#boromir/oc

[esta-elavaris]

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

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

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

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

Dividers by cafekitsune

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

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

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

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

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

…Was she hurt? Had she been taken?

“Sarah? Sarah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s…it’s a stupid joke.”

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

“Look, I really need to-”

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

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

“Pardon?”

“Sarah Jessica Barker,” she repeated.

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

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

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

She spun on her heel but his voice stopped her.

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

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

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

“What does she look like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was with a heavy sigh that he spoke next.

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

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

“What are you doing?”

He grinned at her, the impact annoyingly devastating.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, for the love of…”

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

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

“I’m getting my dog.”

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

“She’s my dog.”

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

“You can’t-”

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

“Tell me your name.”

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

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

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

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

Sarah watched the spectacle with curiosity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Faster than a dog?” she asked doubtfully.

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

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

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

Yes, there would be absolutely no living this down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[softboiledwonderland]

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

[southamptons]

Moths

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You always did.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You loudly signed and twiched in fright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes'.

Moth touched the flame, but didn't burn.

I did this on pinterest :>

[scyllas-revenge]

Chapter 32: Get in, Loser, We’re Going to Gondor

only one bed it’s the only one bed chapter that is all

[emilybeemartin]

Illustrations from chapter 1, sort of a grab bag, stylistically, because I did a lot of them in the process of writing, instead of as one big batch.

[sotwk]

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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Reblog if you think Boromir would OBIVIOUSLY date a bookworm

[esta-elavaris]

On the flet, they were offered water, which she sipped at just enough to ease the scratch in her throat, and food rations, which she could not stomach at all. Neither she, nor Boromir, nor the ellon who had been assigned to watch over them, spoke. Somewhere through the leaves, though, Sam was in passionate conversation with his kin. Sybil suspected he had no idea that she could hear him at all, out of sight as she and Boromir were from the rest. Sitting atop her cloak, her knees beneath her chin, she listened silently as they debated. "If she hadn't, I would have. She stopped me," Pippin was insisting quietly. "She stopped you and then did it herself! What's the good in that? A seer who diverts disaster just to bring it about with her own two hands after? What's next? Will she stop Strider from being stabbed, and then do it with her own blade? Will she save that…it…from the enemy's grasp, and then-" Boromir shifted where he sat beside her, shaking his head and then opened his mouth to call out, but Sybil grabbed his hand, squeezing it and shaking her head. The hobbit's voice was tearful, and it was clear he spoke from a place of grief rather than true hatred – or so she hoped, anyway. But even if not, could he be blamed? Would she react much differently in his place?

[Boromir/OC] ~ 4,906 words

[softboiledwonderland]

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

[lathalea]

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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[taisha-san]

[Commission for @adhdthomasthorne ]

First time drawing Boromir, I enjoyed the commission <3 canonxoc are my favorite things to draw ✨️

🌱Commissions are open!🌱

Don't be afraid to ask <3

[scyllas-revenge]

18-ish long months of hiatus and the next chapter is out!! Was it worth the wait? Absolutely not, but still.

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls (Complete)

Summary: You gather healing supplies below the Falls of Rauros when a boat with a dying man drops at your feet. As you take the stranger home, you resolve to achieve the impossible: to heal him, find out who he is, and figure out why he is so determined to die.

For @scyllas-revenge

※※※

Pairing: Boromir x Reader (no specified gender)

Tumblr Links: [ 1. The Stranger ] [ 2. Lord Främling ] [ 3. Healing ] [ 4. Convalescence ] [ 5. Boromir ] [ 6. Defense ] [ 7. Free ] [ Bonus: Love (E-rated) ]

AO3 Link: Stranger of the Falls

Rating: T (apart from the bonus chapter)

Complete Word Count: 18 400

Tags: Hurt/comfort, Injury Recovery, Healing, Boromir Lives, Only One Bed, Falling in Love, Orc Attack, Kissing, Wholesome, Sex (bonus chapter).

Warnings: Injuries, Blood, Suicidal Character

[murder-me-with-ink]

Commission for @boromirswife and their adorable oc!!

I hope you like it!

[sotwk]

Statues of Boromir in Minas Tirith

@scyllas-revenge I decided to move our discussion off that poor Pride and Prejudice post before we annoy the folks who just came to look at the pretty gifs and not listen to our unrelated and unhinged Boromir simping. XD

I LOVE YOUR HEADCANONS! Furiously taking notes to fuel the scene going on my head and preparing to shamelessly steal the vibes from the P&P movie scene.

Picturing all the Gondorian maidens gazing wistfully (and not too subtly) at those portraits and statues of the Captain of Gondor! As for the "lone" Faramir statue--joke's on Dad. It was placed exactly where a good portion of his fanbase probably resides, and I'm sure it gets a lot of dreamy-eyed visitors as well.

We're plotting and I love it. I hope whoever reads this post lets it inspire their Boromir (or Faramir!) imaginings too, if they wish.