in both directions, where dozens of attentive faces observed his every move.

“I am glad to see you,” he said quietly. His eyes sought yours, and when you allowed them to meet he gave you a soft smile. “I have missed you.”

“I…I am much relieved to see you home. These have been long and anxious months.”

Before either of you could speak again, an armored man at Éomer’s side cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of Meduseld. “You are expected in the hall, my lord. There is much business awaiting your attention, including messages due both to Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth.”

The mention of Dol Amroth sent an icy stab of pain into your chest, and you shrank back several steps, seeking a swift retreat. “Go ahead, my lord,” you managed to say. “A king’s duties must come first.”

His thick brows drew together and he frowned slightly, but eventually he nodded his assent. Your feet carried you away and down a maze of small streets and back alleys, picking up speed as you got further from the crowd, until at last you reached the edge of the city and disappeared into the surrounding fields and paddocks. You cast yourself down in the tall, sweet-smelling grass, shedding tears until you had none left and then staring up dolefully at the flat, blank sky. No matter how you considered and reconsidered your position, only two excruciating choices seemed to lay before you–either to find a new way to love Éomer, shorn of all romantic possibility and content to exist on the terms available to you, or to lose him entirely from your life. The first option felt beyond your strength, but the second was utterly unthinkable.

Uncounted hours passed until it began to darken and torches and candles sparked to life in the distance. Miserable and cold but not yet ready to join the revelry of your family, you wandered back to the city and found yourself headed to the old tack room at the marshal’s stables. Ever since childhood, the abandoned little storage space had served as a private spot to meet your friends, talk or simply to think, and during the war you had spent many hours there alone ruthlessly poring over your fears and concerns.

Throwing open the door and expecting to find it empty as always, you instead walked straight into Éomer, practically bouncing off his chest as he stood just past the threshold. Gone were the outward adornments of royalty, and he looked as you were accustomed to seeing him—simple clothing, well-used boots, hair in loose waves on his shoulders. “Éomer! I mean….I’m sorry. Excuse me, my lord.”

He grimaced a little. “Please, that is not necessary here. Not when it is us. I would like one piece of my old life that is familiar, someone who will still treat me not as king but as myself. I thought you might be here and hoped we could talk as we always have.”

He sat on an old saddle trunk and looked up at you expectantly. Here now was the first opportunity to test your strength—to be there for him simply as a friend and see if you could endure it—and so you nodded and sat next to him.

He was quiet at first, looking around the room and seeming lost in thought. The issue of his pending marriage felt to you like a heavy, palpable presence in the room, but you did not have the heart to raise the subject yet. Instead, you clasped your arms around yourself and waited for him to speak, to give some indication of what he was thinking.

“Do you remember my fifteenth birthday?” he asked suddenly.

“Your…fifteenth birthday? Yes, I think so.” Fragments of distant memories quickly reassembled in your mind. “That was the night you dragged a stolen cask of ale in here, wasn’t it? And then you drank more than half of it all on your own.”

“Which meant you had to spend the rest of the night holding back my hair while I experienced the consequences.”

You smiled. “Yes. Though I experienced some of your consequences, too, if I recall. Those shoes were never the same again.”

He snorted a laugh, and for just a moment things felt almost normal again. Easy and light, as they had been when you were just those two coltish teenagers, having fun and testing the limits of your adolescent independence. But as the laughter faded, the awkwardness returned and his face turned serious.

“I am sorry about this morning.” He shook his head slowly. “That was not how I imagined our reunion, but everything has become so difficult and formal now. I have few moments to myself or chances to do as I once would.”

You could hear in his voice the strain of this adjustment to always being the focus of attention, to being one who is honored and deferred to instead of one who is engaged with. No wonder he was thinking of earlier, simpler days. You longed to comfort him, to take his hand or sit with your head against his shoulder. “Do not apologize,” you said instead. “I understand that you have new demands on you. I regret only that I was not able to tell you how sorry I am about your uncle. I will miss his kind heart.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I take comfort in knowing that he would be proud of what his death achieved.”

Another small silence ensued before he looked up and smiled at you. “But now I must apologize again,” he said, “for I have not yet asked after you. Please, tell me how you have been since we last saw each other.”

You gave a dismissive wave of your hand. “There is not much to tell, at least nothing to stand alongside the great tales we have already heard of your heroic deeds.”

“I do not ask for great tales,” he insisted. “I want only to hear about you and what I have missed, great or small.”

“Well, what you missed were endless hours of inventories and supplies and checklists and stockpiles. Many of the men who typically see to those basic concerns were injured or killed at Helm’s Deep, or they were called away to your muster. So I filled my days with work that they would have done…tracking stores of food and medicine and equipment, ensuring they were sent where they were most needed, planning for replenishments when stocks ran low. It was nothing I have ever done before, obviously, but I am careful with numbers and can keep good records, which is most of what was required.”

He chuckled. “Old Elfhelm has always been so proud that his daughter is one of the few in Rohan to read and write. I heard him bragging as much to one of Lord Elrond’s sons back in Gondor.”

You smiled and shrugged. “That certainly sounds like him. He has never lacked paternal enthusiasm. Or the confidence to share his enthusiasm with literally anyone.”

“That is true, but he is right to be proud. You should be proud as well. Hunger and disease often follow in war’s footsteps, even for the victors, and that has not been allowed to happen here despite the destruction of so many villages and farms and the absence of so many of the normal laborers. That is a service any king would value.”

Your cheeks bloomed a bright red, and he smiled at your discomfort with praise. In truth, though, you were quite proud of what you had accomplished, and it was only hearing the praise from his lips that sent waves of warm color to your face. “Thank you,” you mumbled at last.

He seemed on the verge of speaking again, but instead he leaned back against the wall and contemplated the floor for several long moments. His knee jogged quickly up and down, a nervous tic he’d had ever since boyhood. Before you could ask what was troubling him, however, he looked up with an unsettling intensity.

“May I ask you something? And you will respond to me honestly, no matter what?”

His earnest tone sparked a flare of anxiety in your chest. Was this the moment when he intended to tell you of his engagement? When you would have to somehow react to this news with the graciousness and dignity you knew were required? “I will certainly try.”

He took a deep breath and winced slightly in anticipation of speaking. “I have spent many hours now reflecting on things that Éowyn related to me before I left Gondor. How she did not feel that she was able to live the life she wanted when she was here. That she could not be who she was meant to be simply because she was born a woman. I am ashamed that I was blind to the causes of her unhappiness and that she did not feel that she could confide her true feelings to me earlier. But having failed her then, I worry now that I may have failed others in my life as well. Others who are equally important to me.”

He suddenly turned and grasped your forearms, repositioning you both so that you now sat face to face rather than side by side.

“If you have ever felt that same unhappiness or believed that I was not willing or able to understand your feelings, will you now forgive me? I would not want anyone else to suffer as Éowyn did, and least of all you.”

Your heart broke a little at his words. It broke for Éomer, who would sooner give his life than intentionally hurt someone he cared for, and it broke for Éowyn, whose full feelings had never before been revealed to you. But, hearing now how she had felt, something in her words resonated with a deep part of you, reverberating off a chord you had not always been consciously aware of. You thought carefully for several moments before responding.

“If you ask me whether I ever resented you or the life that I led, the answer is no. I have always trusted in you above all others, and my life never felt anything but normal to me. But I, too, have reflected on these last months, and perhaps I can now better understand Éowyn’s mind.”

He nodded, encouraging you to continue.

“Amid the tragedy of these days, I found some purpose and meaning in the work I did. It was gratifying to feel truly useful for the first time. I did not know it before, as you do not know to miss something you never had, but once that instinct is awakened it is difficult to ignore. It seems it was awakened in Éowyn long ago. But, for myself, I cannot deny that I will now be deeply saddened to lose my sense of purpose once the men are all returned to their old duties and the help of a woman is no longer accepted.”

“Maybe that is not what has to happen,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I would not come to a new understanding of the world, to learn a necessary lesson at a steep cost, only to ignore that lesson and rule my kingdom as though I do not know any better. This will not be a land that I want to rule if half the people must always limit their talents and hopes to fit within the meager bounds afforded to them by the other half.”

His words hung in the air as you struggled to make sense of what you had heard. A chance to share in the great works and deeds of the kingdom, just as the elven women had always done in their own lands? To learn and achieve and stretch yourself in ways that had never before been possible, and not just when dictated by the necessity of war but as a part of everyday life? You had scarcely the courage to even dream of such a thing, but now it was being offered to you. And you knew you wanted it. “I will be the first to stand behind you in any such effort,” you say at last. “But what you suggest is a radical departure from the way that things have been for all the years of our history, indeed from the way that they have always been in all the lands of men. There may be strong opposition to change.”

“I do not fear a difficult task if I know it to be necessary. I will see it done.” He paused and gently picked up your hand to hold it between both of his. “Though I would be aided by the help of a capable queen. One who will rule with me, not as a token or a symbol, but as a true partner.”

His touch sent a jolt of lightning through your arm, and you looked down at your hand to watch his thumb run lightly back and forth over your wrist. It left a trail of fire on your skin. “I…Well, I do not think I understand. Surely you mean Prince Imrahil’s daughter?”

“Imrahil’s daughter?” He looked startled. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because news of a royal engagement travels quickly, perhaps faster than you realize. Half of Edoras has already heard about you and the princess of Dol Amroth.”

“Then half of Edoras has heard wrong.”

A small gasp escaped your lips before you could act to hold it back. You looked up into his eyes and drew a shallow breath. “Then…then you have changed your mind?”

“I have not, but only because it never needed changing. I am certain that any daughter of Imrahil is a good and worthy woman, but I declined that match when it was suggested. Any report to the contrary is the result of confusion or rumor. It is true that I am ready for marriage, but I do not wish to bind myself forever to someone I barely know. To someone whose heart and mind I do not yet fully understand. Not when my own heart has long been reserved for one who I already know to be the best of women.” He drew your hand up and pressed it tightly to his chest, where you could feel the steady, strong beat of that heart against your fingertips. “If she will have me.”

All the world seemed suddenly still, as though you were balanced precariously on the crest of a hill, waiting for the last tip forward that would send you rushing headlong down into a new and joyous life. You opened your mouth to respond but found that no words would come. Instead, you raised a hand to his face, lightly tracing your fingers along his jaw before sinking them into his dark golden hair and pulling him toward you for a kiss that had been decades in the making.

It was worth the wait.

#lotr #lord of the rings #fan fiction #lotr fanfic #eomer #eomer x reader #hail eomer king #and Elfhelm too #i do apologize to the lothiriel fans #i’ve just always wanted to see him pick someone from the home team!

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rangers-are-cool-moved · 1 year

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For: Open | Let me know if you want this tagged to a specific muse Muse: Hal Verse: Fading Light

As a Dúnedan and a Ranger of the North, trust was not something she was used to being granted. In the darkened days of the third Age, that trust had grown - but not when it came to her. The actions of her parents had always worked against her, despite being trusted by her own kin.

The so-called fight and her subsequent abandonment to the Darkside had proven that she couldn't be trusted. But few outside of Aragorn and the Dúnedain knew the truth. It was all a lie, used to protect her on the undercover mission to Angmar. A task that even many of her kin had baulked at.

"Get.. the Hobbits.. out of.. here..."

Her help had made the way to Mordor and Mount Doom far easier, although no one had known. Not even her kin. The Hobbits had been her priority and with the One Ring now destroyed, Hal knew that getting them away from the erupting volcano was all that mattered.

Death had never really phased her. Not when she had one foot in the Dead for decades. And her injuries ensured that getting off the volcano under her own power wasn't going to happen. So dying here was the only other option.

GANDALF AND THE EAGLES DECIDED OTHERWISE.

The former Esteldin Commander had been fighting to stay conscious ever since reaching the top of Mt Doom. But getting picked up by Landroval finally allowed her to pass out, knowing Frodo and Sam would be safe. Her own safety was just an after thought.

But that would soon alter when the Ranger woke up in the High Healing Halls within Minas Tirith. There had been a few times when they thought she wouldn't stir at all. As typical though, she was alone when dark grey eyes began to flicker open for the first time in a month.

Making it a surprise when the first visitor came to sit at her bedside. "Water please..."

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torchwood-99 · 2 months

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Do you have any Faramir and Eowyn headcanons? 🙏:).

Oooh boy do I have headcanons!!!

Right, pre-war, I headcanon Theodred and Boromir having an unofficial agreement to marry Eowyn and Faramir to each other. Both of them want to re-ignite the alliance between Gondor and Rohan. Boromir wants to see his little brother happily wed, and Theodred wants to see Eowyn away from Grima, for her own sake and to circumvent any plans Grima has for her. Theodred and Boromir’s mutual affection also makes them want to unite their houses in some way.

Theodred nearly manages to get Eowyn to Minas Tirith. Eowyn dislikes nursing, but does have an interest in certain aspects of healing, such as herblore and surgery (it’s tending to the emotional needs of the patient she does not, nor ever will, care for), and as it becomes clear that her uncle will not let her join an Eored, she agrees to Theodred’s suggestion that she come to Minas Tirith to study to be a healer. She will do so under a fake name, for safety’s sake, which is especially exciting for her.

She thinks it will be an adventure, a chance to live in the “big city”, with other young people, without the restraints of royalty keeping her in check. It will also mean she will have a role and a purpose once Theodred has married and she is supplanted as Lady of Meduseld.

Theoden grudgingly agrees to it, but just as Eowyn is making plans to depart, Grima convinces Theoden that it will be foolish to send Eowyn into Gondor’s hands, as it will just mean giving them a hostage. He also exacerbates Theoden’s illness, forcing Eowyn to stay back and nurse him.

Had Eowyn gone to Minas Tirith, Boromir and Theodred’s plan would have been for Eowyn to meet Faramir there, and arrange a courtship between them.

I headcanon Eowyn, Faramir and Merry being quite a trio during their stay at the Houses of Healing, and that Faramir and Merry into Eowyn’s bedroom at night, with food and cards and Merry’s pipe, and they hide under the bed when the healers do their rounds. Merry and Faramir have an unspoken alliance to make Eowyn smile and give her things to laugh about.

The Fellowship is delighted about Faramir and Eowny’s engagement. Gandalf has known Faramir and Eowyn since childhood, and is therefore delighted at them finding happiness in each other, so soon after despair nearly destroyed them. Aragorn is glad that Eowyn has found happiness, and having older brotherly feelings for her, is genuinely pleased to welcome her to his court. He ends up taking a hand in her healing studies, and teaches her himself. The two grow very close in a teacher & pupil way. Meanwhile, Arwen and Faramir grow very close, Arwen indulging Faramir in his love of history and learning. They also share a love of poetry and music.

The rest of the Fellowship is delighted that Boromir’s younger brother (whom Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli take an older brotherly interest in, in place of Boromir) has found happiness. Legolas and Faramir become very close, while Gimli becomes very fond of Eowyn. Sam and Frodo know the pair the least, but they respect Faramir very much after he let them go with the Ring, and Frodo recognises in Eowyn some of his own depression, which Eowyn recognises in turn. They spend very little time together, but there’s an unspoken understanding between the two, as to what it is like to deal with mental health difficulties. Frodo (and Sam by extension) also appreciate Eowyn being the one to kill the Witch King. Frodo’s injuries from the Witch King actually ache a little less in Eowyn’s presence.

Merry and Pippin most of all are naturally thrilled, and on his arrival to the Field of Cormallen, Merry updates Pippin about Eowyn and Faramir’s courtship, and the two are on tenterhooks waiting for an update between the pair.

Eomer is less pleased when he finds out Eowyn is engaged. She is the last member of his family, and last time he saw her, she was suicidal and charging into battle, looking for death, whilst also nursing a broken heart. Aside from a desire to keep her close by, he (understandably) fears that Eowyn is entering into this marriage for the wrong reason.

He actually refuses Eowyn’s request to officially announce their betrothal, although he doesn’t forbid them from entering into a personal agreement. He just doesn’t want Eowyn to change her mind, and find herself stuck in an engagement that it is politically awkward to get out of.

Eomer finally makes the engagement official with the troth plighting at the funeral, which is a surprise for Eowyn, his way of showing his regards for her.

Faramir stays a while in Rohan, where his love for Eowyn only grows as he sees what a capable ruler and leader she is. He decides that a large part of Ithilien’s governance will be in Eowyn’s hands, as he will have much preoccupied with the Stewardship of Gondor. When they marry, he invests Eowyn with official powers, so that she can rule Ithilien with her own authority, not just his.

Faramir, Eomer and Eowyn grow very close as a trio during Faramir’s stay, and Eomer ends up missing them both greatly when they go.

While Eowyn’s day to day business is that of healer, she still trains with her sword and assists Faramir in clearing out orcs and guarding Ithilien. However, when she wishes to accompany Faramir and Aragorn to the razing of Minas Morgul, she is denied, on the grounds that it could be potentially diplomatically catastrophic if Eowyn came to serious harm under Aragorn’s orders.

The Razing of Minas Morgul starts off terribly, with the soldiers much terrorised by the evils that lurk there. Eowyn hears about the sufferings of the troops, the low morale and the work that never seems to progress, when some soldiers are sent to Emyn Arnen with requests for supplies. Eowyn dresses as a man once more and sneaks along with the supplies.

Rumours start spreading about her presence, and the morale instantly lifts, partially due to the presence of the Witch King Slayer having an impact on the lingering magic, but also because Eowyn’s story itself gives heart to the soldiers, which allows them to share their renewed hope with other soldiers, which spreads throughout the army.

Faramir hears the rumours before Aragorn, but stays quiet about them. In the end, Aragorn has to summon Eowyn, as the rumours are too wide spread for him to turn a blind eye to. He has to pretend to disapprove, while being secretly pleased. Faramir is just pleased.

#sorry for the late reply!#I had so many ideas I didn't know where to start #LOTR #Lord of the Rings #Eowyn #Faramir #Farawyn #headcanon

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lathalea · 1 year

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Waiting

Relationships: Boromir x OC (possibly Reader) Rating: G Summary: Boromir embarks on a mission for Rivendell, leaving the lady of his heart behind. And so she waits for his return... A/N: This is my gift for @heilith. HUGS! 💙💙💙

Waiting

She kept on waiting.

First, she counted the days until their next meeting, after the handsome Captain of Gondor appeared at her cottage at the edge of the forest for the first time.

Then, he started visiting her more often—as often as he could—galloping on his horse to her, leaving the White City and his worries behind. Sometimes, they would spend an evening at the nearby brook, looking at the stars, sometimes she would invite him in for a light meal, and sometimes they would walk the woods in search of the best blackberry bushes, or to that little glade she liked so much. And they would talk—about everything and anything. Boromir’s hand would brush against hers, as if by accident, and when she would look up, her skin tingling, his warm gaze would rest on her face and then slowly slide down to her lips… And then words would die on his lips, and he would look away.

On the brink of the summer, she waited for the great feast on the King’s Day, and when the day finally came, she rode to Minas Tirith in her best gown, to take part in the festivities. There was music and song in the air, the wine was sweet, and Boromir made her heart flutter, cutting a strapping figure in his tunic adorned with the emblem of the White Tree. They danced the night away, and then he led her to the highest level of the city where the view took her breath away. The view—and the kiss that came shortly after, tender and gentle. Boromir held her in his arms until the first rays of the morning sun painted the white walls of the city pink. Since that night, his murmured words of devotion, of his feelings for her, rang in her ears every evening when she put her head on her pillow.

There were shadows under Boromir’s eyes when they saw each other for the last time that summer. He was to embark on a dangerous mission to Rivendell and ask the elves for their words of wisdom. Gondor’s future was at stake. His people’s future. He did not know when he would return, but in that forest glade he made a pledge: he would return—to her.

The ring he slipped on her finger was cool against her skin, but his hands that held hers were warm and strong. And when he asked the only question she hoped for, she gave him the only reply she dreamed of giving.

I will wait for you, Boromir, and I will marry you when you return.

And so she waited. Hours turned into days, days turned into months, but there was no word of the brave Captain of Gondor nor of his whereabouts. The summer was long gone, the autumn made way for the winter that held the land in its frosty grip. The new year celebrations came and passed, and still she waited.

February was coming to an end when she once again visited their forest glade and looked into the nearby pond. Its cold waters rippled as she touched its surface, but as they stilled, a series of images formed in front of her eyes. People in boats. Boromir among them. A forest at the edge of an unknown river. Dark shapes between the trees. A chase. Boromir drawing his sword; protecting someone. Fighting. A monstrous creature drawing a bow. A black arrow cutting through the air… and hitting its target. Boromir swaying… And then a boat going down the river, towards the falls ahead. Was it empty…? She could not see. She closed her eyes. Her greatest consolation was the ring on her finger and the words of love she heard from Boromir on the day they parted. He made a pledge. He would return to her.

And so she waited.

Reluctantly, spring came into its rights, and with it, words of a great danger casting a shadow over the whole realm of Gondor. Then, a great army was seen marching on the White City. When the local villagers took their belongings and hid deep in the safety of the forest, she went together with them. Perhaps it was for the best that Boromir would not see if the walls of his home would crumble under the power of darkness.

Several weeks passed until they saw the sun again as the village elders decided it was time to return to their homes. A messenger brought word that the enemy was defeated and that the true king of Gondor returned, just like the old prophecies said. But he did not know what had befallen Boromir.

One day before the coronation of King Aragorn Elessar, the sound of hooves against the forest ground reached her ears. She took a look through the window and could not believe her eyes. It could not be.

“Boromir!” she exclaimed, running out of her cottage towards the familiar figure of a rider.

In a blink of an eye, he dismounted and took her in his arms.

“It is me, my spring flower,” he murmured, holding her close.

“You came back to me!” She searched his face greedily, taking joy in the noble features she knew so well.

“I told you I would,” he smiled and ran his hand through her hair.

“But… I had a dream… a vision… I saw a battle… an orc… an arrow…” her voice trembled. “And then the boat…”

“Hush, my love, I am well. An orc pack attacked us, that is correct. I was merely wounded. We were on a mission of great importance. I managed to keep my wits about me and together with lord Aragorn, our future king, we sent the little ones ahead, together with the ring. We stood our ground together and defeated the enemy,” Boromir replied.

“Lord Aragorn…? The little ones? And the ring? What ring?” Her eyes widened.

“It was only a meaningless trinket, and now it is destroyed. The only ring that filled my thoughts every day since the day we parted was the one I put on your finger,” he took her hand in his and placed a soft kiss over her knuckles. “I counted days until we would meet again.”

“So did I, my beloved,” she admitted as his fingers brushed against her cheek.

Their lips met in haste, but there was tenderness in their kiss that made her weak in the knees as she drank in his closeness.

The Captain of Gondor took her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes, “Will you come with me now to my city? Will you marry me there?”

“There is nothing else I would rather do, Boromir,” she admitted, her words a whisper.

“I dreamed of hearing these words from you,” he placed another kiss on her lips. “Let us ride. We both have waited long enough.”

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