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hottpinkpenguin · 2 years

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Knees - Boromir X Fem!Reader

Oneshot, word count: 3,167 Summary: You've tried to keep your feelings for Gondor's favored captain a secret, and done a damn good job. Until now. Warnings: angst, fluff, heavy steam, implied oral sex A/n: the poem in this oneshot borrows heavily from the lyrics of 'Old Gods' by Emily Scott Robinson (highly recommend her music if you enjoy Nanci Griffith, James Taylor, or Joni Mitchell)

Boromir could feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing at his temples. The din of the crowd milling around the Tower Hall was grating on his last nerve. His father had insisted on an extravagant banquet to celebrate his recent successes as the High Warden of the White Tower, but Boromir would have preferred to rest and spend the evening strolling through the streets of Gondor unbothered. Eager to get away from the crowd, Boromir strode out of the busy throne room onto the south facing balcony.

The night air was warm and smelled of jasmine. Boromir took a deep inhale, leaning his hands on the rail of the balcony and gazing out over the Pelennor Fields, the expanse of grassland that stretched out from Minas Tirith’s feet towards the banks of the Anduin. Boromir strained his eyes against the dim twilight; he thought he could make out the parapets of Osgiliath, Gondor’s first capital, now little more than a ruined river crossing. Faramir was there, as commander of the city’s garrison. Boromir had ordered his brother to oversee repairs to the old city to prepare for the coming battle. Beyond the dark smudge of Osgiliath’s long-vacant towers, an ominous blackness loomed over the land of Mordor. His thoughts turned bleak as he wondered what was stirring behind the mountains in that black land. Scouts reports had confirmed that orcs were-

Boromir jumped at the tinny clang of something metal hitting the stone floor in a darkened corner of the balcony. Instinctually, Boromir’s right hand grasped at the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it in barely more than a breath. He crouched into a warrior’s pose, his sword held out in front of him and his features steely as he looked for the source of the noise.

The quickness of his movements startled you almost as much as your clumsiness had startled him. You were glad for the darkness as you felt your face flush with embarrassment at your discovery. You hadn’t expected the High Captain of Gondor to skip out on his own banquet; in fact, you’d been counting on having the balcony all to yourself, so you’d be able to write in peace. There certainly wouldn’t be anymore of that, now that the small candelabra you’d been using for light was in two pieces on the stone floor.

You leapt to your feet, muttering apologies and trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest. You’d never been so close to Boromir before, and certainly not alone in the dark. Your mouth went dry at the realization.

As one of the Steward’s personal scribes, you’d spent most of your life in the Tower Hall of Minas Tirith. On occasion, your work brought you into close contact with both of Denethor’s sons. Faramir was something of a friend to you, despite the difference in your stations. You both shared a love of the written word and his quiet temperament mirrored yours, making you fast friends. But it was Faramir’s older brother, the handsome and lordly High Warden, that made you go weak in the knees. It had been that way since you’d been old enough to notice such things.

You’d always admired him from a distance and kept your desires to yourself, confiding your feelings only in the pages of your journals. Nothing would come of your infatuation, you knew; Boromir was next in line for the Steward’s role, which was the closest thing Gondor had to a king. His title required him to wed someone of noble birth, and you knew his father would have nothing but the best for his favorite son. While your family was not poor and your duties as a scribe were a great source of pride to them, you did not have the aristocratic heritage needed to be a worthy match for the High Warden. And even if you did, he’s never looked twice at you, a harsh inner voice reminded you, causing your fragile heart to crumple at the reminder.

“Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t wish to disturb you.” Your voice sounded small and pathetic, and you felt your cheeks blaze with renewed embarrassment.

Boromir relaxed at the sound of your voice, dropping his sword and chuckling softly.

“You shouldn’t make a habit of startling armed men, you know,” Boromir chided you gently as he bent to pick up the fragments of the broken candelabra at your feet. He was so close that you could see the seams on his blue brocade tunic. When he stood, the candelabra in his hands, he stood almost a half foot taller than you. If you’d been bold enough to hold his gaze, you would have been forced to incline your chin up at him. But you kept your eyes fixed intently on the gray stone floor, hoping he couldn’t hear the erratic thudding of your heart in your chest. He was so close you swore you could feel the faint tickle of his breath on your temple. Your skin erupted in flames where his breath danced over it.

“I’ll make a note of that, my Lord,” you stammered in reply, barely able to keep your voice from breaking.

“Please, Y/N, how long have you known me? Dispense with the ‘my Lord’ nonsense, I beg you. I’ve heard enough of that tonight.” The sound of your name in his voice sent a thrill running up your spine. You hadn’t realized that Boromir knew you apart from the dozens of other faces he saw on a daily basis around the halls of the Steward’s quarters. That fact, coupled with the High Warden’s closeness, scattered your thoughts like marbles on a smooth floor until you didn’t trust yourself not to press yourself against him, twine your fingers in his hair, press your lips to his, run your hands along the planes of his stomach, pant his name until you were breathless, grab his-

You audibly let out a small, breathless gasp as you tore yourself away and bid your feet to run. You knew that if you stayed that close to him for one more second you would do something irreparable and shameful. All you heard as you left, practically sprinting away into the relative safety of the well-lit throne room, was the blood pounding in your head. It drowned out the sound of the night breeze, the sounds of the party, and the sound of Boromir calling after you…

**********

Boromir watched as y/n scurried away like a frightened animal into the banquet room once again. He must have misread the signals, must have misinterpreted the tension in the air between them. Boromir wasn’t used to being rebuffed in his advances; most people were swayed by his easy charm, his skill with a sword, and his title at the very least. But y/n seemed immune to him, always preferring the quiet company of Faramir. Feeling frustrated and embarrassed, he called out after y/n, but his voice was swallowed up by the sounds of merriment in the throne room.

“You damn fool,” Boromir cursed to himself as he ran a regretful hand through his hair. He tossed away the broken pieces of y/n’s candelabra, anger at his misstep boiling in his chest as he made to stride off. It was then that he saw it, resting precariously on the balcony’s railing. A small, leather-bound journal.

Boromir hadn’t noticed it earlier, although he recognized it instantly. Y/n always carried such a journal. Aside from Faramir, it was y/n’s most steadfast companion.

Boromir froze, eyeing the diary, a conflict raging within him. He knew that whatever contents the journal held were private and to open it constituted a violation of honor. The thought twisted like a knife in his gut. But, on the other hand, Boromir had always longed for a peak into y/n’s mind. For reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, Boromir knew that there was beauty there, if only he could access it.

He hesitated for only a moment, casting a wary glance back towards the banquet hall. If y/n saw him, Boromir’s far-flung hopes would be dashed forever. No one was looking, and y/n had disappeared into the crowd. It was now or never.

Like a man dying of thirst, Boromir grabbed the journal greedily and cracked it open, his eyes roving the pages and drinking in the words. It was a journal, but so much more. There were smatterings of poetry: some of it original, Boromir deduced, but some of it copied down from y/n’s work in Minas Tirith’s library. Every so often, Boromir found a sketch. Most of it was of Minas Tirith, drawn from the vantage point of the mountains that rose up behind the city. A few horses, children, nondescript landscapes. They were beautiful renderings, detailed and delicate in the linework, incredibly lifelike.

He continued to flip through the journal. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but in his eagerness to scour the entirety of the book he found he couldn’t focus on any one page for longer than a moment.

Not until he found his own likeness staring out of the page up at him.

Boromir recognized himself in y/n’s drawing immediately, although the pen-and-ink Boromir seemed finer somehow. Boromir’s heart pirouetted in his chest as he drank in the drawing, trying to decipher where it was that y/n’s drawing deviated from reality. Y/n had captured the line of his jaw perfectly, even the small scar above his right eyebrow. His hair was rough and unkempt looking, as if he’d just returned from a horseback ride, and he wore his simple fighting leathers. The eyes and lips were a perfect mirror to his own, but still there was something about the drawing…

His eyes slid down the page to where, at the very bottom of the drawing, he saw a single line of small, impeccably neat handwriting:

A King in a long line of Stewards

Boromir felt the breath hitch in his throat. The sentiment was simple but beautiful, and it touched something very deep inside him.

The feverish hunger to devour the journal’s contents in a single gulp from moments before slowed and dwindled to something much more tender. Boromir flipped the page slowly, the same neat handwriting covering the backside of the sheaf of paper where his portrait was drawn.

You must be a trick of the memory that the old gods are playing on me,

You travel with my love over plains, mountains and seas.

Your blue eyes are there when I close mine,

Your voice chases me while I dream,

My heart cries out in the darkness for you,

The roots of the world shake with its scream.

I’ll drown in this desire and choke on this need,

Say you’re mine once and I’ll fall to my knees.

Boromir read the lines more times than he could count, luxuriating in the words until he could hardly breathe. He knew y/n’s words when he heard them, although he’d never heard anything close to this. Never dared to hope that anything approximating this was in y/n’s heart. His mind danced with a misty light, his heart suffused with warmth. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, using the fading light of the banquet inside to read the lines over and over again until he had them memorized.

At some point he surfaced from his reverie, his heart beating erratically against his ribs. He stood up from where he’d sat against the railing, smoothing the front of his tunic and the sides of his hair. With a final inhale, he strode off purposefully, weaving through the thinning crowd of Gondor’s nobility, ignoring their greetings. He didn’t hesitate until he found himself standing in front of y/n’s door. Shakily, unsure of what he was about to say, he knocked twice.

**********

You heard two soft knocks at your door. You glanced at the moon outside, surprised that anyone would pay you a visit this late. It was nearing midnight, you guessed. There was a fluttery feeling in your chest coupled with a pit in your stomach that you hadn’t been able to soothe with either tea or a warm bath. You felt as if you were losing your mind by inches. You’d spent your entire life, more or less, in Boromir’s home and you’d crossed his path hundreds of times before. Why now were you suddenly undone like a smitten child? Your feelings for him weren’t new, so why were you abruptly unable to control them?

You tried to push those thoughts from your mind as you crossed your chamber and unlatched your door. You suspected it would be Teithand, the master scribe. On rare occasions he gave you a special assignment and made a habit of visiting your private chambers to discuss the details of these duties at all hours of the day or night.

But the figure darkening your doorway wasn’t dressed in the long, cream robes of a scribe, but instead in the formalwear of Gondorian nobility.

Boromir smiled at you, and the sight of him, leaning casually against your door frame and close to you set your heart ablaze again. The thoughts you’d tenuously strung together shattered and your breath hitched in your throat.

When you saw the small journal clutched in the High Warden’s hands, however, your stomach fell into your feet. Horror and something deeper than shame consumed you in an instant.

You hardly had time to process what was happening before Boromir stepped into your chamber confidently. He tossed your journal onto the bed behind you, his now empty hands coming to the small of your back and the side of your face as he caught your lips with his.

You froze. You’d lost all semblance of coherent thought. The whiplash of emotions had left you feeling terrified. Thankfully, your body reacted faster than either your head or your heart.

As if you’d done it a thousand times before, your lips moved in sync with Boromir’s and your hands tangled in the thick strands of his auburn hair. You gave yourself over to instinct as your mind dissolved under the pressure of his lips. His breath washed over you - warm and ragged - as the two of you pressed your bodies against each other, eager to melt together in the quiet dark of your chamber. His hands roamed over you, tentatively at first, but faster and firmer as you responded to his touch with neediness. You heard a small, desperate groan escape from the back of his throat; the sound of it almost sent you catapulting over the edge of the logic.

You caught yourself in the instant before you lost all control of yourself, breaking the kiss and pulling back just enough to catch his eyes.

“Boromir, what is thi-”

“I’m yours,” he whispered back, cutting you off with his words followed by another kiss. This time his lips refused to stay contained to yours. He tipped your head back, exposing your neck to him as his mouth moved along its length. The places where his lips connected with your skin burned like a brand. You felt a heat building deep inside your core.

“I’m yours, Y/N” he said again. This time it was him who had the sense to pull away. You were panting, and you would have been self-conscious if it weren’t for the fact that he too was on the verge of gasping. His hands came to either side of your face, framing them as his eyes bored into yours.

“Aren’t you…” Boromir’s question died on his lips, replaced by an impish grin. He raised an eyebrow at you, his eyes moving between your face and the ground beneath your feet. Between the confusion starting to coalesce in your head (what the hell is going on? the rational part of you screamed) and your body alight with desire, you didn’t have enough wherewithal to decipher his meaning.

“Aren’t I what?” you asked dumbly. A sliver of anxiety spliced its way into your chest… maybe what you were seeing in Boromir’s eyes was just the neediness of a lord looking at someone he knew was game for a tumble in bed, and not the mirror image of your satisfaction at the fulfillment of a long-denied devotion.

“Going to fall to your knees,” Boromir replied, placing a soft, gentle kiss on your lips. It was almost a question, as if he were asking you. The brazenness of his request startled you, but the heat in your core blazed in response. There was also something familiar about his words…

“In your journal… you wrote, ‘say you’re mine once and I’ll fall to my knees’… I’ve said it twice now, and yet here you stand.” He chuckled softly, his lips dancing along your jaw and over your cheeks as you tried to catch up to his meaning.

Then, like a clap of thunder, it clicked. The poem. You’d written it over a year ago, the night after Boromir had left Minas Tirith with a garrison of Gondor’s guards to ride to an outpost at the southern border. You’d almost forgotten your words - you’d written so many of them, all of them for him.

You let you a small laugh in surprise and a hint of embarrassment.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it was rude to read another’s writings, my Lord?” You emphasized the last two words, shooting him a wicked smile as you made good on your written promise and sank to your knees in front of him. Your fingers went to work on the lacing of his trousers, the urgency of the moment rekindling between you. Boromir caught your chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to catch his gaze. He looked breathtaking, standing over you. A King in a long line of Stewards, you thought as you drank in the sight of him.

“Call me Boromir,” he said simply. “I won’t have you calling me ‘my Lord’ for the rest of our days together.” His tone was casual, but you could hear the intention of his words. You hesitated only momentarily before returning to the task at hand. You broke into a smile, wide and triumphant, and although your attention was focused elsewhere, Boromir’s expression matched yours exactly…

#boromir #boromir x reader #boromir x y/n #boromir x you #boromir imagine #boromir fluff #boromir lotr #sean bean #lotr fic #lotr imagine

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unholygengar · 2 months

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Winter's Blood & Dragon Fire

Chapter One: A Long journey

The very north of Westeros is a realm where the world seems to slumber beneath an endless blanket of snow and ice. Here, the air is a biting chill, carrying with it the whispers of ancient legends and the howls of wolves echoing through the night. The land is stark and unforgiving, a vast expanse where the snow-covered hills and dark forests stretch out as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the occasional frozen river or barren, rocky outcrop.

In this desolate and beautiful landscape stands Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark. Winterfell is a fortress as old as time itself, its great stone walls rising up from the white landscape like the unyielding mountains in the distance. The castle is a sprawling complex of towers, walls, and courtyards, each part of it touched by the harsh breath of the North. Its high walls are crowned with frost, and the massive gates, forged of ancient oak and iron, seem to groan with the weight of centuries.

The heart of Winterfell is the Great Keep, a towering edifice of gray stone that dominates the skyline. From its battlements, one can see the vast stretch of the Wolfswood to the west, where direwolves still roam, their eyes gleaming in the twilight. To the east lies the wide expanse of the Kingsroad, winding its way southward through the endless snow towards the warmer, softer lands beyond the Neck.

The Godswood within Winterfell's walls is a sacred place, a haven of ancient trees with branches heavy with snow. At its center stands a weirwood tree, its bark pale as bone, and its leaves a dark red, like the blood of old gods. The face carved into its trunk gazes out with solemn eyes, watching over the quiet grove where the Stark family has prayed for countless generations.

As the cold winds howl around Winterfell, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of winter, the people within its walls go about their lives with a resilience born of necessity. The blacksmith’s hammer rings out in the cold air, the scent of baking bread wafts from the kitchens, and the sound of laughter echoes through the stone halls. The Stark motto, "Winter is Coming," is not just a warning but a way of life, a constant reminder of the harshness of their world and the strength required to survive it.

Sitting beneath the weirwood tree sat the younger sister of Cregan Stark, eyes white as snow and a mind far away from her own body. Atop the great fortress that was Winterfell a bird of prey soared, eyes the same matching white as that of the girl sat against the ancient tree. Humans, in their ceaseless pursuit of power and conquest, found the power to carry swords and armor, their feet bound to the earth while their hearts yearn for what true freedom might feel like. Lyria often watches the birds with envy, their wings cutting through the air with effortless grace, embodying the freedom she craves. Yet, she is grateful beyond measure for the gift of skinchanging, a rare blessing from the Gods that allows her spirit to soar. Each time she melds her consciousness with that of a raven, she savors every moment, feeling the rush of wind beneath her wings and the exhilarating vastness of the world below. In these stolen moments of flight, Lyria truly feels alive, unburdened by the chains of the mortal realm.

A voice of which felt close, yet so far away came to join Lyira’s trail of thoughts, but it was not before the call of her name that her eyes returned to their normal, cool shade of gray. Behind her stood Cregan, her brother, Lord of WInterfell and Warden of The North, his eyes locked with hers, his mouth moving without her being able to make out a single word of what he said. Blinking a few times in hopes of getting rid of the ringing in her ears and the blurriness of her vision, Lyria’s brother knelt made way to kneel before her, his hand coming up to wipe the crimson liquid that escaped her nose.

“How long were you gone, sister?” A question Cregan had repeated for a third time before his sister made sense of what had been asked, her hands found their way to his arms, gripping them lightly as he went on to help her to her feet. When she looked around, it became clear to her that the sun had risen, the sky no longer bleeding gold— she had been gone for a good while without realizing.

“The sky had yet to look blue when I came outside…” She paused for a moment, taking in her surroundings as she now stood with her feet on the ground once more. Cregan went to link their arms, guiding his sister out from the Godswood, slowly making their way towards the courtyard. “Are we to depart soon? The Gods seem to have granted us fine weather for our long journey– not a single cloud to be seen in the sky.” Lord Stark looked at his sister, her mind still far away even though she walked by his side. It was the usual outcome of her skinchanging— ever since it first happened. It took a while for Lyria to find herself again once her spirit returned into her body, as if it took a while for her to adjust to everything when she no longer saw the world through the eyes of whatever creature she came to possess.

Cregan turned to his sister Lyria as they arrived in the frost-kissed courtyard, his hands finding and gripping her elbows with a mixture of urgency and tenderness. “We were to leave not long ago, but you were nowhere to be found.” He paused, his eyes locking onto hers with a stern but caring gaze. “I wish for you to stay here, Lyria. The South is no place for a wolf—”

Lyria’s calm fury interrupted him, her eyes flashing with a mix of longing and defiance. “I want to come—no, I need to. I wish to see dragons, Cregan. To feel winds melting my skin instead of the ones that nip at my soul. The North is my home, but you are my pack. You cannot make me stay while you dine with all the Lords and Ladies of the Kingdom.”

Her voice, steady yet fervent, cut through the chill of the air. Cregan’s gaze softened, torn between the protective instincts of a brother and the understanding of a sibling who knows too well the pull of one's heart. All Cregan could do was nod. Knowing his sister as he did, he realized there was no arguing with her resolute and wild spirit. With one final, reluctant squeeze of her elbows, he released her, though his gaze lingered on hers, filled with both resignation and affection. "Aye, then you shall dine alongside all the Lords and Ladies, lie your eyes upon the biggest of beasts, and see all that the South of the Neck has to offer."

Lyria’s grin widened, a flash of triumph in her eyes. With a playful jab to her brother’s shoulder, she spun on her heel and hurried towards her black stallion, her heart brimming with excitement. “Then we shall waste no more time! To the South we ride!” she declared, her voice ringing with a blend of determination and exhilaration as she mounted her horse and set off towards the awaiting journey.

The journey south was a grueling one, a week of relentless travel that saw Lyria and her companions spending a cumulative forty hours on horseback. The Northern travelers, accustomed to the biting chill and the steady rhythm of the snowy landscape, found themselves weary from the relentless pace and the varying terrain of the South. Despite making numerous stops to rest and resupply, the weariness of the road weighed heavily upon them.

As they traversed the Kingsroad, Lyria marveled at the changing scenery. The stark beauty of the North gave way to the lush and varied landscapes of the South. Passing the Neck, the looming silhouettes of the Twins came into view, their stone towers rising above the misty waters of the river. The sound of rushing rivers filled the air as they neared Harrenhal, its massive, crumbling structure a stark contrast to the vibrant life of the surrounding lands.

The Gods Eye sparkled like a jewel in the early morning sun, its serene surface reflecting the soft light and adding a touch of magic to their journey. They pressed on past Sow’s Horn, its name evoking images of the ancient and the mythical, and Hayford Castle, with its imposing walls and storied past.

Finally, after days of arduous travel and the subtle shift of seasons, the travelers were greeted by the sight of King’s Landing. The sprawling city, nestled against the bay, shimmered in the distance, a vibrant and bustling hub of life. Its towering Red Keep and the bustling streets below seemed almost to beckon, a far cry from the cold, unyielding landscape of the North. As the travelers approached, the city’s grandeur and the promise of new experiences provided a welcome contrast to the fatigue of their long journey.

— — —

Lyria, Cregan, and their small assembly of Northerners made their way through the bustling streets of King’s Landing, the city alive with the sounds and scents of the capital. The Great Sept loomed magnificently to their left, its towering spires catching the midday sun, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. In the distance, the Dragonpit’s dome was a stark reminder of the powerful beast it housed below.

As they continued, the Red Keep came into view, a stunning fortress of red stone that dominated the skyline. Its high walls and grand towers were both imposing and awe-inspiring, a testament to the might and majesty of House Targaryen. The Northerners, weary yet resolute, felt a sense of anticipation and respect as they approached the grand entrance leading into the castle grounds.

Upon arrival, they were greeted by an honor guard of Kingsguards, their white cloaks billowing slightly in the gentle breeze, and their polished armor gleaming. Beyond them stood the royal family, a sight both regal and formidable. King Viserys, though frail and in ill health, was seated in his grand chair, exuding an air of dignified authority. Behind him stood Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, his expression stern and watchful. To the king’s right stood his sons, Aegon II with a proud stance and Aemond with a piercing gaze.

On Viserys’ left, Queen Alicent stood with a composed grace, her presence commanding and serene. Next to her was the princess Helaena, her delicate features reflecting both beauty and melancholy. The Targaryen family stood proud and united, a powerful symbol of the realm’s might.

Lyria, Cregan, and their companions dismounted their steeds, the journey’s fatigue momentarily forgotten in the face of such grandeur. They slowly climbed the steps leading up to the royals, their movements measured and respectful. As they ascended, the Northerners felt the weight of tradition and history pressing upon them, aware of the significance of this meeting between the North and the Iron Throne. The air was thick with anticipation as they prepared to pay their respects and present themselves to the rulers of Westeros.

All of the guests lowered their heads in respect for the king and his family, though it didn’t go unnoticed by the Stark’s that a certain member of the family was nowhere to be seen— the heir, princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

As the lord of Winterfell and his sister approached the king, Cregan was the first to offer his greetings. Their hands met in a firm yet gentle handshake, a silent exchange of respect and acknowledgment. While King Viserys welcomed the young wolf lord, his gaze shifted to Lyria, whose soft features did not go unnoticed by his Grace.

Cregan then moved on to greet the remaining members of the royal family, each gesture marked by the formal courtesy befitting his station. Meanwhile, Lyria stepped forward, her steps measured and graceful. She curtsied with deep respect before the king, who reached out and gently grasped her hand.

"Lady Stark, your brother failed to mention your presence, albeit I am honored to be graced with your northern beauty," King Viserys said, his voice warm and welcoming.

Lyria offered the elder man a small smile, holding her head high despite barely standing taller than the seated king. "You honor me, Your Grace. We sent a raven, though it seems that we reached your blessed home before it got the chance to inform you of my joining."

The king’s face lit up with a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he shook his head. "Nonsense, my dear. Your presence is that of a pleasant surprise."

His hand continued to engulf hers, a gesture both reassuring and kind. Lyria felt a sense of warmth emanate from the frail yet resilient king, a stark contrast to the icy winds of her homeland. As she stood there, hand in hand with the Realm's protector, she could not help but feel a sense of profound connection and mutual respect. This moment, amidst the grandeur of the Red Keep and the presence of the powerful Targaryen family, was a testament to the strength and unity of Westeros, a tapestry woven from the diverse threads of its noble houses.

Once the king released Lyria’s hand, she moved on to greet Aegon. A mischievous smirk played on his lips, widening as the snow-white beauty bowed her head to him. In a swift motion, his hands found hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a long, rather un-kingly kiss. His violet eyes locked onto hers as their hands parted, his gaze that of a predator eyeing its next meal.

“The Realm has failed to mention that northern ladies are that of beauty, Lady Stark. The view before me is sent by the heavens.”

Surely Aegon thought his flirtatious words would elicit a blush, but Lyria saw the lustful gleam in his eyes, the gaze of a man longing to see what lay beneath the layers of her dress. She smiled—a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—as she replied.

“You flatter me, prince, though I assure you that I am simply human and not a gift sent from the heavens above.”

Aegon chuckled at her response, a small snicker escaping him, followed by a nod. “You could have fooled me, my lady. I look forward to seeing more of you in the coming days.”

Another kiss was placed on her knuckle before she moved to greet the second son of the king: Aemond Targaryen, the one-eyed prince. He stood stoic, taller than his older brother, his well-tended hair resting against the black leather he wore. Lyria nodded at him, her eyes fixed on his uncovered violet eye. This time, she spoke first, her hands intertwined in front of her.

“There are widespread tales of your skills with the blade, my prince. It would be an honor to witness them with my own eyes.”

Aemond’s lips curled slightly, a glimmer of confidence shining in his eye at the compliment. He bowed, his gaze never leaving hers as he extended his hand. Lyria placed her hand in his, and he bestowed a chaste kiss upon her pale knuckles before straightening.

“Your words honor me, Lady Wolf. I suppose it would be a pleasure to demonstrate my honed skills—if the celebrations of my father’s nameday spare us such pleasantries.”

Lyria nodded, her eyes meeting his with a mix of respect and curiosity, the formalities of the greeting charged with unspoken understanding and anticipation.

After greeting the king and princes, Lyria made her way to the queen. Alicent Hightower was young—much younger than her husband. Her auburn hair was neatly braided away from her face, falling freely down her back. A stunning green gown hugged her body, leaves embroidered with gold thread stretching from the collar, wrapping around her waist. As Lyria stood before the gracefully composed woman, she was struck by the realization that Alicent embodied beauty itself. Dropping into a small curtsy, she was met with a forced, yet tender smile from the queen.

“Words do you no justice, my queen. You are as graceful as they come,” Lyria said earnestly. She had never seen such beauty until her eyes slipped to the princess beside the queen. Their exchange was brief, only a few words passing between them before Lyria continued on to Helaena.

Just as Lyria was about to bow her head to the princess, she felt soft, cool hands embrace her face. She met Helaena’s gaze, shocked by the sudden touch of her gentle hands. In the princess’s eyes, Lyria found something familiar—a faraway look, though her physical form was present.

“The wolf can fly…” Helaena’s voice was soft, enigmatic.

Lyria was momentarily confused, aware of the many eyes upon them. Despite not fully understanding Helaena’s words, she nodded, her hands finding and holding the ones on her face. She made no effort to remove the princess’s hands, allowing the white-haired girl to maintain the tender contact.

“The wolf can fly, princess,” Lyria affirmed.

With Lyria’s words, it seemed Helaena returned to her senses, her eyes studying the northern girl she had embraced. It wasn’t often that others responded to her cryptic sayings, yet this stranger from a distant land looked at her with understanding and respect. Helaena smiled, her thumbs softly stroking Lyria’s warm skin. The two stood in comfortable silence, as if the world around them ceased to exist, until the queen beside them cleared her throat.

Helaena’s hands left Lyria’s face, the ghost of her touch lingering on her pale cheeks as the princess took a step back, her eyes still on Lyria, mirroring the curiosity of the Targaryen family. “A wolf with wings is but a rare thing—” She paused, as if the rest of her sentence had slipped her mind. “I’d like to show you the Keep, if you’d let me? The Godswood would be a great start to your stay with us, though I’m sure ours is nothing compared to what your home has to offer.”

Before Alicent or Viserys could stop their daughter, Helaena swiftly led the brunette girl away from the gathering and towards the Red Keep’s own Godswood. The two girls moved in tandem, the world around them a blur as they delved into the serene sanctuary, a silent understanding forming between them.

Arriving in the godswood, Lyria realized that the princess had been right—while the royal godswood was beautiful, it was nothing compared to that of Winterfell. The white bark of the weirwood trees did not blend into the soft summer snow as they did in the North, nor did the crimson leaves provide the striking contrast she was accustomed to. The weirwood tree here stood tall but felt small compared to the ancient giant she was used to praying by, though the somber face carved into its trunk remained much the same, a silent witness to their presence.

The two girls came to a stop before the mighty tree, its roots sprawling out like the veins of the land itself. They sat down by its base, settling into a comfortable silence. Helaena’s eyes roamed the ground as if searching for something hidden in the soil, while Lyria found her small dagger fastened at her hip. Unsheathing the blade, she brought it to her thumb and sliced the skin just deep enough to draw blood. The small drop of crimson, resembling a ruby, gleamed before it met the bark of the weirwood, which seemed to absorb the offering from the northern lady.

The two sat in silence, a sense of peace enveloping them. Though strangers, their brief introduction had unfolded an unspoken understanding between them. The sacred space, with its ancient trees and whispering leaves, provided a sanctuary where words were unnecessary. They were connected by something deeper, something primal and ancient.

Eventually, Helaena broke the pleasant silence. A spider crawled in the palm of her hand as she turned to face Lyria, whose thumb still rested against the tree. “I must ask… How does a wolf fly? Such creatures have no wings, yet your eyes have seen the world from above. How so?”

Lyria looked at the princess, her gaze thoughtful, not sure how the princess knew this information. She took a deep breath, feeling the connection between her and the weirwood tree, the life force that seemed to pulse through its roots and into her soul.

“Wolves may not have wings, but there are other ways to soar,” Lyria began softly. “In the North, some are gifted with the ability to skinchange—to enter the minds of animals and see the world through their eyes. I am one of those few. Through the eyes of a raven, I have soared above the trees, felt the wind beneath my wings, and seen the world from the sky. In the body of a wolf, I roamed the woods and lived freely and in the skin of a bear I experienced the mind of a beast and the power that comes with it. ” She paused briefly, but continued as if knowing that she could trust the princess with such a heavy secret. “I know the South views our ways as wrong, some going so far as to call it black magic, but it is far from truth. I swear it by my Old Gods, for they granted me this gift.”

Helaena’s eyes widened slightly, her fascination evident as she listened. The spider in her hand crawled leisurely, oblivious to the weight of the conversation. “A raven,” she mused, her voice almost a whisper. “How extraordinary. To see the world from such a vantage point… it must be freeing.”

“It is, though I believe you have felt that freedom too.” Lyria agreed, a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s a gift, one I cherish deeply. It allows me to escape, to see beyond the confines of my own body and experience the world in a way few others can.”

The princess smiled, a serene expression settling on her face. “Perhaps we are more alike than I thought, Lady Stark. We both see the world differently, in ways others might not understand.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them faded, leaving only the two of them and the ancient tree that bore witness to their bond. The silence returned, but it was no longer empty; it was filled with mutual respect and the promise of a deepening friendship.

Now it was Lyria who continued their conversation. She removed her thumb from the weirwood and moved closer to the princess, her eyes captivated by the massive red spider in Helaena’s hands.

"That is one big spider. We only have small ones in the North, and it’s rare to be graced with their presence."

Helaena nodded, turning her hands over and over as the spider crawled along her skin. There was no fear in her eyes, only a fondness for the small, eight-legged creature. "I can't imagine the North having many insects... Word says it’s terribly cold in those lands, that snow never leaves the ground." She paused, letting the spider go and watching as it crawled its way up the massive tree they sat under. "Though that is just a word of tongue. I'm sure a true Northerner like yourself would be the right person to ask about such things."

Lyria found her dagger again, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she twirled the blade between her fingers with ease. "Aye, while winter is everlasting, we are blessed with bare ground for a while, albeit very short. Summer snow is not as heavy, nor the winds as harsh. My home might not be as colorful as yours, princess, but the North is beautiful in its own way."

Helaena reached forward, grabbing Lyria's unoccupied hand in hers. Normally, the princess was quite reserved, tensing at physical contact—even from her own mother. But seated under the weirwood tree, observed by the gods, the two girls had quickly come to understand each other. In all earnestness, Lyria had been the first person not to judge her, not to question her odd sayings, nor look at her as if she had said something that should never be spoken. Their friendship, though new, was profound. The Targaryen princess had never been around anyone like the girl wolf seated with her.

Lyria looked at Helaena, her expression softening. "The North may be harsh and unforgiving, but it has its own kind of beauty. The silence of the snow, the strength of the trees, the resilience of its people. It’s a land that teaches you to be strong, to endure. And in that, there is a beauty unlike any other."

Helaena’s eyes shimmered with understanding. "I would like to see it someday. To feel the cold you speak of, to witness the stark beauty of your home."

Lyria smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face. "And I would love to show it to you. The godswood at Winterfell is ancient, the heart tree standing tall and proud. It’s a place of reverence and peace, much like this one, but with a unique northern charm."

The princess squeezed Lyria’s hand gently. "You are different, Lyria. In a good way. You see things others don’t, like me, and you don’t shy away from what you find."

"And you, Helaena," Lyria replied, her voice soft, "are one of the most genuine souls I’ve ever met. Your insight, your way of seeing the world—it’s a gift."

The two girls shared a moment of silence, the bond between them growing stronger with each passing second. The godswood around them seemed to embrace their newfound friendship, the ancient trees bearing silent witness to the connection forming beneath their branches.

Before the two girls could continue their genuine conversation, footsteps approached, stopping a few feet away from them. The girls looked up to meet the stoic gaze of the one-eyed prince, Aemond Targaryen. His right hand firmly gripped the sword at his hip, while his left hand rested behind his back. He studied the scene before him: his sister’s hands playing with the Northerner’s fingers, both of them looking utterly peaceful in each other’s company. A small hum emitted from his throat, his eyes darting between the young ladies before settling on his sister, though she didn’t meet his gaze.

"The King is requesting your presence. You will have time to show the Lady Wolf our home in due course, sister. As of now, though, the day is growing late, and I’m sure our guest would be pleased to clean up before the welcome feast."

Though Aemond had finished speaking, he remained standing in front of them, waiting to be their escort into the castle. Lyria was the first to stand, dusting herself off before lending a hand to the princess and helping her to her feet. As the two of them closed in on Aemond, he offered his arms to the girls—like a proper prince ought to do.

Lyria placed her hand on his elbow, accepting his escort. However, Helaena chose to intertwine her arm with Lyria's instead of her brother’s. Aemond wouldn’t go so far as to say he was offended, but the fact that Helaena preferred to link arms with someone who was initially a stranger instead of her own brother did something to weaken his ego.

As they walked towards the castle, the air between them was filled with an unspoken tension. The courtyard was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows that danced on the cobblestone path. Aemond’s tall, imposing figure contrasted sharply with the delicate forms of Lyria and Helaena. The serene atmosphere of the godswood was left behind as they moved closer to the grandeur of the Red Keep.

Lyria couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for Aemond. She sensed the hurt behind his stoic demeanor, the subtle wound inflicted by his sister’s preference for her company over his. But she also understood Helaena’s choice. There was a unique bond forming between the two girls, one that transcended the formalities and expectations of court life.

As they approached the grand entrance of the castle, Aemond spoke again, his voice a touch softer than before. "Lady Stark, I hope you find your accommodations to your liking. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask."

Lyria nodded, offering him a gentle smile. "Thank you, Prince Aemond. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated."

Helaena, still holding Lyria’s arm, glanced at her brother with a look that held a mixture of apology and defiance. "We shall make haste, brother. But know that Lyria’s company is a welcomed change for me. She understands things others do not."

Aemond’s gaze softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through his eye, despite not fully gripping what his sister meant.. "Very well, sister. But do remember, the feast awaits."

Helaena and Lyria walked slowly through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the warm glow of torches casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. As they reached Lyria’s chamber, Helaena paused and gave her new friend a gentle smile.

"This is your room, Lady Stark. I hope you find it comfortable. I’ll see you at the feast."

Lyria returned the smile, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Princess. I’ll be there shortly."

Helaena nodded, her hand lingering on Lyria’s arm for a moment before she turned and walked away, her footsteps soft and echoing down the corridor.

Lyria entered her room, taking in the opulent surroundings. A large bathtub had been brought in, steam rising from the hot water. She sighed in relief, eager to wash away the dust and weariness of their journey. She carefully removed her travel-stained clothes, folding them neatly before stepping into the tub. The hot water enveloped her, soothing her sore muscles. She took her time, scrubbing her skin clean and letting the warmth relax her.

Once she felt sufficiently refreshed, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a soft towel. She found a small bottle of cinnamon-scented oil on the vanity and applied a few drops behind her ears, enjoying the comforting aroma. She then began to work on her hair, her fingers deftly weaving it into an intricate triple braid that joined into one at the back. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped into a stunning white gown. The shimmering silver thread and stormy gray accents complemented her eyes perfectly, and the white fox fur that draped over her shoulders added a touch of northern elegance.

Ready to join the feast, Lyria left her room and met her brother, Cregan, in the hallway. The two of them walked in silence, the bond between them unspoken but strong. Cregan, in his dark shades of gray and black, with a mighty fur cloak hanging over his broad shoulders, looked every bit the formidable Lord of Winterfell. In contrast, Lyria shone in her white gown, a vision of northern grace and beauty.

As they entered the grand hall, they were met with the sight of lords and ladies already taking their seats. The room was filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of goblets. Helaena spotted the siblings and waved in their direction before returning to her conversation.

The Starks made their way to their seats, their contrasting attires drawing the eyes of many. Once seated, goblets were filled with wine—a more fruity and refined beverage than what they were used to in the North. Lyria took a sip, savoring the unfamiliar taste, while Cregan merely nodded his approval, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests with a warrior’s vigilance.

As they settled in, the feast began in earnest, the tables laden with an array of sumptuous dishes. Lyria and Cregan exchanged a glance, both feeling the weight of their northern heritage amidst the southern opulence. They were wolves in a dragon’s den, but they held their heads high, ready to face whatever the evening—and the days to come—might bring.

The feast in the grand hall of the Red Keep was a dazzling affair. Lords and ladies engaged in lively conversation, the clinking of goblets and laughter filling the air. Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was frequently engaged in conversation with various nobles, discussing matters of the realm, the North, and their mutual interests. Despite the attention, his gaze frequently darted to his sister, Lyria, to ensure her well-being.

Lyria, however, sat mostly in silence. She was a stark contrast to the animated conversations around her. Her quiet demeanor was alarming to Cregan. He knew his sister to be a wild spirit, full of life and opinions. Her silence in such a setting was unusual and disconcerting.

As the feast progressed, and dessert was served, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Most men were deep in their cups of wine, their tongues loosened by the drink. It was then that Lyria, with a determined glint in her eye, rose from her seat. The creaking of her chair drew attention, and soon all eyes were upon her.

Ignoring the stares, Lyria focused on the royal family. Helaena, sensing Lyria's intent, gave a subtle nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Lyria addressed the king. "My King!" Her voice rang out, silencing the hall. Cregan watched her, confused and worried.

"If I may be so bold and ask," Lyria continued, "it is said that Old Valyria was a place of great things, such as magic. Is that something you believe in, Your Grace?"

At this, Otto and Alicent Hightower, seated beside the king, shot her sharp looks of disapproval. Cregan’s grip on his sister’s wrist tightened, a silent plea for her to reconsider. But Viserys, intrigued by the boldness of the young lady, smiled warmly. He seemed oblivious to the discomfort of his wife and the Hand.

"Well, yes, Lady Lyria," Viserys responded, taking a sip of his wine. "The Targaryens are from a place of old magic. If there are such creatures as dragons, it would be foolish not to believe that things akin exist, no? Any particular reason for these questions?"

Cregan's grip grew more intense, but Lyria met his gaze with a soft yet determined look. In a whisper meant only for her brother, she said, "The South paints us as heathens, brother. We should not be shamed for sharing blood with the First Men. Our home was built atop creations made by the Children of the Forest. Our faith is no laughing matter, and we should not be a jest for our beliefs—no matter how old."

Returning her attention to the king, a mischievous grin played on Lyria’s lips. "It would do me great honor, Your Grace, to show you the gift I’ve been granted by the Old Gods... though I’d much prefer less of an audience for such a matter. Only if it pleases you, my king."

Viserys leaned back in his chair, clearly fascinated by the young Stark's boldness. "Such confidence and conviction in your beliefs, Lady Lyria. Very well, I shall see this gift of yours. Ser Otto, Alicent, and my sons will accompany us. Let us adjourn to a more private setting."

As the king rose, the hall buzzed with whispers and curious glances. Cregan released his grip on Lyria, his expression a mix of concern and pride. He followed the royal family, along with his sister, to a more secluded part of the castle where Lyria would reveal her extraordinary gift.

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

A/N: This story will be cross-published here and on AO3, eventually Wattpad, if you see it anywhere else, please report it. On another note- I'd love to hear thoughts on this chapter, as well as feedback, but be kind! I don't normally write and usually my ideas remain that of stories told to my friend @thee-horny-thicky

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dreadfutures · 6 months

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203 Dragon Age: Inquisition Quests

A prompt list of selected quests, for randomized writing prompts. Please send the number AND say that this is a DAI Quest Prompt when you prompt someone.

The Wrath of Heaven

The Threat Remains

In Hushed Whispers

Champions of the Just

In Your Heart Shall Burn

From the Ashes

Here Lies the Abyss

Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

What Pride Had Wrought

The Final Piece

Doom Upon All the World

Haven's Best and Brightest

Know Thy Enemy

Mixing Potions

Passing Notes

Piece by Piece

The Right Armor

A Common Treatment

A Healing Hand

A Rare Treatment

A Spirit in the Lake

Agrarian Apostate

An Advanced Treatment

Apostates in Witchwood

The Ballad of Lord Woolsley

Bergrit's Claws

Blood Brothers

Business Arrangements

Conscientious Objector

Deep Trouble

East Road Bandits

Failure to Deliver

Farmland Security

Flowers for Senna

Hinterland Who's Who

Holding the Hinterlands

Horses for the Inquisition

Hunger Pangs

In the Elements

In the Saddle

Letter from a Lover

Love Waits

Master of Horses

My Lover's Phylactery

Open a Vein

Playing with Fire

Praise the Herald of Andraste

Return Policy

Safeguards Against Looters

Shallow Breaths

Stone Dreams

Strange Bedfellows

Templars to the West

The Mercenary Fortress

The Vault of Valammar

Trouble with Wolves

Where the Druffalo Roam

Lost Souls

Beacons in the Dark

Beneath the Mire

Cabin Fever

Holding the Mire

These Demons Are Clever

After Skyhold

Cleaning House

A Glowing Key

Holding the Storm Coast

Keeping the Darkspawn Down

Red Water

Sutherland and Company Missing

Vigilance on the Coast

Wardens of the Coast

Still Waters

Capturing Caer Bronach

Burdens of Command

High Stakes

Holding Crestwood

Homecoming

The Naturalist

Weeding Out Bandits

Wyrm Hole

A Bear to Cross

A Corrupt General

A Deluded Chevalier

A Fallen Sister

A Lover's Promise

A Puppet Master

A Vicious Thug

Chateau d'Onterre

Devotion

Fairbanks' Trust

Fairbanks Patrol Under Attack

Holding the Emerald Graves

Last Wishes

Motherly Encouragement

Noble Deeds, Noble Heart

Not Everyone's Free

Observing the Menace

Safe Keeping

The Freemen of the Dales

The Knights' Tomb

The Tiniest Cave

Victims of War

Watcher's Reach Refugees

Capturing Suledin Keep

A Timely Intervention

Breeding Grounds

Caged Confession

Call Me Imshael

Mama's Ring

Quarry Quandary

Red Captors

Rocky Rescue

Securing Safe Passage

Sifting Through Rubble

Stalker Stalker

Take Back the Lion

The Corruption of Sahrnia

They Shall Not Pass

Turning the Tables

Valeska's Watch

Words not Hollow

A Dalish Perspective

A Familiar Ring

A Father's Guidance

A Well-Stocked Camp

Another Side, Another Story

By the Grace of the Dalish

Calming Victory Rise

For the Empire

From the Beyond

Ghilan'nain's Grove

Holding the Exalted Plains

Lay Rest the Ramparts

Left to Grieve

No Word Back

Pressed for Cache

Scattered Glyphs

Silence on the Plains

Someone to Lose

Something to Prove

The Golden Halla

The Spoils of Desecration

Undead Ramparts to the West

God of Secrets

Runes in the Lost Temple

Ruined Blade

Assault on Griffon Wing

A Manuscript of Some Authority

A Stranger Rift in the Ruins

A Tevinter Relic Hunt

Fortress Squatters

Frederic's Livelihood

Holding the Western Approach

Hunting Patterns

Into the Approach

On the Chantry Trail

Sharper White Claws

The Heart of the Still Ruins

The Trouble with Darkspawn

The Venatori

This Water Tastes Funny

A Prideful Place

The Door in Par'as Cavern

The Temple of Pride

What It's Worth

Shard Collector

Sand and Ruin

The Tomb of Fairel

Field of Bones

Let's Slay the Beast

Ameridan's End

Avvar Allies

The Basin Beckons

Beasts at Bay

A Father's Name

Guests of the Hold

Hakkon Wintersbreath

Hakkon's Trials

In Exile

It Remains to be Seen

Jawbreaker

Lead the Charge

The Loss of a Friend

The Mystery of Winter

The Nox Morta

On Ameridan's Trail

Storvacker Caged

They Came From Somewhere Else

Up and Away

What Yet Lingers

Where Once We Walked

Builder's Towers

Chronicles of Forgotten Wars

The Descent

Exploring the Deep Roads

Holding the Deep Roads

Killing Me Softly

On Broken Knees

Rune-Warded Gate of Segrummar

Sacrificial Gates of Segrummar

A Second Rune-Warded Gate

A Warm Welcome

#prompts #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfic

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ebaeschnbliah · 2 years

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The sun was sinking behind the mountains, and the shadows were deepening in the woods, when they went on again. Their paths now went into thickets where the dusk had already gathered. Night came beneath the trees as they walked, and the Elves uncovered their silver lamps.

Suddenly they came out into the open again and found themselves under a pale evening sky pricked by a few early stars. There was a wide treeless space before them, running in a great circle and bending away on either hand. Beyond it was a deep fosse lost in soft shadow, but the grass upon its brink was green, as if it glowed still in memory of the sun that had gone. Upon the further side there rose to a great height a green wall encircling a green hill thronged with mallorn-trees taller than any they had yet seen in all the land. Their height could not be guessed, but they stood up in the twilight like living towers. In their, many-tiered branches and amid their ever-moving leaves countless lights were gleaming, green and gold and silver. Haldir turned towards the Company.

`Welcome to Caras Galadhon!' ...

... he said. 'Here is the city of the Galadhrim where dwell the Lord Celeborn and Galadriel the Lady of Lórien. But we cannot enter here, for the gates do not look northward. We must go round to the southern side, and the way is not short, for the city is great.'

There was a road paved with white stone running on the outer brink of the fosse. Along this they went westward, with the city ever climbing up like a green cloud upon their left; and as the night deepened more lights sprang forth, until all the hill seemed afire with stars. They came at last to a white bridge, and crossing found the great gates of the city: they faced south-west, set between the ends of the encircling wall that here overlapped, and they were tall and strong, and hung with many lamps.

Haldir knocked and spoke, and the gates opened soundlessly; but of guards Frodo could see no sign. The travellers passed within, and the gates shut behind them. They were in a deep lane between the ends of the wall, and passing quickly through it they entered the City of the Trees. No folk could they see, nor hear any feet upon the paths; but there were many voices, about them, and in the air above. Far away up on the hill they could hear the sound of singing falling from on high like soft rain upon leaves.

They went along many paths and climbed many stairs, until they came to the high places and saw before them amid a wide lawn a fountain shimmering. It was lit by silver lamps that swung from the boughs of trees, and it fell into a basin of silver, from which a white stream spilled. Upon the south side of the lawn there stood the mightiest of all the trees; its great smooth bole gleamed like grey silk, and up it towered, until its first branches, far above, opened their huge limbs under shadowy clouds of leaves. Beside it a broad white ladder stood, and at its foot three Elves were seated. They sprang up as the travellers approached, and Frodo saw that they were tall and clad in grey mail, and from their shoulders hung long white cloaks.

'Here dwell Celeborn and Galadriel,' said Haldir. `It is their wish that you should ascend and speak with them.'

One of the Elf-wardens then blew a clear note on a small horn, and it was answered three times from far above. `I will go first,' said Haldir. 'Let Frodo come next and with him Legolas. The others may follow as they wish. It is a long climb for those that are not accustomed to such stairs, but you may rest upon the way.'

As he climbed slowly up Frodo passed many flets: some on one side, some on another, and some set about the bole of the tree, so that the ladder passed through them. At a great height above the ground he came to a wide talan, like the deck of a great ship. On it was built a house, so large that almost it would have served for a hall of Men upon the earth. He entered behind Haldir, and found that he was in a chamber of oval shape, in the midst of which grew the trunk of the great mallorn, now tapering towards its crown, and yet making still a pillar of wide girth.

The chamber was filled with a soft light; its walls were green and silver and its roof of gold. Many Elves were seated there. On two chairs beneath the bole of the tree and canopied by a living bough there sat, side by side, Celeborn and Galadriel. They stood up to greet their guests, after the manner of Elves, even those who were accounted mighty kings. Very tall they were, and the Lady no less tall than the Lord; and they were grave and beautiful. They were clad wholly in white; and the hair of the Lady was of deep gold, and the hair of the Lord Celeborn was of silver long and bright; but no sign of age was upon them, unless it were in the depths of their eyes; for these were keen as lances in the starlight, and yet profound, the wells of deep memory.

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Mirror of Galadriel

#the lord of the rings #the fellowship of the ring #the mirror of galadriel #jrr tolkien #lothlorien #caras galadhon #galadriel #celeborn #haldir #frodo #sam #merry #pippin #aragorn #boromir #gimli #legolas #movie pics #peter jackson

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mariesdeluluworld · 6 months

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A Dance of Lions & Wolves

The sounds of screams and the horrific deaths of his family has plagued the Lord of Winterfell. The Old Gods speak to him, while the jaws of Winter ravage his precious Northern Lands, depleting its food stores, killing both low and high born, and with little resources to plant crops and feed his people, Eddard is forced to turn to the South for help, writing to the Reach, Stormlands, Crowlands, Riverlands, and Westerlands. Only one responds, with terms and conditions.

After having prophetic dreams of the fall and ruin of his house, Tywin Lannister has remarried after the death of his second son, and heir Tyrion Lannister, with hopes of having more children to replace Tyrion and kingsguard Jamie Lannister, and prevent the foreseen downfall of his house. In order to restore the pride lands, the lions must work with the wolves to heal their respected territory, however the Stags, Lionesses, Vipers, Krakens, and Dragons are also awakening, threatening the world the Wolves and Lions wish to build. Together, Lion and Wolf must lead the charge and protect their legacy from burning.

285 AC, Westerlands

Prologue: The Raven

Children's laughter brought the Warden of the West from his desk, abandoning the newest correspondence from the wintery wilds of the North, to the open window of his study. Tywin Lannister watched his twins play in their mother’s garden at Casterly Rock with their cousins. He watched with narrowed eyes as the golden haired cubs ran after one another. From what he could hear from his study, the children were playing knights and ladies.

“Fair maiden! I, Lancle Lannister, son of Keven Lannister, am here to rescue you from the tower!” He bowed and little Lancel, ran towards their makeshift tower, wood sword in his hand, as he “charged” the ferocious beast that was a dragon guarding his own daughter, Jeyne. His son, Damon, was the dragon, he wore the costume his twin made him in her lessons with the Septa’s, and he roared and slashed at Lancel.

“Fight me if you dare, little knight, but know, no one has defeated me in all these years I’ve guarded this tower!” Damon slashed his faux claws and Lancel jumped back, as they began their duel. Cousins “fought” while Jeyne shouted encouragement at her cousin Lancel.

“Be careful Ser! Watch from the dragon’s talons!” Jeyne shouted.

Man and beast danced, all while Tywin’s goodsister Dorna and sister Genna, watched the children from their pergola. He watched as his son and nephew fought until Lancel dealt the killing blow. Damon shouted and fell to the ground, making “dying sounds'' as his cousin stood over his dying body, smirking while Jeyne and Twyin’s sisters clapped, applauding the brave knight. Lancel bowed in his aunt and mother’s direction, before climbing the tower to rescue Jeyne.

“Oh Ser! How brave you were, defeating the dangerous dragon! How ever can I thank you?” She played up her role as the defenseless maiden. “My lady, only your favor will do, so I can show the world that I deserved the favor of Lady Lannister!” Jeyne giggled, placing her favor of westerlands roses and primrose, on her cousin’s wood sword.

Damon jumped up from the ground, clapping his hands as he jogged over to his twin and cousin. “You’ve been practicing your sword play cousin!”

“Yes. Yes I have. Was I better than last time?” Lancel questioned, insecurity filling his light green eyes. “Drastically better than last time! This time I had to avoid your blows and your footwork was more solid!” Damon complemented. Lancel thanked his cousin, together, he and Jeyne helped Damon out of the dragon costume. Free from the sweaty fabric, he shook his damp auburn hair. Jeyne shouted as the droplets of sweat splashed in her face.

“Sorry, Jeyne,” He blushed, scratching his head.

“Jeyne, darling, come here,” A tall woman, with auburn hair, wearing a light blue gown with primroses on her hem, walked towards Jeyne, a white handkerchief in her pale, slender hands. She bent down, wiping Jeyne’s face, brushing away her twin’s sweat.

“Thank you, mumma,”

Tywin looked away from the scene, and went back to his desk, leaving his new wife and their twins behind to focus on the letter in front of him. The North, Eddard Stark was writing about possible increase in trading. The winters were brutal and after the Rebellion, everyone in the North was replenishing their storages. However, it was impossible to feed the entire North while creating sufficient storage. Lord Eddard’s people were dying, and he was requesting help. Tywin laced his fingers together, staring long and hard at the Northern Lord’s blocky script. He thought of all the advantages this opportunity brought. Tywin had always wanted to infiltrate the North, and now with a new King in King's Landing, he was free to do whatever he pleased without an paranoid old fool mistaking his actions for treason and shouting for his and his family's heads on a chopping block.

He could finally reach his vision of having a Lannister in all seven parts of the Seven Kingdoms. Winterfell was known to be an impregnable castle, like his beloved Casterly Rock, and from what he could recall from his visit when he was but a boy, the castle was strong and has the potential to be another Rock, with thousands of men on guard. With his influence, Tywin could usher in a new reign of Cregan Stark with Eddard Stark. He could turn the second son into a formidable Lord like his ancestor. Afterall, the man was in mourning. Losing a son in the winter. Tywin huffed out a laugh, it seemed he held the key to Eddard Stark's salvation, or destruction.

With another look at the window where his family played and laughed, Tywin wrote a reply to the North, sealing Lords of winter fates.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fanfic writing #jon snow #tywin lannister #fan fiction #a song of ice and fire fanfic #jon snow x oc #jeyne lannister

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niofo · 9 months

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canon compliant amell-hawke family tree. feel free to use it as a base for your own. characters we don't know anything about and i named for my uses are revka's husband and their 5 children, that are all mages. (kinloch hold amell would probably be a bit younger than 22, as they're only getting their harrowing, but it wasn't fitting my timeline otherwise)

under the cut some background on the characters in my worldstate:

marian started as blue hawke, then aften death of carver in lothering and bethany in the deep roads she moved to red hawke. she's still kind to everyone she considers her family, but very protective of them, and often rude to outsiders. supports mage rebellion and anders' actions. she's a lesbian in a poly relationship with isabella and merrill. her weapon of choice is two handed ax, but she's proficient with all melee weapons.

lucas marin, son of antivan small-scale pearl merchants. his parents went into conflict with a competitor who had contacts amongst the house nero of antivan crows, who were then contacted to eliminate marin family. lucas managed to escape antiva fearing for his life, and in kirkwall met revka amell and tried to start a new life. when his eldest daughter showed magic potential and was taken by the templars, and soon after his wife's family collapsed and revka herself disappeared, he took remaining four children and kept moving: first across the marches, then to ferelden and finally orlais, but every single one of his children showed magic potential and ended up being taken by the chantry no matter how he tried to protect them. when he lost the youngest, twins, he decided to stay in orlais, not seeing the point of running any longer.

aderyn, eldest amell daughter, was taken into the gallows at some point in 9:10. by the time of 9:30s she was an enchanter specializing in force magic, she was also involved with the mage underground, helping other mages escape, especially ones that had the biggest threat of being made tranquil. she had the opportunity to escape herself, but stayed to secure a few more escapes, and was killed in the templar raid in 9:37, soon before anders blew up the chantry, at the age of 42.

yorath, the 2nd child, was brought to the ostwick circle where he befriended idris trevelyan and vivienne. unfortunately he was not skilled with magic enough for the circle's high standard and the templars decided him not able to attend his harrowing. he was made tranquil in 9:16 and worked in different circles since then. in 9:41 he was the first person to have his tranquility reversed by the inquisition, using the knowledge found in seekers' book of secrets.

gareth was early showing an impressive talent for spirit healing and learned under the tutelage of senior enchanter wynne even before taking his harrowing. yet soon after he helped his friend jowan escape, which marked him as a potential blood mage. knight-commander was still undecided whether to sentence him to tranquility or sent to aeonar along with initiate lily, but he decided to wait for the return of the templars and mages dispatched to ostagar. as soon as that happened though, uldred rebellion started, templars locked the tower until the arrival of the hero of ferelden. as tabris cleared the tower he encountered gareth fighting for his life, and learning about the situation, he invoked the right of conscription to get him away from the tower. gareth didn't go through the joining, but his close friendship with the warden and his actions during the blight granted him temporal immunity from the accusations. later he joined the rebellion alongside most of kinloch mages, and then became inquisition's main healer.

hefina was sent to the white spire and studied elemental magic under senior enchanter adrian, who also recruited her into libertarian fraternity. after the rebellion started hefina was dispatched to look for any displaced or abandoned mages andtranquil around the free marches. she was ambushed by a group of templars, but surprisingly saved by two passing antivan crows. the crows had an ulterior motive as they needed a help of a mage in their current mission and traded her life for assisting them. incidentally she also learned that her father was not, in fact, hunted in antiva, the hit was just for his parents and there was nothing personal going on. hefina helped the crows and then decided to stay in antiva to work with them more, giving the mage rebellion useful ties to the organization.

merfyn, twin bother of hefina, went to montsimmard circle where he aligned himself with the loyalist fraternity. he was progressing in his studies to become a knight-enchanter when the rebellion started and he joined first enchanter vivienne as a part of loyal mages staying with the chantry. he encountered a group of antivan crows who first took him for his sister hefina, which was when he learned that she is with crows, but he assumed that she was kidnapped. he asked vivienne for permission to go rescue his sister, hoping to recruit her to their cause, which vivienne allowed. when the twins finally reunited hefina explained that she is actually working with the crows willingly, and more than that, she is also a part of the rebellion. they were in the middle of a political argument when the news of the conclave explosion reached them, pushing their discussion to a later date.

#dragon age #oc: marian hawke #oc: gareth amell #hawke family #amell family

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greypetrel · 6 months

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Dance the Marigold

@ndostairlyrium asked for this prompt for either Alyra or Aisling. And as the wise man said…

I challenge you, reader. If you read this, and you’re willing: - Design the ugly outfit Alyra would bully your Inquisitor/Hawke/Warden/OC into wearing. - Design Alistair’s prized outfit, Aisling’s shoes or Nathaniel’s hat. And of course, tag me when you do!

33. Orlesian shoes with jeweled buckles – Alyra/Aisling

“… What are those?”

“Don’t ask me.”

Aisling groaned, wobblying on her feet on a pair of overly tacky high-heeled shoes that just demanded attention. They would have demanded it even if they weren’t so different in style they were from the tartan skirt she wore and the simple white sweater above.

The shoes were covered in yellow silk that was damasqued in silver, had a high heel painted in bright red with golden swirls all over the exterior, and on the square point laid a horrible big buckle in silver with too many pearls and gems of too many colours mounted all around.

Beside the fact that she was so out of shape with them -it’s been more than two years since Josephine had last had a chance to force her in wearing high heels, after all- that she looked exactly like Bran that time he tried to walk on the frozen lake, extremely ungracious and unsure of her footing, they were so evidently out of her taste that Cullen couldn’t but think that something had happened.

He knew his wife, and he knew she would have declared high heels illegal if she had had enough power to do so and not having to wear a pair anymore. He was there when she had leaned in, during an important party at Skyhold, smiling very rigidly and asked him for help because she slipped her feet out of the shoes while eating, accidentally kicked one of them away and couldn’t reach it anymore. And the hem of her skirt wasn’t long enough to cover up that she was barefoot. He was the one who suggested her to raise up as she was accepting the Duc’s invitation to dance and pretend to faint instead, and had to let her go as soon as they were safe behind the door leading to her tower because she started laughing as soon as they were out of the crowd and couldn’t stop thrashing around.

So no, her wearing high heels, and such a busy and tacky pair moreover, wasn’t anything normal. And now she was trying to make her way down the front stairs of Vigil’s Keep on them, trying desperately not to unbalance herself and fall.

Something definitely happened.

“Do you want some help?”

Aisling turned to glare at him.

“Just to make it down the stairs. I could carry you.” He offered, knowing full well that she actually liked being picked up. She actually liked it a little too much.

She frowned, this time, tho, pouting at him. Her cheeks took colour, but she didn’t yield.

“Absolutely not. What if he sees me? I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

Cullen rolled his eyes to the sky at the answer, knowing full well whom that “he” was, and trotted up to flank her, without actually touching her but still ready to catch her if she fell. She recovered in the last years after the Exalted Council, the worst was definitely over, but she never fully regained her balance. She learnt to walk around a missing arm and became proficient in a fight again, but on high heels and down a stairway? Better safe than sorry. Not to make her feel crowded and pitied -which he knew she hated- he went on speaking, taking the chance to sate his curiosity.

“Why are you wearing those…” He stopped, looking for a fitting term. He doubted she actually liked the contraptions, but in the case he was wrong, he didn’t want to offend. “… ah, those shoes?”

Aisling hissed, her cheek pinked again, as her pout grew.

“… They’re Leliana’s nameday gift. I have to break them in, since we have the same foot size.”

Cullen rose an eyebrow at her, snapping forward as she wobbled more, gasping aloud and flailing her arm to regain balance.

“I’m ok! I’m up!” She declared, before he could catch her. She regained her lost balance and very carefully descended the last steps sideways. “It’s but a kindness for a friend, poor Leliana is so busy being the Divine, she deserves shoes already broken in and more comfortable…” A pause. “… Since she somehow can find walking on stilts comfortable.”

He hummed in recognition, reading between the lines and offering her his arm, hooked at the elbow. Now that the stairs were gone, she looked up and smiled gratefully at him, placing her hand on the crook of his elbow. They moved forward, he knew she wanted to check on the horses and moved towards the stables, automatically, slowing down his pace. To accommodate her uncertain steps, and also to steal some more moments with his wife. Since they’ve been called to the Keep, they had both been so busy in different tasks that they saw each other little. More than in Skyhold, but after two years of living together, not having her around and seeking contact at every single given chance felt weird and felt bad, and he quite missed her.

But he also knew one thing, and waited after they passed the smithy -Herren and Wade were two gossipers, and he didn’t want this to be spread instantly in the Keep- before asking for confirmation of his suspects, a smile on his face.

“So, the Warden-Commander manipulated you in wearing shoes you hate.”

A pause.

“… She was very convincing…” Aisling admitted, embarrassment deep in her tone.

It made Cullen laugh and earned him a swat on his elbow and a pout.

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry!” He breathed, but still continued laughing. “It’s just funny seeing you so in awe.”

“I’m not in awe she just…” She wove her stump around, gesticulating. “… Has this way with words that makes everything she says seems the only logical solution. Beside, it was for a good cause.”

“A good cause?”

“She promised she would have rested, if I did. And…” She sighed. “Maybe she’ll hate me less, if I wear them.”

Cullen frowned at that, recognizing a hint of self-deprecation she only had after the Exalted Council. Or well, that she started voicing in such harsh terms after that. He knew she hated when he worried and fussed, so, he just told her he didn’t think Mahariel hated her, and squeezed her hand sympathetically. She smiled and hummed in recognition, and even if he knew she was all but convinced, she didn’t insist either. Which was a start.

They reached the stables, and he saw Aisling looking at the shoes. At the ground in the stables. And at the shoes again with a face like she just ate a pickle -she ate everything but pickles, he discovered.

“Can’t you take them off?”

“… I wish it was that simple.” She hissed. “Stupid shoes and stupid me, one would think that three years dealing with the damn Dowager would make me more clever…”

She started muttering, self-deprecation returning.

“Youare complaining? You?!”

A third voice, full of offence and wounded pride, suddenly called out, making the both of them turn. Peeking from the corner of the stables with an angry face and a shoulder that was bare over… Some pink floofy thing made in fabric and quilted with tiny orange bows, there was none other than Alistair, glaring daggers at Aisling. Naming, glaring more daggers at Aisling: their relationship started badly in Redcliffe, all those years ago, and they kept on bickering between them. Most of all, the King of Ferelden evidently liked to rile the former Inquisitor up, and found it fun, as Aisling inevitably got irritated and answered in tow. In the last days since he and Anora reached them, they hadn’t avoided bickering once when they were in the same room.

Right now, both former Inquisitor and Commander stood there, not understanding why the complaint.

It became clear when Alistair looked left and right very carefully, and only once he was very sure there wasn’t anyone around stepped forward, revealing himself.

In a poofy long dress in Orlesian female fashion, extra poofy with extra tulle around the skirt, bows in orange silk where probably bows shouldn’t be, the poofiest sleeves sprouting out of a off shoulder neckline, and corset covered in gold décor and swirls, sinching snugly his torso down to his hip.

They exchanged a look.

Cullen’s jaw fell open, recognizing the same handiwork behind the shoes and the dress, and not daring saying anything. That was, in spite of the appearance, his king after all.

Aisling, less prone to recognize authority just by name for a start, and very less prone to recognize his authority in particular, started to laugh, loud and hard.

Which made Alistair glare harder at her.

“Andraste’s holy knickers- Be more loud about it, would you, let the whole Keep know!”

“Why shouldn’t they know, you look so good in pink!”

“And you have chandeliers on your feet, so what.”

Aisling didn’t stop laughing, and squealed when the man started to chase her, with the obvious intent of shutting her mouth. She rushed behind Cullen’s back, and they would probably have used him as a pivot to run in circles, if Aisling was in a condition to run.

As it was, she took three steps and she was starkly remembered just how little she could walk on heels by tripping on her own feet and falling hard on the ground.

Face first.

“There, serves you right for laughing of me.” Alistair grumbled, crouching down to help Aisling out nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, but…” She snorted again, shuffling to get sitting on her butt. Looking up at the king, she bit her lower lip, in an evident attempt to stop laughing. “… all that tulle…”

“Yeah yeah I look like the work of a crazy confectioner high on elfroot. But I’ll tell you something.” He glowered at her, seriously, and rose one finger. “I’m not dancing the marigold.”

He sat down on his butt as well, still shuffling his hands -gloved in cream silk- to fan the wide skirt out around him in an halo of pink and white. Cullen approached his wife, still a little on pins and needles staying around nobles and figures he was taught all his life to respect. Figures he wouldn’t ever have imagined to witness dressed in a bombonniere of a dress. Which didn’t look half bad on him, beside the ridiculousness of the cut, the overflowing of details and the extra poofiness making him look like a fairy out of a children book.

“Are you fine?” He asked Aisling, crouching down himself.

“Yes, venhan, thank you. I’m all right and…” She stretched her legs forward, monstruosities of shoes twinkling in the spring sun, a little dirty but still in good condition, and twirled her ankles around. “… Yes, still in one piece.”

“These are the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen.” Alistair commented. “And you walk like a drunk varghest.”

“Well at least I don’t look like a meringue.” A pause. The elf squinted at him. “A nasty meringue filled with liquorice.”

“At least I know how to move as a meringue.”

Cullen paled when Aisling gasped and swatted his arm. Swat whose effect was nulled by the poofiness of the sleeve, absorbing the hit fully. It made Alistair grin and Aisling pout, but at least it served to stop them from launch themselves in another round of bickering and trying to prove the other wrong. A small mercy Cullen was very grateful for. Before his wife could concoct another way to irritate the man, he decided to ask first, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t his king the person he was speaking with, and his wife had been an important personality as well. His wife got a marriage proposal from the Grand Duke in Orlais, put the Empress on her throne and still wrote -and spoke- very regularly to two Magisters in Minrathous. It was easier, with Alistair, if he was wearing a whipped cream pie of a dress.

“Ah. The Warden-Commander has been very convincing with you too, your majesty?”

“Actually it was… Wait.” He looked at the buckled shoes. At Aisling. At the shoes again. “She forced you too?”

Aisling, the one addressed with the question, actually blushed, stretching her lips and looking down.

“She was very convincing.”

“Ok, what did you do? Now I’m curious.” He asked, more relaxed, and looked up at Cullen. “Is she this good at irritating aristocrats in general? Or it’s just with us?”

“I’m not-”

“In general. You should have seen her with both the De Chalons.”

“Hey. They were assholes-”

“Aaaaaw that’s conforting. Also explains why Alyra likes her so.”

“I’m not-“ Aisling stopped, transfixed, eyes turning big and mouth keeping open as she took the last sentence in. She blinked, once and twice, and it was Cullen’s turn to snort.

“Wait did you say- She likes me?” She asked, full of disbelief. She turned towards Cullen, a dumbfounded expression on her face. “Venhan, you heard him too?”

Cullen nodded, but Aisling turned back to the other man, squinting at him with suspicion.

“You’re not mocking me again, are you?”

“I swear I’m not.” Alistair laughed, at this, raising both his hands to show her his palms. “Did you really think she doesn’t like you?”

“She always glares at me.”

“She glares at everyone. She glares at me too and well. Point is: she would have never asked you of all people to be here if she didn’t like you.”

It made sense. It made a lot of sense, since the reason why they were there was delicate and personal, requiring the utmost secrecy. Aisling lowered her eyes, taking the news in. Her shoulder slumped some, as she stared transfixed at her yellow shoes. Circled the points around, making the heavy buckle catch light.

“But-”

“I’m in the ugliest dress ever. The shoes just mean she’s petty, and-”

“Who’s petty, exactly?”

They all turned around, to be met with the piercing stare of the Arlessa herself, one arm hooked with the one of a Morrigan who looked sincerely amused, in the way a cat that catches a mouse is, the other hand resting placidly on the big bump under her stays. She took colour on her skin since the cure and looked plumper in the late pregnancy, her face more rounded, but the piercing, judgng expression stayed the same.

“No one, love. Absolutely no one would have forced the King of Ferelden and the Inquisitor she hired as a healer to do a walk of shame around her own castle in two of the ugliest, more embarrassing pieces of clothing the world has ever seen.”

Alyra looked totally unimpressed.

“Have thou already danced the marigold?” Morrigan asked, smirking down at him. “Dost tell me I didn’t miss it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re only envious because I look better than you in a corset.” Alistair scoffed, pointing his chin up in pride.

They started bickering, and Aisling, in the meanwhile, stared at the Arlessa, transfixed as before. She leaned towards Cullen, as the trio discussed between them of marigolds and darkspawn to show the dance too, and ways to get some undead bodies to force him to dance.

“Do you think that’s true?” She asked him, with a hint of vulnerability it took years to be so comfortable in showing.

“Only one way to know for sure, love.” Cullen smiled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss on her lips for courage.

She smiled, still bashful at it after all these years, as she always was when he showed affection so openly. She mouthed a thank you, and turned around, looking at the other Dalish.

“You didn’t make me wear these shoes because you hate me, then?”

Everyone stopped to turn and look at her. Aisling rose up on her feet, brushing her skirt off with her hand and straightening her back to look at Alyra. She was still shorter than her, even with the added height.

Alyra, on her own, rolled her eyes to the sky, scoffing aloud as if the topic annoyed her greatly.

“I don’t know what made you think I do, if I called you here now of all time.” She scoffed, stepping forward to look at the other woman in the eyes. “You’re annoying. And whiny. The way you have of having no self esteem and at the same time being prideful to the point of stubbornness makes me crazy.”

She listed, matter-of-factly enough. Aisling stretched her lips and contracted her fist, closing on the wool of her skirt until the knuckles turned white. But she didn’t lower her eyes, not once, under the scrutiny.

“And you.” Alyra turned to Alistair, who smiled smugly at her. “You’re insufferable, and speak when you’re not supposed to and your sense of humour is getting worse by the year I swear.”

“I love you, too.”

Alyra groaned, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t hate neither of you. Or none of you would be here in the knowing of the progeny.”

She patted her bump to state where the progeny still was, at least for the next two weeks. Then, she looked alternatively at the both of them, with the air of a mother who was scolding her children for the tenth time and was tired of repeating herself.

“That said, you are the midwife, your competence is appreciated and welcomed, but your contribution is not required much until the progeny decides to show up.” She nodded at Aisling first, and then at Alistair. “And you are the father, your contribution was necessary to the purpose, and welcomed, but right now is inconsequential.”

“May I remind you that-”

“You may not.” Alyra cut him off. “What I’m saying is: I didn’t prevent two darkspawn invasions to be told when I should or shouldn’t rest and sit down. If you still think your opinion is so necessary, you can give it to me and to all the Keep in ugly clothes.”

She glared at the both of them for good measure, a challenge on her face to speak back at her. No one dared saying a word, Aisling was frozen on the spot, Alistair smiling with more of a habit of such reactions, and knowing better than to answer from experience. After a full minute spent without blinking, she turned to Cullen, raising one eyebrow at him.

“Do you have anything to say too about my whereabouts and level of activity?”

“N-no, ma’am.”

Instinctively, he straightened his back, his right hand twitched and he had to remind himself that she wasn’t his superior, she wasn’t a Chantry mother, and saluting her would be overly silly. More than calling her ma’am, which made Alistair snicker. It pleased Alyra, who… didn’t smile, but nodded her head with a hint of approval.

“Someone at least turned their brain on today, good to know. Please talk to Nathaniel and tell him to do the same, you’ll recognise him by the hat.”

Alistair started to fully laugh, and quickly rose to his feet, a glint of amusement in his eyes that he totally lacked when he arrived, three days prior.

“I order you to wait, sir, this I have to see it.”

“He was in the great Hall talking with Varel.” Alyra informed him, casually, the ghost of a smile curling her lips.

“At the cost of having people see you in this dress?” Morrigan teased.

“I do look great in pink.” He shrugged, and came to offer his arm, gloves in silk under the poofiest sleeve ever, to the Arlessa, strutting just for show. “My Lady, if you would be so gracious as to do me the honour…”

He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and in spite of rolling her eyes to the sky and shaking her head, Alyra smiled, shifting to hook her arm in his.

“Your majesty, you look particularly dashing today, who dressed you?”

“I think it was Lady Velanna who chose the item, if my intuition doesn’t wrong me.”

Alyra rose an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t it have been me, pray tell me.”

“Darling.” He scoffed, starting to walk away. “She’s the one petty enough to buy something like that. You wouldn’t have touched this monstrousity if it was free, not even for pettiness, and insulted the designer for good measure.”

Alyra’s laughter echoed as the pair walked away, leaving the other three to stand, two dumbfounded and one amused. One amused who turned to the other two and smiled.

“Ma’am.” She pointed out, with the same tone of a cat who just was left unattended in a milk shop.

Cullen blushed and scoffed, trying -and failing- to give himself a tone.

“She was very convincing.” He grumbled.

“She really was.” Aisling nodded, before turning to Morrigan, defeat on her face. “Is she like this with everyone?”

Morrigan laughed, nodding towards the side and starting to walk. The pair followed, still arm in arm, with Aisling who didn’t even mention the option to take her shoes off.

“Only with the people she cares about. She doesn’t bother trying to teach a lesson to the rest.” The Witch explained.

“Did she ever make you wear or do something embarrassing?”

Morrigan turned, raising one eyebrow in scepticism as her all answer. A clear denial, even if her smile betrayed some affection.

“I know other ways to make her do something.”

She cryptically said. When prodded and asked about them, offered options and hypotheses, tho, she just chuckled mysteriously and refused to elaborate any further.

“You’ll see.” She just told them, and that was it.

---

Aisling did, indeed, see, three days later.

Three days later, when the Warden-Commander’s water broke as she was trying to show a pair of recruits how to effectively duck and counter a shield bash “without being idiots about it”.

She looked stunned as if the thing surprised her, and was very pissed off when now both Morrigan and Aisling intervened and dragged her back into the Keep.

Morrigan stopped Alyra’s every complaint that she should finish the training, that this would require hours and she at least could spend some finishing her job and she didn’t understand why everyone fussed over her like so, women give birth all the time it was no big deal.

The Witch, seraphical as if she was expecting the very same scene to occur, managed to put the Warden in a corner, had Aisling state that yes, the physical exertion and the too wide and sudden movement as she showed the recruit the move she intented him to make was what triggered the labour. Alyra looked at her with an expression of pure, utter betrayal that froze Aisling on the spot. Only then the woman seemed to notice one thing about the room. Everything was exactly in the place it was supposed to be: pots of water with glyphs ready to be activated to warm them up. Towels, a table with herbs and a mortar, all in pristine order and just ready to be used. As ready as Aisling was, calmly slipping an apron on and waving her fingers to tie the ribbon on her back.

“… This is all too ready. Were you expecting this to happen?” She didn’t ask: she inquired as if they were in her throne room and she was interrogating some of her vassals about something she was the last to know.

“Uh… Yes? Just in case… You are at 38 weeks, and you were moving a lot…” Aisling managed to spit out, almost apologetically.

Alyra squinted at her, but before she could say anything, Morrigan interrupted her and grabbed both her shoulders, pushing the woman down to sit on her bad and forcing her to look up at the Witch. Witch who had a scolding, out of patience expression on her face which reminded her all too much of Mythal in the Fade, all those years ago.

“You did it all by yourself. Now, will listen and you will do as your midwife says?”

Alyra squinted at her, betrayal on her face. But, she didn’t disagree.

“Say it.” She urged the other, a challenge in her tone.

“We told thee so.”

And indeed, those four words worked better than magic, and when Velanna reached them, she held no ugly clothes in her arms, and wasn’t asked to fetch some.

No one celebrated the birth of the crown prince dressed ridiculously.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #da fic #dao #dai #alistair x female mahariel #morrigan x female mahariel #cullavellan #writing petrel #alyra mahariel #aisling lavellan #tell me alistair wouldn't look good in a corset I won't believe you

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fellowshipofthefics · 9 months

Text

Boromir: A Lifetime of Moments

LeeMorrigan

Summary:

Moments in the life of Boromir, High Warden of the White Tower, Son of the Steward, member of the Fellowship of the Ring, brother to Faramir, friend to King Aragorn, and husband to Roawyn.

#boromir x oc #Boromir #lotr fics #LeeMorrigan

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ass-deep-in-demons · 10 months

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Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + friends & family

Tropes: character study, prequel, love letter to the canon

Rating: G

Chapter Length: 10k

Author's Note: I wrote this because I love Boromir and I want him to have a life. Also, I love Minas Tirith and I will be moving there next summer.

✦ Chapter 1 ✦

...in which we meet Boromir, High Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor. We get to learn a little about his daily life in Minas Tirith, as he tries to make sense of Recent Events: the mundane, the unusual, and the ominous.

[AO3] [masterpost]

Middle Earth, 1st of Nárië 3016 TE

The training grounds adjacent to the Garrison on the Third Level of Minas Tirith often attracted warriors of different provenances. Originally, the compound had been meant to merely house the troops of men-at-arms in the Steward’s employ. However, because the Training Grounds were the only swath of dirt where soldiers could freely run and spar inside the Walls, the Citadel Guards and Crown Knights would exercise there too on the regular. Boromir would come to the Garrison every morning to begin his day with a run, and there he would meet and greet many of his peers and fellow soldiers. This day was no exception.

As he jogged, answering an occasional salute, he thought about the things he needed to accomplish later that day. A pending muster of the new recruits in the Garrison, equipment inspection at the Citadel, a report from the Masons’ Guild on the state of Pelennor fortifications… just to name a few of his ordinary duties as Captain and High Warden of the White Tower. However, one particular instalment in today’s agenda weighed especially heavily on Boromir. Earlier in the morning, just as he had exited his quarters in the Citadel, the Steward’s page had handed him a note. A summons. (...) today, at your convenience, the note read. It meant his father would be waiting for him in his office in the Tower of Ecthelion; waiting to talk about… Boromir knew not what, and therein lay the problem. Yesterday, when he had seen his father during the Midsummer festivities in the Citadel, the Steward had made no indication of wanting to speak in private…

Oh, Boromir would meet with the Steward on a regular basis, naturally. Every Valarday, Lord Denethor would host a private dinner for his sons and most trusted friends. There were the scheduled reports on the Citadel Guard, which Boromir dutifully submitted in person each week; then the military strategy meetings, which he considered his primary concern; the Council sessions which usually made him bored, or furious, or both; and of course the ever hated Court audiences, which required formal wear and a great deal of posturing. Alas, as both the sons of the Ruling Steward knew well, the most tricky of all were the dreaded individual summons.

It’s not that Boromir did not love his father. He loved him dearly and revered him, as was due to his sire and his liege lord. But individual summons were serious, and a harrowing experience more often than not. Such a private audience was never without a cause, and rarely would that cause be pleasant.

“Boromir!” He heard someone call his name from the entrance to the training grounds. Only a handful of persons in the whole of Minas Tirith had the standing to address him with such informality, so it wasn’t difficult to guess who was seeking his attention. He halted and turned around to greet the newcomer. The man cut a tall figure and stood out, with his hair red like most of his Blackroot Vale kinsmen, clad in the green vestments of his house. Boromir jogged towards his friend and clasped his arm.

“Derufin! Must that my eyes deceive me! Or is this you sleepwalking?” he asked, with mocked astonishment.

“Why, aren’t your wits sharp as ever on this grey morning, my Lord,” parried Derufin tersely. “Not all of us are like to run ten leagues in full plate ere breakfast, you know?” he grumbled. Boromir would often prod him for his dislike of early rising.

“Well?” asked Boromir, “what is so important that’s got you up, then?" It was quite unusual, Boromir had to admit. Derufin was the Captain in charge of the Steward’s bowmen. Archery training would start shortly before noon on the regular, when target visibility was best. His friend hesitated to answer, too, and his expression turned even more solemn, which gave Boromir a pause. Had something happened?

“Lady Morwen is leaving,” said Derufin finally, as if he was announcing a death sentence.

"Leaving? Have done jesting, Derufin," Boromir shook his head. "I saw her just yesterday in the Citadel, in passing. She was in high spirits, enjoying the festivities."

"Aye," claimed Derufin, "and after the feast she said her goodbyes. Hallas told me she'd bid him farewell for good and that she'd already packed for her journey to Arnach."

“Bugger!” Boromir said, for all his (reportedly) sharp wits not able to come up with anything more eloquent at the moment.

“Bugger indeed,” Derufin agreed and deflated.

For a while the two of them stood there, dumb and brooding. To someone unacquainted with the lives of Gondorian peerage, Lady Morwen’s leaving might appear a trifling matter, no more than food for gossip, or a personal hardship at worst. But Boromir knew well what it signified, and he did not like it one bit.

Lady Morwen of Lossarnach, daughter of Forlong the Fat, had for some years been the favourite of the Minas Tirith’s youth, an avid attendee of gatherings, and a devoted patroness of shops and fashionable hostelries. Her love for the White City could rival Boromir’s own, albeit for vastly different reasons. It followed that if even the Lady Morwen herself was leaving the City for Lossarnach, other noble Ladies and Gentle Folk were bound to desert as well, and soon.

Boromir could plainly see the reasons for which Gondor’s nobility was abandoning the Capital and taking refuge in the western fiefdoms. The situation in Minas Tirith was gaining urgency with every passing moon. Had been for some time. As the skirmishes with orcs and Southrons grew in frequency and magnitude, more and more civilians, common and noble alike, chose evacuation. In their place, men-at-arms, masons, smiths and fletchers were flocking to the City in great numbers to seek employment in the army. The Steward encouraged and supervised these changes, and Boromir was tasked with organising the draft and the drilling of the newcomers.

“What am I to do?” Derufin finally broke the silence. “Should I go and see her…? No, that… But, what if…” His desperation was quite evident and Boromir pitied his friend. Out of all of the Lady Morwen’s astonishingly numerous admirers, Derufin was perhaps the most devoted, if also, regrettably, the least skilled in the art of romance. “Say, Boromir, will you go with me? Just to see her off?” his friend demanded, and Boromir rolled his eyes. It was entirely too early to be social. “You must! She’ll only talk to me if you’re there,” Derufin pleaded.

“You’re a major dolt, you know?” Boromir informed his friend. “She’d see you even without me, and it would serve you better. But very well,” he relented, “let’s go, lest she ride out ere you gather your wits. But I am not changing. We go as we are, and then we break fast at the Mûmakil,” he asserted, as he waved over his squire and began unbuckling his armour.

“Just hurry,” Derufin said, anxious. “We should still be able to catch her Uptown. If not, we’ll have to race her convoy to the Great Gate! It would be just like in the songs…” the redhead mused, and Boromir was, once again, privately astonished by the sentimental spirit of his airhead friend. A horse race down the Main Street, at this time of the day, would be harrowing at best, not to mention a hazard, and a public spectacle.

Boromir left his equipment with his squire, the young Huor, and the two men began their brisk climb to the Sixth Level in companionable silence. The main paved road of the White City meandered from the northern to the southern half of it and back, crossing each of the seven walls at a different point. The Main Street was buzzing with activity. Withering Midsummer decorations could be seen here and there after yesterday's Parade, which had been, on all accounts, underwhelming compared to the celebrations that Boromir remembered from his childhood. Still, on both sides of the Street the commerce was yet alive - the merchants and craftsmen were opening their shops and the air was permeated by the smell of fresh bread from the numerous bakeries of the Third and Fourth Level. To walk along the tract, up to the Sixth Level, would take the entire morning, but Boromir, a true son of the old Minas Anor, knew every narrow passage, every unofficial crossing point, and the location of a conveniently placed hidden ladder, that allowed them to scale the Fifth Wall momentarily. This way, their trek to the Uptown was over in less time than Derufin had needed to come up with what to say to the Lady.

“Better you greet her, and I follow along,” Derufin told his friend.

“She will not bite, you know,” Boromir replied quietly, as they approached the Lord of Lossarnach’s city estate. Sure enough, a carriage waited out-front, laden with numerous chests and packs. Even more baggage was being lugged from the townhouse by a flock of servants. Several horses waited nearby at the ready.

“I think I wouldn’t mind if she truly bit me…,” pondered Derufin. “Depending on the location of the biting, certainly!”. Boromir snorted and opened his mouth to retort, but then the Lady herself emerged from the door.

“Lord High Warden, Captain Derufin! I regretted not seeing more of you yesterday at the Feast,” she said by way of greeting and flashed her white teeth. "Do you already miss my dancing? Are you here to beg me to stay?" She levelled them both with her gaze playfully, but lingered on Boromir, no doubt noticing his decidedly not fresh training attire. He did not look the part of the High Warden, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Lady Morwen. Certainly the seamstresses of the Fourth Level will be grieving your departure come tomorrow,” he countered her easily. “With you goes their livelihood. We are come on their behalf to bid you a safe journey.”

Lady Morwen laughed. She was tan and plump, had a wide smile, wide hips, luscious dark bouncy curls and bouncy… other parts, and Boromir liked all of that. She was also quick witted and he liked that even more. But Boromir would never think to court her. She would likely neither understand nor agree with his warrior’s lifestyle, and, more importantly, under no circumstance would he do anything to undermine Derufin’s chance at happiness. They remained acquaintances and Boromir enjoyed their friendly banter and an occasional dance. The same could not be said of Derufin, who would become severely tongue-tied and prone to stumbling in her presence.

“Well then, you may inform the mourning seamstresses that I shall be thinking of them very fondly in Arnach, and I shall return one day for new gowns, so they better be ready for me,” she said cheerfully, but then her smile faded. “I truly am loath to depart, but I dare not ignore my Lord Father’s summons any longer.”

They fell silent at that, for there was nothing left to say. To his surprise, Boromir felt a pang of genuine sadness. He was no courtier, nor did he attend much of the noble gatherings, but even he could recognize that the White City would be diminished greatly by the exodus of its gentry. With their departure the music would die down, the parties would cease and the fine arts would be abandoned. But such were the dictates of war.

“Well then,” said Lady Morwen, ending the silence. “Unless one of you, Lords, has something to say to me, that could induce me to stay a while longer…” With these words she looked long and hard at dumbfounded Derufin. ”... I must be off.”

She then briskly entered her carriage, and once seated, looked at them one last time.

“I will be thinking of you and praying for your safety,” she said. “You are our champions and heroes, and the hearts of the people are with you. Do not forget that on the field of battle, my Lords.” Her solemnity and pathos surprised Boromir, but he detected no sign of mockery nor artifice.

“We thank you, Lady. Please, do convey our respects to your esteemed Lord in the Vale of Flowers,” he replied officially and bowed.

“I fervently hope to see you again, my Lady,” said Derufin.

“As do I, Derufin,” she said, then she tapped the roof to signal the coachman. The carriage started moving and just like that, Lady Morwen was off to Lossarnach. Both men looked after her convoy advancing on the Main Street to disappear in the Sixth Gate. Derufin uttered a heart-rending sigh.

“You truly are a dolt,” said Boromir.

“Aye, that I am,” Derufin agreed weakly, and Boromir had no heart to tease him any further.

“Come, let us go to the Mûmak and cheer ourselves up with a hearty breakfast,” Boromir ordered. “I’ve received summons from the Steward and I cannot face him on an empty stomach,” he said and grimaced. Immediately, he regretted these words, honest as they were. He should not be mentioning his liege lord in such an irreverent manner. A sign, perhaps, that his patience was wearing thin these last weeks.

But Derufin seemed to take it in stride, sympathetic to his fellow noble son’s predicament.

“It wouldn’t do, no,” he said. “I do not envy you and Your Lord, with what has been going on.”

To that, Boromir could only nod, and sigh, and then the both men were off to Midtown. Derufin was the closest friend Boromir had in the world, save of course for Faramir and perhaps for Theodred of Rohan. Derufin and his older brother Duilin, sons of the Lord Duinhir of Morthond, had come to Minas Tirith some twenty years prior, at the cusp of their adulthood, to receive military training. They had quickly formed an alliance with the Steward’s Heir, them being alike to Boromir in age and station. After two summers of training Duilin, as his father’s heir, had been summoned back to Blackroot Vale, Derufin however had received leave to remain as one of the Knights in the service of the Steward. And so he and Boromir had spent most of their youth together, sparring, chasing skirts and frequenting taverns.

The Fat Mûmakil on the Fourth Level was one such tavern, their favourite establishment, as it happened. The upper-class Sixth Level had several elegant inns with gourmet cuisine, as well as a scattering of small shops with artisanal pastries and refreshing spicy beverages from Rhûn and Harad. The Fifth Level boasted many ever-crowded dining establishments with regional dishes, which offered overpriced deals mostly aimed at tourists and travelling merchants. The Fat Mûmakil on the Fourth Level was less formal and less crowded, but still respectable. Mainly Citadel Guards and local men of trade could be met there, and that suited Boromir just fine. He even had his own favourite table, which the owner, Otto, would oft reserve for him, as Boromir was certainly his most prominent patron.

On this day the Mûmakil's main chamber was more crowded than usual, and Boromir could see many of yesterday's revellers trying to drown their hangovers in ale. No sooner were Boromir and Derufin seated at their table, as the serving girl, Gurdun, greeted them with her usual enthusiasm.

“What will it be, my Lords?” she asked. “Late breakfast or an early lunch? We have excellent fresh mutton today!”

Indeed, it was almost noon already, Boromir noted, only then realising how hungry he felt. Derufin’s failed romantic endeavours had cost them the entire morning. The Archer would be late for target practice, but that couldn’t be helped now. Not when a whiff of roasted meat, mixed with tones of sage and rosemary, had his stomach gurgling in pleasant anticipation. After a short deliberation, they decided to fogo breakfast and order the mutton, but just as they were about to place their order, they heard Otto call out from behind the bar.

“Oi! Lass! Haven’t I told you to come and fetch me if Lord High Warden showed up?” the innkeeper chastised poor Gudrun and hurried to their table. “Begging pardon, Lords!” he addressed them politely.

“What is the hurry, Master Barkeeper?” Boromir asked. This behaviour was somewhat irregular for Otto, a man of few words, who often preferred to leave his patrons in peace.

“With your permission, Lord High Warden. I am to relay to you a missive, entrusted to me by one Captain Faramir of the Rangers,” Otto declared, his tone and the expression on his pudgy face indicating utmost reverence.

“Hold on!” Boromir exclaimed and shook his head. Surely the barkeep was mistaken. “Captain Faramir is stationed in Ithilien, and will stay there for some weeks. I would know it if mine own brother was come back home.”

“That is the very thing, Lord Warden,” Otto said, exasperated. “The Lord Faramir was here this morning looking for your Lordship. He’s left this note with me.” With these words, the innkeeper produced a squarely folded letter and handed it to Boromir. “I beg your pardon, Lord! I would have passed it right away, but for this forgetful goose that calls herself a waitress.”

“Come now, surely no harm is done,” Boromir waved off the barkeep’s concerns and winked at the lass, which made her face turn even redder, if such a thing were even possible. Sure enough, the letter bore Faramir’s seal and Boromir hastily broke it to unfold the parchment.

To the most worthy Lord Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, High Warden of the Citadel, and Captain-General of Gondor, from his loving brother Captain Faramir: warmest greetings!

It has ever been my sincerest wish to see you in good health and high spirits, and for myself, to be by your side always, or at least as oft as Fate would allow. Now I rejoice, for the time of our reunion is near.

I am come back to the City this morning post haste, spurred by a most peculiar Dream. I have looked for you in the Garrison, but found you absent, and your Squire informed me you had left with Lord Derufin of Blackroot Vale. I thought you had gone to the Fat Mûmakil for breakfast; it seems I was mistaken. No matter, you are like to turn up here sooner or later. I am most impatient to reunite with you, yet there is someone I need to see first about the Dream.

I pray dearest brother, meet me in the Citadel this afternoon after the third bell.

May the Valar bestow upon you all their blessings, so wishes Yours forever loving brother,

Faramir

Boromir couldn’t help but smile, as he read the letter. So like his Faramir, to have even the most mundane of notes be a cause for shame for the professional scribes. Boromir hated correspondence and would always make it as short as possible, yet Faramir could produce artful speeches off the top of his head, even scrawling over his knee in the corner of a tavern. He would not forgo any part required for the sake of formality, which Boromir was wont to do.

Yet, formally complete as it was, Faramir’s letter posed more questions than it answered. That his brother on occasion was plagued by weird dreams, and that he ascribed to them prophetic meanings - Boromir knew, and sometimes he even dared believe it. But why was this dream so urgent to warrant abandoning his post in East Ithilien? Did his brother have some news relating to the Enemy? And who was this person Faramir was going to meet? The logical guess would be the Lord Denethor, whose insightful predictions often bordered on prophetic as well. But then why hadn’t Faramir simply written that he was off to meet their Lord Father? Surely, as Captain of the Rangers he had to report to the Steward first thing?

“And? What writes Faramir?” asked Derufin, snapping Boromir out of his musings. Both his friend and the innkeeper had apparently been waiting for his reaction, and in the latter case - for a dismissal.

“You spoke true, Otto, my brother is in the City and bids me to meet him,” Boromir said and nodded to the barkeep. “As always, I thank you for your hospitality, and for delivering this message,” he said. Otto bowed and then, seemingly relieved, retreated behind the bar.

"Friend, I've need of you," said Boromir to Derufin.

"Of course," his answer came. “Say aught and it will be done.”

"I find I cannot wait, so here is where we part. I am going to the Citadel to seek out my brother," Boromir declared, all thoughts of a meal forgotten. "When You reach the Garrison, tell Sergeant Hirgon that the muster is postponed till tomorrow. And send my Squire Huor Uptown."

Derufin raised his eyebrows.

"As you wish, Boromir. But I expect to later hear from you about all this that you are about now. Whatever the matter, it has your knickers in a twist."

"I know not the matter myself yet. Only that certain things do not add up, and I must investigate," pondered Boromir. He stood and tossed coins to the table. "Now I am off! Treat yourself to the mutton on my account. Be hale, Friend!"

"And you!" came Derufin's answer, but Boromir was already halfway to the tavern's door.

Time was of essence, so he used the hidden ladder on the Fifth Wall, which was just a short walk behind the Mûmakil. Once he reached Fifth Level, it was only a matter of following the Main Street for some two hundred yards, and he found himself crossing the Sixth Gate. He gave the obligatory password to the men at the post; it was, of course, entirely unnecessary in his case, as one would be hard pressed to find a guardsman not able to recognize the High Warden on sight. However, Boromir would personally reprimand any guard who forwent this duty, and well they knew it.

The Sixth Level did not cover a large area, and it mainly comprised the estates of the most prominent Lords and Barons. It had a couple notable points, though. On the left, Boromir passed the grand complex of the Healing Houses with adjacent Gardens. Continuing along the Main Street he reached the seventh and final of the City Gates, which was in truth more of a tunnel than a gate, hewn under the spur of rock that stemmed from the Hill of Guard. The tunnel went three-ways: it connected northern and southern parts of the Sixth Level with the Courtyard of the Citadel. Boromir could walk the path to the top with his eyes closed, without even thinking about it, this time however, something perverted his course.

Just as he was about to turn left to enter the staircase leading to the Courtyard, he felt a strange, distinct tug in his stomach. As if he was supposed to go somewhere else. A calling, of sorts. Instead of turning, he continued straight through the tunnel and emerged on the northern side of the Spur.

This part of the Sixth Level would become shadowed by the Mountain later during the day, but for now the white walls of opulent townhouses shone still in the early afternoon sun. Compared to them, the building of the Royal Archives looked nondescript, but it was the one that Boromir turned his steps towards. He could not say what sort of intuition guided him; he only had an inkling as to who might be waiting for him at his destination.

Despite the outward building of the Archives being average in size, on the inside its chambers were numerous and vast, for they continued deep into the Mountain, and the farthest, oldest halls were situated under the Citadel. There was even a secret passage between the Archives and the Tower of Ecthelion, although that was one of the better guarded secrets of Gondor, and Boromir was one of the only few, besides his father, Faramir, Warden of the Keys and the Head Archivist, who knew about it.

But right then, after entering the Archives, Boromir went not to the deep halls and the passage, but towards the airy and well lit Public Hall.

The Archives were unpopulated most of the time. The Public Hall was furnished with numerous tall rows of bookshelves, which formed a veritable labyrinth, with a few small and sparsely lit desks and workstations. As he wandered between the shelves, Boromir heard two voices speaking, of which both sounded familiar: one belonged to his brother Faramir - there could be no mistake. The other voice he could not quite place, although he was certain he's heard it before.

"... And think you truly, that this has aught to do with our Kingdom?" Faramir's muffled voice became clearer as Boromir approached a large stained-glass window. His brother and the mysterious guest were occupying an alcove in the library, fashioned in a wide, sunny embrasure. Boromir knew the spot; it had long been Faramir’s favourite hideout.

"Who can tell what fate has in store for any of us, my young friend?" answered the second voice and although Boromir recognized it then, he could scarce believe his own ears. What finally convinced him of the mystery person's identity was a generous billow of pipeweed smoke that wafted from the embrasure. Boromir halted. He was not sure of his readiness to face the guest, and he didn't want to interrupt what he knew was a long-awaited opportunity for Faramir.

"I should tell Boromir about this, later," Faramir said, "Though, he is like to make light of such matters. Yet I find I want to share with him all the news of import anyways." Hearing this, Boromir felt his heart swell with a rush of tenderness for his younger brother. He should pay more attention to the stories and dreams Faramir would recount to him, even if he did not always understand them.

"You need not wait, my young friend. You can tell him right now," the voice answered. Of course, thought Boromir, I cannot hide from a Wizard.

“Now? How…” Faramir began, but Boromir decided to wait no longer.

As his presence had been discovered, he had little choice but to step out from behind the bookcase and face both Mithrandir and Faramir; the latter quite literally, for Faramir was immediately upon him, clasping his shoulders and arms in greeting.

“Brother!” he exclaimed, his entire face alight with joy. Boromir immediately felt a tight knot in his chest unravel. He did not know how much he had been worrying for his brother until the worries dissipated at the welcome sight and new vigour surged through his veins.

“‘Tis I! And ‘tis you, and you are whole,” Boromir said and embraced his brother, overcome with emotion. “A happy day. I’ve got your note.”

“Aye! But how did you know I’d be here? The note said the Citadel, and after the third bell!” Faramir asked, furrowing his brow in that characteristic manner of his, which always amused Boromir.

“How did I know you’d be in the library? Where the books are?” Boromir laughed. “A wonder, truly. Must that you’re not the only one with prophetic abilities, little brother.” He did not want to elaborate and explain the mysterious premonition that guided him here, so he disguised it as a jest.

“Evidently not,” said Mithrandir, reminding the brothers of his presence.

On the best of days, Boromir was not too fond of Wizards. They came and went as they pleased, and seemed to know entirely too much, but they never shared their insights, unless it suited their agenda. They kept their own counsel, the Order of the Istari they called it, or what had you, and because of this Boromir was always a little suspicious about their true allegiance. Greater good they always preached, but too often they were the ones who dictated where that greater good might lay. The lore of Western Domains brimmed with tales of unfortunate mortals, who were spurred by this Wizard or the other to do something unpardonably stupid.

Or maybe he just did not like to be on the receiving end of that drilling, speculative gaze, like the one Mithrandir was currently regarding him with. It made Boromir’s teeth itch.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith, Grey Wanderer," Boromir said nevertheless and bowed politely. It was always wise to be polite to the Istari, lest they turn me into a frog, or whatever it is they do to mortals they no longer have use of, he reasoned.

"Well met, Son of Denethor," said Mithrandir. "You are much changed, since last I've seen you."

Typical wizard behaviour, Boromir thought sourly. Always implying something, but never saying it clearly. What was even more annoying, he could not say the same to the Wizard - The Grey Wanderer had not aged a day during the entirety of Boromir’s life, and also the life of his father Denethor, and his grandfather Ecthelion, if they were to be believed. He chose to ignore the Wizard’s remark.

"Long has it been since we last spoke, Lord Istar," he answered levelly. Thirteen years, to be exact, his memory supplied. Members of the Istari order would visit Minas Tirith from time to time: sometimes they were gone for a year, sometimes for five years, sometimes twenty, and sometimes two hundred years or even more. Five of the Istari were known to the people of Gondor, their deeds recorded in legends, and if there were more, they had never revealed themselves. As far as the memory of the Ruling Stewards reached, only two Wizards: Mithrandir and Curunir, had ever regaled Gondor’s rulers with their company and their advice. Of the two, Mithrandir’s name had often been associated with ill news and ill adventures, and the inhabitants of Minas Tirith generally feared and avoided him. They called him Stormcrow, the portend of doom. Fitting, that he’d turn up now of all times, Boromir thought.

"Has it?" the Wizard furrowed his comically bushy brows. "Seems to me like yesterday. I must be getting old."

You think? Boromir snarked in the privacy of his thoughts, but said nothing out loud. He did not have time for Mithrandir's antics. He came here to meet with his brother, whose absence of several months was felt by him more keenly than Mithrandir's over a decade of silence.

“Don’t let me keep you, Sons of Denethor,” said Gandalf, not for the first time making Boromir wonder if perhaps the Wizard could read minds.

“But what will you be doing now, Gandalf?” Faramir asked, seeming loath to part with the Wizard, whom, as Boromir knew, he greatly admired. In his youth, Faramir had spent many evenings in the Grey Wanderer's company in these very Archives, or in the Sixth Level’s Gardens, to the amazement of the archivists and healers, and to the Lord Steward’s eternal annoyance. Mithrandir would smoke pipeweed then, recount his many fantastical tales, and tutor Faramir in the art of interpreting dreams. Boromir knew this only because Faramir had told him, for he himself had never been present during these meetings. Faramir often spoke about Gandalf and reminisced on everything the Wizard had told him, even many years after the Grey Wanderer’s last visit to Minas Tirith.

To Boromir’s astonishment, the Wizard gave a plain answer.

“I will be searching for a certain piece of history deep in the bowels of these Archives, my young friend,” he said, with uncharacteristic sobriety. “Pray that I find it, for it will be no easy task, and much depends upon it.”

“Then I will help you!” said Faramir immediately. “This is why I am come! To be of service to you, dearest Gandalf!” Boromir could see his brother’s excitement, but privately he worried. He would hate for Faramir to get involved in one of the Wizard’s suspect schemes.

“You already serve Gondor and your Lord well, Captain Faramir, and let us leave it at that,” said Gandalf kindly. “Your present tasks are vital and appreciated. This quest must be mine alone.” In his words rang such finality, that no one in their right mind would dare contest them.

“We wish you a brief and fruitful labour, then,” Faramir acquiesced. “May you find what you came for.”

“Farewell, Faramir and Boromir. Until we meet again.” With this, Gandalf wandered off into the labyrinth of bookcases and disappeared in a billow of pipeweed smoke.

Now left alone with his brother, Boromir afforded himself the luxury of a shared quiet moment with the person he loved most. He took in the sight of Faramir, whose skin was tan and whose hair gained paler reflexes from being out in the sun, but who was safe and sound, and generally no worse for the wear, despite having faced the danger of the Enemy every day for the past near to four moons. Faramir observed him in turn. When they were both content that no harm had come to the other, Boromir spoke, almost hesitant to interrupt the silence.

“Have you seen our Lord the Steward yet?” he asked, knowing that Faramir wouldn't be too eager to fulfil this particular duty, and wanting to assist him. Or maybe it is me who doesn’t want to face the Steward alone, Boromir thought sourly. He still hadn’t answered his father’s summons.

“I have, as happens,�� Faramir said, to Boromir’s surprise. “I went to him first thing, ever his faithful servant. He is up to date with the Rangers’ manoeuvres, as I’ve been sending him frequent and extensive reports. He did not want much from me, save for the recount of recent days and of my journey here. And, of course, the cause for my abandoning of my post. He did not take kindly to that, even if he could see my reasons.” Faramir’s tone was bland and formal, as it was usually when he was speaking of Denethor.

“What were your reasons for coming here?” Boromir asked.

“I’ll tell you everything, but not here. There are still respects left to pay on the occasion of my return,” said Faramir, and his eyes softened. “Will you go with me?” he asked.

“I will,” Boromir agreed, not even needing to ask where they were going.

Together, they exited the Archives into the lazy afternoon bustle of Uptown. They directed their steps to the left, where the uppermost traverse of the Main Street girded the Citadel and led straight to Fen Hollen. As the name implied, the massive gate would remain ever closed to the public, with the exception of a select few. The sons of the Steward counted among the approved visitors, of course.

“Lord High Warden, Captain Faramir!” the Portier saluted as he held the door ajar, only wide enough to let them pass.

Only once the iron gate closed behind them, could Boromir relax. He was finally alone with Faramir, in this hallowed space designated for eternal rest. Slowly, they strolled along Rath Dínen, admiring the view of the slopes of Mindolluin bathed in the afternoon sun that the path afforded. Boromir was anxious to hear his brother’s tale, yet he knew better than to press him. Sure enough, Faramir soon spoke unprompted.

“Chiefly, I came back to meet with Gandalf, although of course I did not tell that to Father,” Faramir began.

“No,” Boromir agreed. Denethor hardly needed any more reasons to be angry with Faramir, as was. “But how did you know he’d be here? There has been no news of him for over a decade.”

“I think he summoned me,” Faramir said, frowning. “Although he would not admit it. I sensed his coming, and hastened back to the City. Anyways, it was vital that I spoke both to father and to Gandalf because of a dream I had last night. I knew not what to make of the vision and seeked to consult them.”

Not with the visions again , thought Boromir. The theme of revelations and premonitions had always been pervasive in their family. After three decades of his service to the Steward, Boromir became convinced that his father had some means of clairvoyance that surpassed ordinary mortal senses. It was impossible to hide anything from Lord Denethor, and his intuition was legendary among the people of Gondor. How would his father obtain clandestine knowledge of various topics and occurrences, Boromir knew not, for the Steward confided in no one.

Boromir was, on the other hand, privy to the intimate details of Faramir’s life. Ever since childhood, his brother had suffered from mysterious dreams and spells of delirium, which even the Warden of the Healing Houses could not explain. During those states, Faramir would experience visions, often filled with symbolic topics and legendary themes. The visions were what fueled his love for history and lore. Some unsympathetic courtiers would circulate rumours that the younger son of the Steward was unsound of mind, none however would dare to repeat such slander in Boromir’s range of hearing. Mithrandir considered the visions a gift, and declared them prophetic. It was for this reason that the Wizard decided to tutor Faramir, and he visited the city regularly for a period of time during their youth. Anyone who knew Faramir could not doubt the strength of his on all accounts brilliant mind, and neither Boromir nor Lord Denethor had ever given any serious consideration to the notion that Faramir might be going insane. However, Boromir was to this day reluctant to buy into the supernatural diagnosis as given by Mithrandir.

In truth, Faramir’s condition often worried him. The visions concerned grave topics and were connected to the history and fate of their Kingdom and the world of Men. They often taxed Faramir, who was ever for his part a sensitive, introspective lad, and the dreams became the cause for his brother’s further isolation. To remedy this, Boromir would always listen to Faramir’s recount of the visions and try to lessen his burden by offering consolation, even if he himself was not entirely convinced of the origin or veracity of his brother’s clairvoyance. This time was no different.

“Will you tell me?” he asked. Faramir needed no further encouragement.

“I dreamt, and in that dream I saw a vast swathe of forest,” his brother began. “A realm older and darker than the woods of Ithilien and Anorien, if you can believe it. The sky above it was clouded and dreary, and for a long time there was silence and little else. Then suddenly the sky was rent, and a flash of blinding light appeared to permeate the entire forest. A strange and wonderful chanting filled the air, in a language unknown to me, and I was overcome by awe. Soon, as rapidly as it started, the song died down, and a great many birds took flight at once and soared to the West. The dream was not yet over then, but I missed it’s last part, because that’s when Mablung woke me, damn him. He said I was trashing in my sleep, which I probably was. But something important might have escaped me because of him. I hope I’ll dream of it again.”

Boromir hoped for the exact opposite, because Faramir’s tale filled him with a sense of supernatural foreboding, which did not sit well with him.

“What did our father make of it?” Boromir asked.

“He’s listened to my recounting of the dream, but offered no insight nor any commentary,” Faramir sighed. “You know how he is.”

“Aye,” Boromir confirmed. Denethor took interest in Faramir’s visions, true, but often offered no sympathy nor counsel for his younger son. It always angered Boromir, because, of all the people, Lord Denethor, who probably shared some of his son’s gifts, would be best equipped to relieve Faramir’s anxieties. But he never did. “And what explanation did Mithrandir give you?” Boromir asked instead of dwelling on the family conflict.

“Gandalf said that something has happened in one of the Elven realms of the North. A source of primaeval power, rarely seen in Our Age, has briefly awakened, and disturbed the peace of an Elven Queen. He himself has felt the surge of magic, and later received news of what’s happened from a friend. He also said…” here Faramir briefly hesitated, before continuing, “... that because I have dreamt of it, the event might somehow connect to the fate of Gondor. Though I do not see how, nor does he.”

As always, Boromir was in awe of how much occult knowledge the Wizard was willing to share with Faramir. Boromir himself could not get a straight answer from Mithrandir even if he asked to be shown the way to a privy. Wander and ye shall find what ye seek the old man would say, or other such nonsense, and then he’d gladly watch Boromir piss himself.

However, he had to abandon both his humorous musings of wizards, as well as the daunting mystery of Faramir’s dreams, for the brothers had at last reached the end of Rath Dínen, and entered the Houses of the Dead.

The greatest mausoleum was of course dedicated to Gondor’s Kings of yore, and its portal had been sealed ever since the funeral of King Eärnur, nearly a millennium ago. As they passed its opulent carved fronton, Boromir and Faramir’s feet took them along the familiar path to the Mausoleum of the Stewards, where, amongst the innumerable epitaphs of their kin, their mother had been laid to rest. Lord Denethor had her marble likeness placed upon her monument, and both of her sons now contemplated its cool beauty in silence. Boromir regretted not having brought any token of remembrance - a bundle of fragrant herbs, or a candle to place upon her grave. He would usually forget things like that when visiting here. There were always fresh flowers adorning the tombstone, their father saw to that personally, but it would have been nice to leave something of his own.

"Do you ever think about what she'd make of us?" asked Faramir suddenly, to Boromir's surprise. His brother rarely spoke of their mother and Boromir wasn't sure how well Faramir remembered her, given that his brother had only been in his fifth winter when she had passed away.

"She would be proud of you, I know it," he said. And she would not let the Steward estrange you thus , he added in his thoughts. She would not suffer you being sent to the forefront of a brewing war for months on end. She'd want you here, in the Capital, where your brilliance could truly shine.

If anyone ever had any influence over Lord Denethor, it had been the Lady Finduilas. Since her passing the Steward would shoulder his burdens alone. In his youth, Boromir often dreamed of finding love like the one he saw between his parents. He firmly pushed those thoughts aside. It was no time to be getting sentimental.

"She was like you, in many ways," Boromir said to his brother instead. "Having you makes me miss her less."

"Yes," Faramir agreed. "The same goes for you. Let us leave her in peace and be off."

They turned back and again strolled along Rath Dinen, this time towards the City. The sun was already leaning towards the West, bound to disappear behind Mount Mindolluin sooner than later.

Now that the heavy, intimate topics were out of the way, Boromir's thoughts drifted towards his everyday worries again. He was sorely tempted to shower Faramir with questions about the orcish warbands that the Ithilien Rangers were battling, about their numbers, their equipment, camp placements and preferred strategies, but he held back for Faramir's sake. After the first euphoria of seeing his brother in one piece had passed, Boromir saw the silent traces of bone-deep weariness in his brother. Faramir looked thinner, his eyes were shadowed and lacked spark. Boromir wondered if he in turn appeared tired to Faramir, given all the pressure he himself had been under these past months. Anyhow, he was unlikely to get out of Faramir any more than he had already learned from his brother's detailed field reports.

Instead, it was Faramir who introduced lighter topics.

"Aunt Irviniel wrote to me that cousin Elphir is to take a wife," he informed conversationally. "She sends you her best regards and regrets we cannot be present for the wedding."

Boromir snorted.

"Oh, I do doubt that!" he countered. "She may miss you, to be sure, but me and father I'd wager she could do without." There was no love lost between Boromir and his aunt Irviniel.

"Do not be like that!" Faramir chided. "I shall write to her that you send your regards as well," he added generously.

Together they returned to the Citadel, mostly trading news about their friends and extended family. When they entered the Courtyard of the Fountain, they halted to consider their next course.

“When are you heading back to Ithilien?” Boromir asked his brother, reluctant to part ways with him, but knowing he would have to.

“Father wants me back on my post as soon as possible, so I’ll be leaving on the morrow at first light,” Faramir replied.

“I will be there to see you off, then,” Boromir said, as he clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Rest now and treat yourself to a large dinner. You’re waning.”

“Do not mother hen me!” Faramir bristled. “You yourself look worn out like a bed in a brothel! You send me to dine and rest, and where will you go? Off to do more work, I’d wager.”

“Such crass words from my gentle little brother!” exclaimed Boromir, affecting shock, and then laughed. "I see the company of soldiers has been rubbing off on you! But your wits avail you, alas, I am guilty as charged," he added. He was still yet to break the night’s fast, still had High Warden duties to attend to and he still hadn’t answered his father’s call.

Having traded goodnights with his brother, Boromir went straight to his office in the Guard House. At its door he met his Squire Huor, and he immediately felt guilty for forgetting about the boy for the better part of the day.

“Huor!” he called, “had you aught in your belly since morning?” The boy shook his head. “Ha! And neither had I. Hurry off to the kitchens and bid them send us some provisions. Then fetch the ledgers and be ready to assist me.”

As Huor scurried off in his quest for sustenance, Boromir reluctantly looked at the dispatches and reports piling on his desk. There will be time to read them tomorrow , after the muster, he reassured himself. Among the papers, he found the one he’d been after: the report from the Mason’s Guild on the state of Rammas Echor. Father will be asking about this, he thought, as he unfolded the parchment to briefly familiarise himself with its contents.

After wolfing in the bread and cold cuts that the cook had sent their way, together with Huor Boromir moved to the Armory. There, they were greeted by Warden Ornendil, Boromir’s lieutenant in charge of the Second Company of Tower Guard. The man had been cataloguing the stockpiled weapons and armour pieces since morning, with the help of a small flock of scribes.

“At ease, Warden!” Boromir greeted his saluting lieutenant. “I see you have almost finished the stocktaking without us.”

“With your permission, Lord High Warden,” Ornendil replied, “we are indeed almost done with the listing.”

And so Boromir began the tedious task of examining the quality of the stockpiled weapons, and then checking his ledgers with the lists made by Ornendil’s scribes. The work took the rest of the already fleeting afternoon. In fact, when finally Boromir pressed his seal in the ledger and ordered the stockpiles of weapons moved to the storehouses in the City, it was already dark out. He’d missed dinner.

“Off with you, Huor,” Boromir dismissed the lad with a tired sigh. “Go say goodnight to your grandfather and be ready for muster at the Garrison at first bell.”

“Aye, Sir!” Huor saluted and hastened away. Huor’s grandfather was Hurin, Warden of the Keys, and Boromir only accepted the lad as his Squire out of respect for the prominent court official. He had thought tutoring Huor would be a chore, however, the boy turned out to be an adequate assistant and pulled his own weight more often than not.

Huor went off to his Lord and it is time I went to mine, Boromir thought tiredly, as he crossed the lantern-lit Courtyard and entered the Tower of Ecthelion. He passed through the magnificent Tower Hall, sparing a glance towards the dais with two thrones: one for the absent King and one for his Lord the Steward. The very top of the Tower served as his father’s private study, and everyone in the Citadel knew that the Steward ought not to be disturbed after having retreated there. Boromir knew, however, that his father would be waiting for him in his day office, situated on one of the lower condignations, likely still at work. He wasn’t wrong.

“You took your time.” Denethor’s chilled voice reached him when he ascended the stairs and halted in the office door.

“Apologies, Sire!” Boromir said and bowed deeply. “I’ve been otherwise detained, but now here I am at your service.”

“Detained by gallivanting with the Wizard and sentimental trips with your brother, I am told,” Denethor noted, his tone seemingly nonchalant, but Boromir knew better than to believe in his father's disinterest.

"They brought curious tidings," he answered carefully.

"That may be," His father said. "I suspect Faramir has shared his dream with you. Only, it was no mere dream. What he saw happened in reality. I have been informed about a magical event of some sort that occurred in the woodlands west of Dale."

Boromir was acutely aware of his father's searching gaze. He was surprised. How could the Steward be able to confirm this news with such certainty and so soon? To Boromir’s best knowledge, Gondor had not kept close diplomatic ties with Dale, and the news travelled slowly, through irregular missives sent with merchant caravans. This was one of those instances that over the years had led Boromir to surmise that his father possessed some means of divination.

“And I wonder… What did the Wizard make of it?” Denethor asked pointedly. Denethor had always been mistrustful of Mithrandir and rarely invited him to the court. However, privately, he strived to watch the Grey Pilgrim’s movements closely each time the wizard visited Minas Tirith.

Boromir could not prevent a sigh from escaping him.

“He said a… magical stirring had disturbed the peace of the woodland Elves,” he reported dutifully, albeit inwardly he winced. He was aware that Lord Steward was using him, and Faramir too, indirectly, to gain access to the Wizard’s thoughts and insights, and it sat ill with him. It felt dishonest. Alas, it could not be helped; Denethor was his liege lord and his sire, and honour demanded that Boromir withheld nothing from him. So he would not. “Mithrandir thinks some ancient source of power caused this. It could be connected to Gondor, though I know not how.”

“Interesting,” Denethor mused. “I will investigate this further, and perhaps consult Curunir…”

Boromir winced again. He could, with some reluctance, tolerate Mithrandir, because, for all of his faults, the Grey Wizard had always been kind to Faramir, and that, to Boromir, counted for a lot. He had, on the other hand, no such warm sentiments towards the haughty and cunning Saruman. Unfortunately, for as long as Boromir could remember the Lord Steward had courted Curunir’s friendship and heeded the White Wizard’s advice. I have had enough wizard-talk to last me three full moons, Boromir thought bitterly.

“Do not make such faces, Boromir,” his father admonished. “We need to be on the lookout for anything that might help us defeat the Enemy, and Curunir has been helpful with his counsel thus far. But, we mustn't forsake the mundane preparations on account of the fantastical. Tell me, what is the state of Rammas Echor?”

Boromir was prepared for this question. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the report from the Masons’ Guild, that he had commissioned a fortnight prior.

“Most of the stonework done by our Lord Ecthelion has either crumbled or been dismantled to expand the farming grounds. A palisade has been erected in its place, which is now serving as a rudimentary barrier, but it is susceptible to fire. The only stone sections that held are the ones adjacent to Causeway Forts, and a line of fortifications near Harlond, but they, too, require repairs,” Boromir reported. He laid out the parchment on the desk before the Steward. “This is the estimated cost of completing the stonework.”

His Father regarded the parchment, but initially said nothing. Boromir felt his anxiety surge. He knew he did not, and would not have enough men to defend a wooden stake wall. He needed a sound, stone defence line, so he could man it sparsely and still be able to hold the Enemy at a distance from Minas Tirith. He also hoped that completing the Rammas Echor would keep at least some of the many farmhouses scattered across Pelennor Fields from harm’s way. However…

“I worry the council will not approve of this expense,” Boromir confessed.

“‘Tis true the State can hardly afford it. But even less can we afford losing the adjacent farmlands and having the enemy cut off our supply lines. You leave the council to me, Boromir,” Denethor reassured him. “They will grumble, but they will yield. I gave you a City to defend, my son, and I would give you the means to defend it with.”

Boromir was overwhelmed with relief. He should not have doubted the Steward. He should not have worried needlessly. His Father was wise, he could see what was necessary. The councillors will bow to his will.

“Thank you, Sire,” he said, trying to convey the depth of his gratitude with his tone rather than opulent words.

“Do not thank me yet,” Denethor sobered him. “The construction, as detailed in this report, will take nigh to two years. I will evacuate the populace, and gather supplies so that the City might stand a chance. But it will take time. You must buy us that time, Boromir. ”

“Surely the situation is not so dire, Lord! According to Faramir, the Enemy’s movements have been concentrated in the North of Ithilien, near Morannon. But we have been provisioning and strengthening Cair Andros for a long time now. The island fort will hold,” Boromir said, assured of his merit. As Gondor’s Captain-General, he had been religiously studying the recent movements of the troops, both friend and foe alike, based on field reports. The situation was serious, but stable, and the constant watches, patrols and well-coordinated sorties from Cair Andros prevented the Enemy’s crossing of Anduin.

“This is precisely why I summoned you, Captain-General,” said Denethor. “It is not Cair Andros that should have you worried. The reports from our soldiers, and your brother’s among them, have been an admirable effort at intelligence, but they are incomplete.” This was news to Boromir. He raised his eyebrows. “Look here,” the Steward said, as he spread a big scroll across his desk.

Before Boromir lay a map of Ithilien, with recent troop movements marked on it meticulously. Boromir recognized his father’s precise cartography and neat handwriting.

“Observe the placement of orcish warbands, and the Haradrim camps.” The Steward pointed to the irregular blotches of red ink that dotted the forests and grassy plains between Anduin and Ephel Dúath. “Now compare this map with the one from last month,” the Steward said, as he unrolled another, similar map. “Trace the patterns of their movements, and tell me what do you mark from it.”

Boromir bent down over the maps and studied them for a while. The data presented by his father differed from the intelligence from field reports. That, or they hadn’t been reading the same reports. Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier? Boromir wondered bitterly. But his outrage soon gave way to alarm at another revelation.

“They’re encircling Osgiliath!” he exclaimed, looking at his father, flabbergasted.

“They might seem uncoordinated bands of brigands, to an untrained eye,” the Steward commented. “But when one considers all that is given, ‘tis apparent, is it not? They mean to take the Bridge, and enter Anórien right under our noses.”

“My Lord!” Boromir bit back a curse. “How came you by this knowledge? There have been no reports of these Haradrim camps!”

“Compose yourself, Boromir!” the Steward thundered. “That is not the point! What matters is that we are not yet ready to face them on the Western Bank. If they pass, the people will be slaughtered, the crops burned, and they will come knocking at our gates with battering rams ere a siege can be prepared with even a slight chance of success!” Denethor paused his angry tirade and looked out the window, from which a view of the entire Minas Tirith and Pelennor could be admired. The City’s sombre nighttime silence seemed to echo the Steward’s grave sentiments. “They cannot pass. Your men must be ready,” the Steward said with finality.

The news had somewhat shaken Boromir, but not enough to make him doubt his warriors.

“We are at your command, Sire. My men are working their very hardest. And I am, too.”

Denethor was silent for a longer while. Boromir started to think there wouldn't be any answer, and that he should prepare for a harsh dismissal. But when the Steward finally spoke, it was with an uncharacteristically thin, quiet voice.

“So you do, my son,” he said. “I know you do. A better son I could not wish for. And Gondor, for a better General.”

Boromir felt his throat constrict painfully. It were words like these from his father, few and far between as they came, that later would warm him for many a cold night spent in war encampments. And yet Boromir would much prefer to hear words of scolding, than of caress and praise. For Denethor to go soft like that, things had to be dire indeed, more precarious even than the Steward was letting on. He knew he must do everything in his power to support his father and prevent his stumbling.

Boromir kneeled before his liege and touched his right hand to his heart.

“I will not fail you, Lord,” he promised. “Mordor will not take the Bridge, this I swear to you. Do you hear? I swear it.”

“Raise, Boromir, son of mine,” answered the Steward. “Your oath does you credit, if you can but uphold it.”

Boromir stood up.

“I will do my very best. I shall dedicate everything towards this goal.”

“Again, I know you shall. And so shall I.” Denethor turned his face away from Boromir and his voice grew even quieter. “But I fear, for the first time, that our best may not be enough. It may not be enough.”

Silence struck Boromir. Never in Boromir’s near forty years of life had the Steward wavered in conviction. Never had his father’s heart given way to worry nor despair. This one sentence of doubt uttered just now by Lord Denethor marked the coming of a new, dark age for Gondor and Boromir suddenly could feel it in his bones. He said nothing, because he did not know what possible consolation he could offer to the very one that so many looked up to.

Denethor regarded his son and must have seen the concern in Boromir’s eyes, because he collected himself hastily.

“Bah! Do not look so dejected!” the Steward waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I am yet to give up. I am merely trying to face our chances squarely, meagre as they are.”

“Aye, Lord,” said Boromir, relieved that his father was able to compose himself.

“Your uncle the Prince writes that your cousin Elphir is to be wed,” his father turned the conversation to lighter topics, a little too eagerly to fool Boromir, who welcomed the change of mood nevertheless. “With the orc attacks we cannot attend to him in Dol Amroth, of course, but we will send gifts and best wishes. You should write to your cousin.”

“Aye, Lord,” Boromir replied, already wondering when would he find the time to compose the letter.

“To think Elphir is nigh ten years your junior…” the Steward began, but very pointedly did not finish the sentence.

With that, Boromir knew the time for sentiments was over and his father was back to his usual acerbic self. He took it as his cue to retreat, lest he suffer another earful about not having produced an heir to the Stewardship.

“I hear Forlong’s daughter has left for Arnach,” the Steward made another remark, seemingly unconnected, but Boromir could almost physically feel a noose tightening around his neck. “I trust you conveyed our best regards to her and to the Lord her father?”

“Aye, Lord,” Boromir confirmed, holding back a cringe.

The Steward did not relent.

“It's been nine years, Boromir…” Another unfinished remark that needed no ending to convey a clear message.

Boromir sighed. He was getting entirely too old for this.

“Might I be excused, Sire? The muster starts early on the morrow.”

✦

That night, Boromir slept and dreamt of vast woodlands, rent skies and flocks of birds.

[next chapter]

Header image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you! <3

#lotr #lotr fanfiction #boromir #lord of the rings #faramir #denethor #derufin #[arda]#[wandering birds]#ass deep in demons

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