#lone ranger... off on his own... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

feeder86 · 2 years ago

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The Wolf and the Pig

Gray had tried to warn them. He’d said, quite plainly, that he could manage the station by himself and that didn’t need anyone else here with him. For the most part, they’d listened. He’d had five years with hardly any interference and he had managed his vast, remote area of the national park without a single incident to mark his record. Perhaps that was why they’d sent Callum here: to learn from the best.

It had been the night of the full moon when Gray had found out about the new recruit and he’d descended into a rage unlike any other; ending in his decimation of the local wildlife in a way that would take the ecosystem many months to recover from.

Being alone was the best way for Gray to manage his curse. He was the lone wolf, living in an environment that best suited the nature of his true self. It had been fifteen years since he had been bitten, as a young recruit for the National Park Rangers. In that time, and with each passing full moon, he’d come more and more to resemble the creature of the night. He’d grown hairy, strong and lean; his handsome features darkening and his stature increasingly intimidating. On the rare occasions that he came across people in his job, they never even considered questioning his authority or status.

Keeping people away from Gray wasn’t about protecting them. It was about territory. He knew that if someone else was posted here, they’d eventually get in his way on the full moon and he’d end up biting them. If the curse was able to manifest within them, there’d be two of them here, hunting in the same patch. And that would never do.

From the first email, Gray was hostile with Callum. He got a sense of the young guy quite quickly: eager, knowledgeable and passionate about conservation. He was going to be a nightmare, getting in his face and asking inane questions over the many months of his placement. Gray had tried to fight it, to not cooperate, but it had all come to nothing. Callum was already on his way.

The harshest of winters was over and the Spring was well underway as Gray drove the many miles out west to the location that Callum needed picking up from. They’d put him up in a motel for the night, which, despite its basic appearance, would probably be a lot more comfortable than the reserve station he’d be sharing with Gray from now on. As Gray drove into the parking lot, the guy was already there, dressed in his new uniform and carrying a massive backpack, ready to leave. He smiled keenly and reached out his hand to shake Gray’s, as if he had genuinely been excited for this moment for the last few weeks.

Gray pretended not to notice, shuffling to the back of the vehicle to secure something that had come loose on the journey down from the mountains. He was late arriving, deliberately so, having spent the last hour picking up supplies at a sluggish pace, knowing that Callum was waiting. However, Gray looked back as a slightly deflated Callum pulled off his backpack and slung it inside the truck. He was a tall, surprisingly pretty-looking thing, with an incredibly lean frame and tiny butt. He was no doubt toned underneath all those clothes, but Gray smirked to himself, already feeling a sense of superiority based upon the massive amount of muscle he had in comparison.

The first hour in the truck was painfully tense, as an awkward Callum tried to make small talk. Then, as the roads became more inclined and dangerous, the twenty-two year old simply sat, silently glued into his seat, clutching anything he could as Gray threw the vehicle about at speed, knowing these challenging roads better than anyone else in the entire world. Gray could hear the boy’s heart beating wildly and smelt the emerging scent of him as the sweat began to pump out of his body. Over the years, he’d developed an odd sense for judging humans and he smirked, seeming to intuitively know that Callum was never going to be the alpha male type.

“You’re on your own tonight. I’m off to check out some reports of poaching east of the river. I’ll have to camp there this evening,” Gray explained a couple of weeks’ later, knowing that the full moon would soon be upon them.

“What reports?” Callum asked, already across everything at the station, like the overly keen nerd he’d turned out to be. “I’ve not come across anything.”

“I’ve been here for ten years. I’ve got my own contacts who let me know what’s going on out there,” Gray shot back; shutting Callum down as soon as the guy tried to scold him for not logging it officially. But still the young guy looked at him with suspicion. He’d already come to learn that Gray didn’t always do things by the book; that he was overly aggressive and intimidating when dealing with potentisl conflicts in the park, as well as an almost unnecessarily private person.

Gray didn’t remember all of it. He never could. He’d done as he’d promissed and camped many miles away from the station. But there had been a chase of some kind whilst in his wolf form that night. He’d drifted towards the south and west. Perhaps he had caused a stir in the forests that had aroused Callum’s suspicions, given that Gray had accidentally seeded the idea of poachers, but he remembered coming across a human beside a vehicle, carrying a flashlight. There’d been an altercation; the taste of blood and Gray had then continued his hunt, waking far from his camp and needing to hike back, barefoot and naked, as soon as the sun rose.

It wasn’t until the evening that Gray returned, having slept for several hours in the tent afterwards, trying to recover his strength. He saw Callum sitting with his back to him, looking at the computer screen. He would have seen Gray pulling in on the monitor, but he hadn’t got up to welcome him, having realised that his friendliness towards Gray would never be reciprocated.

That was when Gray saw it: the bandaged forearm on Callum’s left arm; not broken, but still with blood leaking through in patches. The sight of it made the vague recollections of the night before cement themselves properly in Gray’s mind.

“What happened to you?” Gray asked, knowing the answer but determined to make one last vain attempt at denying the truth.

Callum turned, looking sweaty and vague. “I came across a wolf last night,” he explained, lifting his arm up with his other hand to demonstrate how sore it was. “The biggest I’ve ever seen in my life. I got lucky that he was hunting something else, otherwise it could have been a lot worse.” He bristled and looked accusingly at Gray. “And, since I was on my own here last night, I had to drive myself one-handed, all the way to the local hospital for a tetanus shot. I’ve only just got back.”

Gray rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, though not quite for the reasons Callum might have assumed. “Well, that’s what it’s like out here. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.”

With his usual bravado, Gray marched across the space and into the shower room, closing the door behind him. It had been so long since he had bitten someone, he had almost forgotten what it was like. He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing that his skin was still grimy, despite washing in the river that morning. Then a smirk spread across his face. He’d known Callum for a couple of weeks by this point, knew his scent and character. His body would fight the curse and most likely be successful. But in doing so, it would provide Gray with more entertainment than he had had in many years. It was exactly what the pretty little upstart deserved. This was going to be interesting…

Callum’s wound healed with surprising speed and the boy was soon back to normal, irritating the life out of Gray. His body was enjoying the reprieve, not necessarily realising that the building moon of the next month would be launching an attack on his body that he would never see coming. He began to look feverish the night before the full moon and slept the entirety of the next day, fighting the infection. Pleased that he no longer needed to hide, Gray simply stripped off that night under the moonlight and embraced his transformation.

Callum’s fever broke two days later and the young man seemed surprised to see Gray standing over him with a cool towel and reaching for a glass of water.

“How’re you feeling?” Gray asked, managing to make himself sound genuinely sympathetic. He looked down at Callum’s body; even skinnier than usual, dehydrated and weak. Nonetheless, it had been victorious. After all, Callum had not transformed into a wolf. For Gray, it had been a very different story, all those years ago. His body had put up no fight at all, and he had become a wolf with each moon since he was twenty years old.

“Like I’ve been run over by a bus…” Callum sighed, lifting a limp hand to help Gray feed him the glass of water.

“You’ll be okay now. I’ve seen this a lot out here. Give it another day and you’ll be up on your feet like nothing’s happened.”

Callum put his head down again and sighed with disbelief. Nevertheless, he recovered just as quickly as Gray had predicted, scrambling around in the kitchen area, even after Gray had made him a hearty meal. Gray watched the boy with a secret glee. Whilst Callum’s conscious self might have been oblivious, his body certainly knew that there was a war going on. He’d survived this month, but he’d need to be stronger for the next full moon if it was going to overcome the curse. And so, Gray sat back and smirked, seeing the slender pretty-boy suddenly develop the most ravenous of appetites.

Gray didn’t often head out for supplies, given how far from civilization the station actually was. However, in the larder, there were vast supplies of everything needed out here, including mountains of prepackaged energy snacks, required for days out on hikes in the wilderness. Within three weeks, an overcome Callum had decimated every last bit of it. Each day since the full moon, his body had taken in masses and masses of food; a consistent gigant overdose of calories that had quickly started to make its mark on his body. Like a tank, being loaded with fuel, Callum’s body had deposited those calories within fresh fat that quickly formed a plushiness under his skin. Budding lovehandles had started to push their way out of his sides and there was general, lethargic, heavy plod to his steps as he lazily went from the computer screen, to the truck, and back again. Callum was sleeping a lot more than usual, as if his body was conserving energy for something else, and the boy’s mind was less active and sharp.

“Are you not chatting with your girlfriend tonight?” Gray asked, half mockingly as he saw Callum drifting off to sleep in the chair with a half eaten oat cookie still in his hand.

Callum shook with a start from the sound of Gray’s voice and he glanced sleepily at the time. “I’ll call her tomorrow instead,” he mumbled, nibbling once more on the snack and reaching for another, before falling back to sleep.

Gray smirked. He hated listening to Callum on a video call with his girlfriend from back home. Callum was exactly the type of ‘nice’ boy to have the same girlfriend from the beginning of high school, and overhearing them going on endlessly about how much they missed each other had made Gray vacate the station on more than one occasion. Now, however, the conversations had started to become a lot more interesting. Callum’s girlfriend had noted with concern how his face was starting to look rather puffy. There was a fullness to his cheeks and a gentle softening of his jawline that she didn’t mind pointing out. Callum had denied this entirely, blaming the camera and the lighting in the station. Then, with a seeming lack of control over himself, he had continued to nibble on multiple snacks well into the night afterwards.

Gray set off to pick up more supplies and he hunted where he could for great stacks of meat that the other national park rangers would never find out about. In doing so, Callum never went without food, despite never ridding himself of a constant hunger. He slipped into a feverish state once more in the afternoon of the full moon and awoke the next morning, feeling like he was hungover, dehydrated and extremely hungry.

It was sometime within that second month when Callum’s pathitically tiny pants stopped fitting. Gray had noticed them pinching him for some days, further emphasising the fat that was spreading across the boy’s waist and into his pert little buttocks. Now, however, Gray saw the splay of the broken top button, inadequately concealed beneath a belt that Callum had clearly taken from Gray’s stash. For the first time in his life, Gray simply laughed at this; pulling himself back from the mild irritation that initially came to him whenever he was around Callum. Furthermore, Callum’s shirts were fitting in the most unflattering way imaginable, clinging to the little round, bloated stomach that had formed beneath his slender chest and making it seem even bigger than it currently was. In under two month’s the boy’s body had undergone a period of rapid, ferocious fattening that had left the pathetic creature in a state of bewilderment and embarrassment.

For the most part, Gray and Callum mostly ignored the changes that had taken place, or at least politely failed to mention them. Callum quietly sourced new pants and shirts to wear and he kept himself covered up most of the time. In his clothes, Callum arguably looked better than usual, with a fuller, more maculine build than he’d had before. But as the fat continued to build, Callum started to look genuinely chubby and even out of shape. As the summer heat kicked in hard, Gray walked around without a shirt on most days; showing off an impressive, muscular build that was now in such contrast with the increasingly bloated form of Callum. It seemed that the guy was particularly susceptible to belly fat, amasssing quite a little paunch in no time at all. It was now obvious that his once flat chest was swelling up with larger nipples and, by the end of July, Gray found it difficult to keep a straight face as he watched them flutter and bounce a little as Callum walked about. The immune response really was an amazing thing. With all this fresh fat on his body, Callum appeared more than capable of fighting the successive full moons; yet he was still eating and gorging and piling on more and more pounds. His immune response, much like when it dealt with many allergies, had kicked into overdrive.

It was after Callum’s fourth full moon that Gray began to pick up on the strange scent that the twenty-two year old was giving off. Whilst the boy’s body was doing a good job of preventing the physical wolf transformation, there was no denying that, in having been bitten by Gray, Callum was now part of Gray’s pack; whether he knew it or not. A bond formed each time this happened, and developed over time. Already, the chubby boy was starting to give off a strange cocktail of pheromones in Gray’s company. He seemed to grow coy in his older colleague’s company, lost his interest in messaging his girlfriend and became surprisingly awkward whenever Gray walked around without a shirt on.

Despite knowing that this was coming, Gray had had no intention of going there with Callum. He’d expected the boy to have blamed his new form on the job and quit long before this even became an issue. But things were moving a lot faster than Gray had anticipated. Gray had witnessed this type of fattening before in those that fought off the wolf curse, but he had never seen it happen so quickly, or so extremely. But now it seemed that the same was true of the pheromones Callum was producing. They were potent, strong, extreme and altogether impossible to ignore.

“Here, I made you some coffee,” Callum declared, handing over a warm mug to Gray, sitting with his binoculars on the porch area, overlooking the forest below.

“Thanks,” Gray mumbled back. Even outside, the flood of pheromones as Callum came out here was almost unbearable. The chubby boy absolutely stank of them and it was hard not to be distracted by it all.

“We’re running low on supplies again,” Callum began explaining.

Gray suppressed a sigh. Whilst incredibly amusing, Callum’s ravenous appetite was becoming quite a drain on his time. “Okay. I’ll see if I can head out later,” he grumbled.

Callum sat down, flooding the space with even more of his scent and Gray began to twitch awkwardly, feeling blood beginning to pump into his groin.

“In fact, I’ll head off now,” Gray declared, suddenly desperate to remove himself from the situation as he felt his erection swelling. He stood, hiding his groin with the binoculars and grabbed the keys to the truck. For the first time ever, as he drove away, he started to wonder whether he should just keep on going and never come back. Otherwise, it’d be hard to know what would happen next.

Gray returned much later, deciding to purchase the most calorific foods he could, in the hope of fattening Callum up even faster and sending him packing; concerned that the lifestyle of a National Park Ranger was not good for his health. He arrived late in the evening to find an exhausted-looking Callum asleep on the couch with the last remaining food items destroyed and decorated around his greedy face. A sliver of fleshy skin was uncovered as the boy’s shirt failed to hide the entirety of his torso and Gray stood, transfixed by what he was seeing; inexplicably aroused by the toxic fumes emanating from the pot-bellied boy on the couch. His erection immediately sprang to life and he tugged at his pants in the hope of hiding it better. He needed to check in with the rest of the crew online and tried to distract himself with menial tasks, despite the blood pumping wildly into his crotch.

Not long afterwards, Callum awoke and began eating once more, making a sizable dent in some of the items Gray had just brought back with him. “Don’t you ever stop eating?” Gray asked loudly, confused by the strange swirling emotions he was feeling and needing some sort of outlet for his frustration. “It’s disgusting! I’ve never seen anything like it! What the hell is your girlfriend going to think when you next get time off?”

“Actually,” Callum began, briefly stunned by Gray’s outburst that he actually stopped eating, “we, sort of, broke up this afternoon.”

Perhaps it was the pheromones making Gray care, but Callum’s words really did make him stop for a moment and wonder what he should say next. He stood, almost moving to approach Callum and offer his sympathies. Words poised themselves on the tip of his tongue. Then he breathed and fought once more to retain his composure; turning away and heading straight to his bed.

With sensitive hearing, Gray had found it harder to sleep ever since Callum had arrived. That night, however, the sounds of nibbling and chewing were drilling into his skull. Compelled by an insane hunger, Callum was up in the middle of the night and making his way through many of the calorie dense things Gray had supplied. On occasion, he heard the boy whimper, as if his tummy was too tight to continue, followed by more biting, chewing and swallowing.

Having lost his patience, Gray ripped himself from his bed and strutted into the shared space, ready to shout at the top of his lungs. “Why are you fucking eating at this time of night?” he roared, throwing his door open and receiving a full blast of pheromones as he did so. The reason for this was simple. Standing in the space, croched over the counter and stuffing his face was an almost naked Callum, dressed in nothing but a pair of overly tight boxers, trying to hold back a swollen rear and mercilessly cutting into meaty, well developed love handles. It was the first time Gray had seen Callum’s naked torso since the fattening had started, and even without the masses of bare skin oozing uninhibited pheromones, it was enough to make him stop in his tracks.

Callum jumped and his quivering hands tried to conceal the masses of wrappers he had made his way through. He swept them quickly into the sink and out of view. Then he glanced back quickly but did not turn around to face Gray, deeply embarrassed and evidently not wanting Gray to see the very obviously rounded belly he had grown; grossly swollen by the midnight feasting. “I’m going to bed now!” he cried out, like a kid caught out, talking to the wall in front of him instead of Gray himself.

But Gray was gone. He’d slept naked ever since he was a teenager and the pulsing erection he grew now came to him faster than any other in his life. It was undoubtedly the scent Callum was giving off, but there was also something so arousing about the soft curvaceousness of Callum’s new form: like Gray was the wolf, and Callum was his own blubbery little pig. Fighting this wasn’t an option anymore. They were both animals after all, driven by their instincts and desires. He marched forwards with purpose, observing the vibrations from his heavy footsteps quivering the soft fleshy fat that swelled around Callum’s sides.

No words were needed now. With Gray’s strong arms, he turned Callum around to face him, immediately spotting the erection that bounced forth from the chubby’s boy groin. Then, holding the chub’s face in both hands, Gray kissed him with more passion than he had ever thought himself capable of. Callum returned it, and within no time at all, both men were stroking each others’ hardness, moaning like they were already ready to explode.

Even amongst all that, Callum reached into the sink and grabbed the leftovers of the energy bar he’d been eating when Gray came in, swallowing quickly before returning to kissing straight afterwards. Gray’s hand explored the soft flesh that had blossomed around Callum’s waist and couldn’t help noticing how thick and juicy his glutes felt as he curiously bounced them. However, after only another minute, Callum paused his kissing once again and looked longing across to the other side of the kitchen area.

“Are you actually still hungry?” Gray asked, noticing that Callum was fixated by the large open box of oat bars. He walked across the room and pulled one out of the box, unwrapped it and seductively pushed it towards Callum’s mouth in order to maintain the erotic vibe.

Suddenly, Gray detected a great plume of pheromones leaching from Callum’s skin. It made Gray’s erection, which was already impossibly hard, immediately stiffen to an even greater extent; like a muscle trained to its absolute limits. Callum’s moan didn’t help either. Gray already knew his gut was packed tight and yet he nibbled from Gray’s hand with a greed that felt so submissive and deeply sexual. The feeling was not unlike the thrill he had each full moon, tracking down his prey. He pushed the food in deeper, alternating between stroking his and Callum’s hardness as he did so. The sense of power and control he felt was sending him over the edge with lust. He knew he could never be with someone like himself. Wolves were aggressive and status-driven. It was a constant battle to be the alpha. But here was Callum: doughy and soft, eating from his hand and gazing at him with pure submissive affection. This was going to work out. After all, who else was better suited to a wolf, than a greedy little pig?

Over the next few days, Callum and Gray tried to talk through the strange bond that was forming between them. Gray had been alone for so long that he found it harder to put what he felt into words. The pack mentality had meant his lust for the chubby boy had very quickly evolved into feelings of love.

Callum, on the other hand, had had no problem in opening up, explaining how drawn he’d become to Gray for quite some time. But he was also struggling. He didn’t understand the extreme hunger he’d had for the last few months, and he felt confused by how rapidly his body had been altering as a result. Gray listened to him with feelings of guilt, knowing the answers to all of the boy’s questions and yet not quite feeling ready to share them. But, with the full moon soon approaching once more, Gray felt a sense of duty to help protect his new lover from its effects; satisfying the glutton’s ever last hungry desire and swelling that increasing layer of insulating fat across his body. For now, it was the only love language he knew.

The fat was increasing its territory once more, spreading itself across Callum’s neck and bloating his chest. The athletic form he had once had was now being masked by it all; overcome by how obviously the new weight sat on his body as pure fat, jiggling and soft. It was depositing itself everywhere, stretching and widening the boy’s glutes and creating love handles like storage tanks of lard. Gray was loving every second of it, adamant that he had at last found his perfect opposite to love and cherish.

As the weeks wore on and Callum returned from a brief late summer break at home, his body looked increasingly awkward to behold. His stomach began to look like a great balloon was inflating inside it, and his soft, swelling chest seemed out of place alongside his still skinny arms. His butt had packed on vast amounts of softness, widening it just a little less than the outpouring of love handles above, yet his long legs and comparatively small thighs looked as if they were struggling to keep up with the pace of expansion.

At some point, it seemed as if Callum had let go. The humid, late summer heat had thoroughly defeated him and he began walking around without a shirt for most of the day, as Gray had been doing since the middle of April. He made less of an effort to hide his overeating and allowed Gray to do more for him out of the station. Given the frequency with which they had sex, he’d become acustomed to having his fatty flesh touched and didn’t seem as shocked by the way his body jiggled as Gray took him from behind. He’d had a falling out with his family during the break and had returned with an increased sense of independence, seeming to rid himself of all of the healthy eating values he had once insisted upon.

By the time the first snow hit the ground, Gray could hardly get over how much Callum had grown out. Now, when the full moon appeared, he didn’t even need to sleep through it, despite acquiring an even more ravenous appetite than usual; beginning roughly three days before. On these days, Callum felt compelled to eat so much that he could barely get himself off the couch; with Gray catering for most of his needs out of a profound sense of guilt and lust.

“Listen, Gray. We’re not so happy with how things are working out with Callum,” explained Gina, the overall manager for the park rangers. “I’m not sure he’s quite suited to being deployed in such a remote station.”

“He’s doing great!” Gray immediately shot back down the phone in his lover’s defense. “He loves it out here!”

“He’s not very productive though, is he?” Gina countered. “I can see by your location that you’re the one out collecting his research data for him.

Gray hated how easily the higher-ups could check up on them both. It was easy to believe that you were completely free out here, yet the subtle reminders that there was a careful eye watching over them was sometimes almost too much to bear. “What are you trying to say?” Gray asked, deciding that he was done beating around the bush.

“We need to make cost cuts and Callum is reaching the end of his probationary period,” Gail stated without a hint of remorse. “We’ve decided that we won’t be renewing his contract.”

Gray’s nostrils flared. “If you fire him, I’m walking,” he declared, feeling pumped and ready for a fight. He never could have imagined himself putting his livelihood on the line like this for anyone else before now. Yet, there it was; his ultimatum delivered to his boss who, unfortunately for him, didn’t seem to believe a single word he said.

Driving back, Gray wondered how long it would be until Callum was told he was being fired. In his mind, he imagined all the different ways that Gail would do it; cutting Callum off from the career he had longed for ever since he was a kid. Perhaps that was why Gray didn’t detect the signs of an intruder until he came right up to the mountain station and saw the truck parked up across the front in the most arrogant of fashions.

His heart racing, but with a determination to remain cool, Gray tried hard to take his time and casually make his way up the stairs. Through the window, he saw the sickening, grinning, tormenting face of Ash, a werewolf from across the border of Gray’s defined territory. It’d been ten years since their fight in wolf form. Gray had lost huge areas of the land he had once roamed upon a full moon and Ash would always show up every couple of years or so, crossing their boundary as only he was permitted to do.

If posible, Ash’s smug face was even more sickening than usual. Clearly invited inside by a swollen Callum, Ash appeared bemused, watching the fat boy trotting around, getting him one of Gray’s beers. He looked across at Gray, knowing exactly what was going on between them. He would have picked up the scent of Gray all over Callum’s blubbery physique.

“Well, well, well, look who’s finally showed up,” Ash smirked as Gray came through the door.

“Callum, go take the truck out to fix the fencing by the cliffs,” Gray ordered, deciding to be deliberately gruff with his lover in a futile attempt to conceal their relationship. In reality, he needed Callum out of there as soon as possible.

“You’re fucking that fatty?” Ash laughed a few minutes later, as soon as Callum was gone. “I know you tried to turn him into a wolf. You know my rule: if they can’t take the curse, we rip out their throats under the light of the full moon.”

Gray growled, letting his animalistic side show through. His stance changed and he was ready for a fight, should Ash initiate one. “I won’t let you do that,” he declared aggressively.

Ash simply smirked and took a large swig from the beer Callum had got for him before he left; Gray’s beer. “Try and stop me,” he smiled. “I dare you!” Then he laughed, knowing that Gray would not risk their decade-long pact. At least, not yet.

Ash had decided to stick around in order to declare his dominance before the full moon on Saturday. He camped out a little lower down the stream and returned each day to chat with Callum whenever Gray had to go off and do errands. The purpose of those visits were purely for the joy of seeing Gray’s face once he returned and saw him sipping yet another beer on his couch; then having to stifle the anger that he felt so that Callum didn’t ask too many questions.

“So what are your plans for Sunday?” Ash asked the chubby Callum, as he stuffed his face in the kitchen. Then that intruding wolf turned and smirked across at Gray, making the man’s anger boil his blood. Ash’s meaning had been clear to him: Callum would be dead as soon as the sun set and the full moon rose in the sky on Saturday night.

Even in his human form, Gray wasn’t strong enough to take Ash on. Considerably older and more powerful, despite his fresh-faced appearance. Last time, Ash had nearly killed him without taking on as much as a scratch himself. Even so, as soon as they transformed on Saturday night, Gray knew he was going to have to try. He couldn’t let Callum be taken away from him. Not now.

“Are you okay?” Callum suddenly asked Ash, looking across with concern.

Gray stood to attention, wondering what game the wolf was playing now, as the pot bellied Callum took a step closer, attempting to steady Ash on his feet. “I’m fine!” Ash growled violently, letting his true self slip, just for a moment in front of Callum.

“You looked like you were about to faint,” Callum stated, studying Ash’s appearance even more and noticing the sweat on his forehead. They had all done the first aid training. They all knew the signs.

“No I didn’t!” Ash rumbled back, although with slightly more composure now. He glanced across at Gray for a split second, hoping that the other wolf had not seen his momentary weakness. Wolves didn’t get sick. Not ever. “I’ve got things to do,” he complained, storming off in what appeared to be a foul mood.

Ash did not arrive to torment them the next day and Gray’s keen ears had heard very little movement from him further down the stream. Innocent Callum had wanted to go and check on him, without even appreciating the danger he was in. By the Friday, even Gray’s curiosity had gotten the better of him, sneaking over to find the wolf’s camp completely silent. With a pounding heart, he gently brushed away some of the snow from the night before and unzipped the tent to get a look inside. He needn’t have worried, Ash was indeed inside, but he was fast asleep, seemingly trapped within a great fever that made his face glisten with sweat. Even then, Gray allowed himself to imagine the possibilities of what this could mean, but he did not dare to believe it to be true.

As he transformed the following evening, Gray stood guard over Ash’s camp, waiting. The moon was strong, flooding into the small, cold tent as the muscular man lay asleep within. For the first time in nearly fifty years, Ash’s body had remained in its human form under the full moon.

“What’s got you looking so pleased with yourself?” Callum asked as he loaded his plate with several rounds of fresh buttery toast that Sunday morning.

“Oh, you know…” Gray smirked, throwing himself down on the couch. “I’m just sitting here, admiring my beautiful boy as he gets ready for his day,” Gray sang in a tone that would have been completely alien to him before he met Callum.

“Well, I’m glad one of us is happy,” Callum sighed in reply. “I had an email whilst you were out last night, explaining that my contract will not be renewed next Spring.”

“Good,” Gray smiled back, seeing that his response had caught Callum a little off-guard. He stood. “We need a change, you and me. It’s the perfect opportunity for us to try something new.” He embraced the fat boy side on, sliding a hand under his bulging stomach and wrapping his big arm around his shoulders as the boy continued to eat from his plate. “You deserve a better life than I can give you out here. You deserve the best.” He kissed Callum’s buttery lips. “Imagine it. Real restaurants. Real fast food joints, and proper beers!”

“I thought you never wanted to leave this place?” Callum asked inquisitively.

“Well, things change,” Gray smiled. He sat again and laughed, imagining Ash’s reaction upon waking up and realising that whatever cocktail of pheremones and antibodies coursed through Callum’s body, his time spent alone with Callum that week had allowed his own body to acquire the same resistance to the wolf curse. Unlike Gray, his time as a wolf was now over. In a single night, Gray’s territory had more than doubled simply because Callum was part of his pack, leaving his body unchanged by the influence he clealy had upon others. He could survey the entirity of these many snow-covered mountains, the ravines and forests, seeing no end to his lands. And he could do that again, and again; werewolf after werewolf, leaving behind an ever fattening trail of fresh immunity. A world without end or borders.

“You’d really do that for me?” Callum smiled, touched and smitten with love as he stood, looking down on his lover and feeding himself with glistening, butter-drenched toast.

Gray smiled back, rubbing his doughy lover’s glutes with glee from his position on the couch. They felt larger than ever that morning. How perfect. How big and fat and round he could make Callum now. His body was the perfect lardy production house for all of those antibodies that would grant Gray everything he had ever wanted.

“For you, anything," Gray grinned, realising that his fat little piggy had just become the best meal ticket a wolf could ever imagine.

#gainer fiction #gainer stories #gay feedee #gainerstory

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rafaelsilvasource · 5 months ago

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Rafael L. Silva feels like he accomplished what he set out to do with Carlos Reyes on 9-1-1: Lone Star — but that does not mean he thinks his character's story is over.

In five seasons of the Fox procedural drama, Silva's Carlos Reyes has transformed from a wide-eyed, well-intentioned police officer navigating an undeniable attraction to firefighter-paramedic T.K. Strand (Ronen Rubinstein) to a second-generation Texas Ranger hellbent on finding his own father's cold-blooded killer. Along the way, Silva — who landed his breakout role on Lone Star in 2019, a couple years after earning his undergraduate degree in acting from Pace University — has undergone a similar metamorphosis.

"Lone Star taught me a lot. It gave me feet to walk on, gave me some strong legs to stand on my own," Silva tells TV Guide. "I grew up as a person so much from the show, and I'm extremely grateful for [co-creators] Tim [Minear] and Ryan [Murphy] for having given me the opportunity."

In the final season of Lone Star, Carlos' investigation into the Rangers uncovers that his late father Gabriel's direct superior, Chief Bridges (Alan Autry), killed Gabriel and then set up Carlos' new partner, Campbell (Parker Young), to take the fall. While the bitter truth was never going to bring his father back, Carlos is finally able to get some much-needed closure about Gabriel's untimely demise — and he is now wholeheartedly able to focus on starting a family with T.K. In a flash-forward at the end of the series finale, which saw the first responders navigating not only the fallout of an asteroid but also a potential nuclear disaster, Carlos and T.K. are revealed to have adopted the latter's half-brother Jonah after T.K. decides to quit his job and become a stay-at-home guardian.

Below, Silva opens up about his extensive preparation to play a Texas Ranger (which he stresses is still not the same thing as actually being a Ranger), how he wanted to play the epic conclusion of Carlos' year-long search to finding his father's killer, and what he has made of the chatter about a potential Lone Star spin-off. He also speaks for the first time about his experience of shooting The Waterfront, a highly anticipated new Netflix series from Dawson's Creek and The Vampire Diaries creator Kevin Williamson.

The last time we spoke, you were telling me about the extensive preparation that you insisted on doing to portray a Texas Ranger in the final season of Lone Star — similarly to how you prepared to portray a police officer at the start of this show. How did your time with the Rangers ultimately inform your portrayal of Carlos in this new professional role?

Rafael Silva: When I was first notified that I was becoming a Texas Ranger, I simply just had no idea what that meant. I didn't know what a Texas Ranger was to begin with. How does one become a Texas Ranger? So I reached out to a couple of friends who had connections in Texas and I ended up being able to go to Texas and shadow some Texas Rangers, and I did that for some time. You simply cannot replace personal experience with any sort of study. One of the Texas Rangers that I shadowed told me that a man of experience will never succumb to a man of education, and I think that that's just one of the clearest ways to explain [the process]. You only learn by doing. You can read about it, you can watch tutorials, you can do so much study, but you will never know what something actually is unless you go through it.

It's an extremely exclusive and just definingly elitist department — and I mean elitist in the sense of, only the best of the best and only those who are willing to put in the work to become a Texas Ranger do become a Texas Ranger. They don't necessarily have an entourage of people that accompany them to do their job, to solve whatever situation they have at hand. They are expected to be their sole entourage. Which is why there is that famous saying: "One riot, one Ranger," because all it takes to deal with one riot is one Ranger. I was surrounded by extremely competent, smart, dedicated Rangers, and I have to thank them for allowing me to come into their world and showing me everything. That was a level of trust that I took to heart, and that's what I was adamant about coming into [this season of] Lone Star.

I had extensive conversations with Rashad [Raisani], our showrunner, and I told him, "I am not going to do this incorrectly. I am not going to just brush it for the sake of time, for the sake of network television. I'm not going to compromise." Rashad heard that — and this is why I respect him and Tim [Minear] so much, because they want the best to be on television — and they wanted to work with me. Rashad would call me, like, "Hey, can you touch base with the Ranger that you're friends with to see if this is correct?" And I would do so. So the willingness behind the creative team at Lone Star is also equally responsible for us to see Carlos portraying the Texas Ranger in the way that he did.

How else did that collaboration manifest over the course of the season? What were you insisting needed to be "correct" about this depiction of Rangers?

Silva: So when it came to building the physicality, the boots, the double rig [gun belt] — and we don't wear jeans, we wear wranglers — and the button down shirt, everything was [done] on purpose. There was not a single thing out of place, not purposefully. So that meticulousness is not only in the physicality, but also in the way the Ranger office was designed. The hierarchy, the presentability is extremely important. Every time I was on screen, I wanted to make sure that I was meticulous, because every time a Ranger is out on the field, they're not just representing himself or herself. They're representing all Texas Rangers. So what does that mean? It's above you. It's not about you. You have to take on this responsibility not only for yourself, but for everybody else. And that's an awareness you have to have.

I think witnessing that awareness, witnessing that energy in person was irreplaceable. So the purpose of [studying the process of] Carlos becoming a Texas Ranger is not only Rafael trying to do his job, but it's also Carlos not having to prove himself. Carlos is so young to be a Texas Ranger! He's a child. He's a baby. And that's mentioned, right? I was like, "We have to talk about how young he is, and we also have to talk about that this is not nepotism, because that doesn't happen in the Texas Rangers. That doesn't exist. Every Texas Ranger is absolutely qualified to do their job on their own and do it well. That needs to be honored in the script and the stories that we're telling." I just respect them so much. And selfishly as Rafael, I wanted that to be mentioned. I wanted that to be understood.

Parker Young, who played Ranger Campbell, recently said that he was a little sad when he read Episode 8 because he thought Campbell was Gabriel's killer, but then he was happy to discover that wasn't actually the case in Episode 9. When did you learn the truth about who killed Gabriel? Did you play any of the episodes under the impression that Campbell was the suspected assailant?

Silva: No, I absolutely did not want to know a fucking thing. [Laughs.] I didn't even know until I think someone told me, and we were shooting [Episode] 508. I didn't want to have the awareness. I didn't want to play something that Carlos was not aware of. That doesn't behoove me. That helps nobody. I think Tim wanted to tell me before we even started shooting Season 5, and I was like, "Shut your mouth. Don't do that! [Laughs.] Don't tell me a thing. Why would you tell me?" And I think there's such a freedom that comes in playing and being when you don't know everything. I completely disagree when people tell me that I need to know everything. I don't know everything that's going to happen in my life, so I just act according to the present moment. And why wouldn't my character do the same thing? So if someone wanted to tell me, I ran away from them. If someone tried to call me about it, I'd hang up. But eventually, I found out and then I just had to pretend I didn't know. [Laughs.]

There are a couple moments that stand out to me in Episodes 8 and 9, and they both have to do with the way Carlos reacts to his own investigation into Gabriel's murder. First, there's a clear switch when Carlos suspects Campbell was responsible, and Carlos has a difficult time trying to lie, and then there's another switch when Carlos discovers — almost too late — that Chief Bridges was his father's killer. How did you think about playing the conclusion of this massive arc for Carlos as he gets closer and closer to the truth?

Silva: I didn't try to play a conclusion. I was just trying to do the scene the way that it's meant to be played. The beautiful thing about the art that we do is that you can live as deep [as you want] in the illusion that you have control over what you do in terms of how the story's going to be told. The story's going to be told in the editing room. My job is to be true to how I feel the scene is going to go in that moment. So I don't put the responsibility on my shoulders. And that's something that I had to learn sort of the hard way too — to learn how to let go and just play the scene the way it's asked to be played.

So in terms of performance, I give all sorts of shades to the scenes. But essentially, something I knew before we even shot these scenes was that Carlos will not get the satisfaction that he's looking for by catching the guy or killing the guy. It's not like, "Boom! There you go. Justice [served]." No, it's not, because his father will not come back out of seeking that justice. His father will not come back if the guy gets murdered, or goes to jail, or he goes to trial and then he gets sentenced and charged. What Carlos is dealing with or trying his best to avoid is actually sitting in the pain of having lost his father and knowing that he will not ever come back. So in a sense, and perhaps we don't see a lot of this in the series, it's him dealing with the emptiness of like, "Now what do I do after this whole thing is over?" And that's up to interpretation. I think that would've been a beautiful moment to explore. Unfortunately, we just didn't have the time.

But I think Carlos's story was told. I think his rage was told — rage is essentially pain. I think his pain was told, and we were able to feel with him. We did have that scene at the cemetery. I actually forget all the lines [laughs], but essentially what he's saying is, "I don't have you by my side seeking justice. I don't have my father. I don't have you." So, as an actor, I don't worry about the big picture. I worry about each moment. Obviously, I've thought about the storyline, which is why we got the story that we did. Tim and Rashad were willing to give me that [arc], which I'm really grateful for. But you work so much, only to let it go immediately. It is just crazy to me. But that was sort of the intention. The intention is every moment. I think if you take care of every moment, the rest is also taken care of.

After Episode 9, you effectively bid farewell to Carlos, because it was the conclusion of his most substantive arc of the final season. Obviously, he and T.K. still had to overcome an obstacle to adopt Jonah. What was it like for you to say goodbye to Carlos? What do you remember most from your final day on set?

Silva: I cried a lot on my last day. There's that big red [Verizon] satellite truck that gives signals to the entire city [in the series finale]. That was my last day shooting Lone Star, and I didn't know how it was going to be. I am very fortunate that I have wonderful castmates that came and brought me flowers on my last day. I wasn't expecting it! I was not expecting a single person. I wasn't expecting anything. I was just like, "Oh, I'm just going to go home. And now it's done." But no, [Natacha Karam], Brian [Michael Smith], and Brianna [Baker] came out and they brought me flowers, and I just sobbed for about 20 minutes.

I don't know why that happens. It may be silly, but it's five years of dedicating your life to the people that you work with. I cannot emphasize enough the extremely talented and hardworking crew that we had on Lone Star. Our crew did so much for that show to work. I'm extremely grateful for them because [the actors] just had to show up, literally. These are men and women that give their lives just to create this industry, and I think they go unsung very often, and that is absolutely unacceptable. We have to mention our hard-working crew more often because they are as legitimate as the actors on screen. I grew up as a person so much from the show, and I'm extremely grateful for Tim and Ryan for having given me the opportunity. So I think, in the moment, we don't really register that [loss in our brains], but the body knows and it pours it all out and starts crying. I think maybe that's why it happens, but I think I was given a mission — and I think the mission was accomplished.

Did you get to take home anything from the set?

Silva: Hell yeah. I got my Steston [hat], my cowboy boots, and a jacket.

The legacy of a show generally becomes clearer over time, but many viewers have gravitated toward Carlos and the messiness of his relationship with T.K. over the course of these five seasons. When you look back on this chapter of your career five-to-10 years down the road, what do you hope the legacy of this character will be?

Silva: You can't really control how people identify [with] Carlos — at least that's what I understood. I just hope people see him as an ever-evolving human being. Like we all are, he's just trying his best to be his best. And I don't think his story is over. I really don't. There were ideas floating around about spinning off this world into something else, and I think that was a legitimate and smart idea. I just don't think the time is right. He will live forever in a sense, but I think his story is not over.

I definitely wouldn't shy away from continuing to tell his story — him being the leader of his [own] story — but it has to be complementary to the [9-1-1] world. It is not about Rafael being this [character again]. It's about Carlos existing. Why does he exist here, and what can we do to showcase this Latino queer man in a position of power? How does he live in the world? How does he influence people? How do people influence him, and what does he represent? What can he represent? Because people of all faces, all places, all sizes, all colors identified with him. They would tell me that [personally]. And I think that's such a privilege to witness — [for] people to gravitate toward him and want to root for him. And I'm not patting myself on the back. It's not about me and will never be about me, but that's someone people would root for, and I would be rooting for the people rooting for him. When characters like that come out, I think we shouldn't discard them so easily.

So, just to be clear, are you saying the door is open for you to reprise this character at some point down the road? If the executive producers decide they want to revisit just Carlos's story one day, would you consider coming back?

Silva: Yes. But it has to be done right.

Since wrapping Lone Star last summer, you booked and already filmed the first season of Kevin Williamson's new Netflix family drama The Waterfront, in which you play Shawn, a newly employed bartender for the central Buckley family who has a secret that could upend the family forever. The show is set to premiere later this year. What can you say about your experience of making that new show and playing a different character for a change?

Silva: I'm going to tell you right off the bat: I can't really say anything, because I've also not had any conversations about talking about the other show. [Laughs.] But I'll tell you: Living in North Carolina, working with [executive producers] Kevin Williamson, Michael Narducci, Ben Fast was an extremely privileged experience. It was wonderful. I worked with extremely talented people, people from the theater.

Our number one, Holt McCallany, is such a great leader, always prepared, knows his lines and everybody else's lines. [Laughs.] And it was a wonderful example of what can be done, what should be done. But also, I observed myself in that environment. I was like, Wow, Lone Star taught me a lot. It gave me feet to walk on, gave me some strong legs to stand on my own. And shooting the show was fun. It was very different from Lone Star because Lone Star had so much going on, especially in rescue cases. You have two fire trucks, two ambulances, cop cars — it's great, and it deserves its spotlight. And then [The Waterfront] was much less about the external, a lot more about the internal. The show is entertaining, it was fun, and it will be worth the watch.

#rafael silva #911 lone star #ls season 5 #ls 5 bts #ls pr #max gao #interviews #carlos reyes

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vinelark · 1 year ago

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in return for the fic recs i got last month, here are a few fics i read recently that i want to absolutely yell about from the rooftops:

Iron, Fire, Mirror-Glass by PurpleSoot: an early batman days AU where, while slowly healing from a spine-shattering injury, bruce finds an old book about the fae. in a fit of desperation he attempts a Summoning to try to heal his spine. enter: robin.

this story is fantastic—the kind of longfic with a plot so good and satisfying that finishing it leaves you on a reading high for at least a week. one of the best early days bruce fics i’ve ever read, with honorable mentions to excellent alfred and clark and jim and selina characterizations—but robin (dick) really takes the cake here. the balance of chilling, otherworldly, not-quite-human vs. playful, earnest, Still Just a Child…chef’s kiss. the way robin’s character arc drags bruce kicking and screaming through his own emotional growth is so well-paced and well-wrought that i already want to reread just so i can experience it again. this is one of those god-tier longfics that i can’t believe i got to read for free on the internet.

mid-reading testimonial:

The Lone Ranger Never Had to Deal with Bruce Wayne by @theskeptileptic: a tim-joins-the-family-early fic in which tim decides to do everyone (his parents) a solid by faking his own death and running away to canada, except his weirdo neighbor bruce wayne keeps butting in and messing up his plans.

this is one of the rare stories where tim doesn’t know batman’s identity yet, and even rarer stories where that somehow makes the whole thing even more compelling. this fic has two of my favorite things: small, lonely, moderately unhinged tim drake pov, and really good pangs—pangs that are expertly teased out through flashbacks that add context to the present action at exactly the right moments. also, a very fun cameo near the end. i had a blast reading this one, physically clutched my chest more than once, and am already looking forward to rereading.

mid-reading testimonial (feat. @cairoscene):

equivalent exchange by scribblemetimbers (wip): an au set during tim’s robin days in which tim discovers 1) crossroads demons are a thing and 2) people can make deals with them. deals that include bringing people back from the dead, so long as you’re willing to pay the price with your own life.

this fic is so…🤌‼️ it feels like everything i want in a fic so far, down to two incredibly specific concepts i love (bruce, in his grief, saying something harsh to robin!tim with disastrous consequences later + tim making a big secret sacrifice gambit) which are both done so so well, within a larger plot that is also done so so well. the way this fic cuts in and out of scenes at the exact right moments for max tension feels like a masterclass in causing me to tear my hair out (in the best way), and instead of assorted pangs reading it is just one big Pang. it currently leaves off on an agonizing cliffhanger but, again, in the best way. highly recommend. (thank you again @owlbats for the rec!)

exchange between me and my friend after i sent the link, which about sums it up:

and to cut this angst with some humor:

IRIS Log #1548 by @deadchannelradio: a night on patrol as recorded by the bats’ audio logs, centering around red hood getting flung into a ditch and everyone, eventually, getting home safe.

one of the top ten funniest things i’ve ever read—spiritually up there with send to all (and if you’ve seen my fic rec tag you’ll know what a compliment that is). this makes use of the audio log format SO well. the dialogue shines, the jokes land with excellent timing, and it moves at such a clip that it’s pretty much impossible to stop reading once you’ve started. every character shines in this, and i’ve randomly choked on laughter remembering the phrase ‘good god he got thrown like a corn hole beanbag’ like twenty times in the past few weeks.

mid-reading testimonial:

#every time i sit down to do a general reclist it gets so long and i get overwhelmed because i want to write an essay for each one #i had a rec thread going on twitter for a while and it was also getting so long even though i stopped months ago #i should do these monthly. there are so many fics i would love to yell from the rooftops about #anyway these rock!! happy reading!!!#batfam #fic rec

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divergent-paths · 2 months ago

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Hey Alex.

I hope this isn’t too rude,

But I can’t help but notice that your opinions and actions regarding Pokemon seem to be almost identical to N (mostly from early team plasma era).

You both are very careful approaching Pokemon, tries to avoid battling unless certain circumstances since you don’t want them to be hurt, but still a skilled trainer nonetheless.

Not to mention you don’t trust a lot of people and you look after Pokemon who can’t fend for themselves.

I know N’s actions to the public seem to be mixed reactions, so that’s why I hope you’re not offended.

Welp, since this is another ask where Alex would have no idea who anon is asking about, in order to avoid Alex just shutting this down with 'I don't know who that is' let's have a bit of a dress up instead~!

Like anon mentioned, there is definitely a ton of similarities between N and Alex (there's even a match between Zekrom and Miraidon's types lmao), but they do start to diverge a bit when we get into the details.

While N's mistrust of people is due to generalised isolation from the wider world, Alex's is based on a loss of trust in the systems that are supposed to protect and support him. Between the two, I would also say that N is more emotionally mature. N was shown in his games to be much more capable of assessing new information/opinions and growing, while Alex is slow to change and can be pretty childish despite his age.

Another difference between them is that N comes off as introverted to me whilst Alex is meant to be an extrovert, so while N is shown as quite happy in his own company or with only 'mons, Alex is currently very lonely and starving for attention, but the hurt runs deep enough that he's not able to get himself out of the downward spiral.

And as a bit of a side note for any future asks (I don't wanna' have to keep posting 'idk who that is' responses :'D), Alex doesn't really know much of/about the prominent trainers of the wider world, he's not interested in gym challenges, elite trainers, villains, rangers, etc About the only exception would be the ones that happen to also be in the entertainment industry, ie, Diantha, Roxie, Brycen, etc, and he'd only really know about their shows, movies, and music, not their battling prowess. He also doesn't have much knowledge on Coordinating, having seen that the Kalos coord scene is highly sexist and he just went 'oh okay since i was born a boy so i can't do that' and never looked at it again. (It'll be something in the main story eventually, so no asks to teach him, pretty please :'D)

Max on the other hand, knows of all the Kalos Gym Leaders, E4, & Champ, actually having an interest in the league as a type of sport. He's got passing knowledge on the Champs of other regions, but doesn't know too many other prominent trainers yet.

#ajks #character qna #ty for the ask! <3 #pokemon violet #miraidon #oc dress up #if miraidon looks a bit jank it's because i drew it 100% from memory lol

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authormorganlawson · 4 months ago

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To celebrate getting all of Boothill’s eidolons (he is the first and only limited 5-star character I have E6’d,) I thought I’d do a little analysis of his eidolon names!

As a warning, this does contain spoilers for both Boothill's backstory and also some of the Trailblaze Continuance Quests!

DUSTY TRAIL’S LONE STAR EIDOLON 1

This depicts a person who is traveling a difficult path on their own, relying on their strength, determination, and resilience to keep pushing forward. I do also think that Hoyo pulled a lot of inspiration from Texas (i.e. “Lone Star”) because it’s a really popular area for cowboy lore, but I do also like it because it ties in nicely with my personal headcanon that Boothill and his home planet are based off of the indigenous Mexican people, specifically the Mexican-American War.

MILESTONEMONGER EIDOLON 2

This one is the most straightforward one of all of them, in my opinion. This is a term that refers to somebody who likes to roam, a nod to the way that, as a Galaxy Ranger, Boothill is always on the move, never staying in one place for too long.

MARBLE ORCHARD’S GUARD EIDOLON 3

Oh, this is where everything starts to hurt. It’s worth noting that, per his backstory, Boothill never even got the chance to bury all of his loved ones that were lost during the IPC’s attack. But based on the name that he gave to himself when he started his new life as a revenge-seeking cyborg (Boothill = a cemetery for cowboys or a cemetery for those who “died with their boots on,”) that he considers himself to be a cemetery for his loved ones, their memories the gravestones. “Marble Orchard” is also another slang term for a cemetery. I like to think that this eidolon’s name tells us that his primary reason for staying alive is not just to get revenge against Oswaldo Schneider, but because so long as he’s alive, so are the memories of his family. So, he’s guarding those memories.

COLD CUTS CHEF EIDOLON 4 This one is giving me the hardest time. The most obvious thing that comes to my mind is butcher, which makes me think about Boothill giving up his own humanity for the name of revenge, and how he sees himself as little else but a killer. And (this has little to do with the Eidolon name but is something I really like about his character,) this is something, per the Banana Outrage Continuance Mission, Boothill doesn’t necessarily see as a bad thing. When he’s regressed into his childhood self, he tells us that he doesn’t mind killing so long as it’s in the name of justice.

STUMP SPEECH EIDOLON 5 At first I thought that this might have something to do with the way his Synesthesia Beacon censors his vocabulary, but upon Googling the term “stump speech,” I am beginning to think it means something else entirely—the term apparently comes from early American politics where politicians, when campaigning, would saw off a tree stump to stand on it to deliver their speeches. Boothill isn’t a politician campaigning for any office, but he does have a mission that he is solely focused on—avenging his loved ones and planet, getting revenge on Oswaldo Schneider for what he did to Aeragan-Epharshel. And most of his actions are designed to grab the attention of the IPC, per his character story, which is likely to help him get closer to Oswaldo Schneider. He’s standing on a tree stump yelling for the IPC that he’s right here.

CROWBAR HOTEL’S RACCOON EIDOLON 6

This is the most fun name to me. At first, I thought it was some media reference that I was unfamiliar with. But with a little digging, I have discovered that “crowbar hotel” is a slang term for jail, which makes sense! Given that he’s wanted by the IPC and has a massive bounty on his head, the jail reference makes sense. Or, you could look at it from an angstier angle, and consider that he is shackled/jailed by his desire for revenge. But now, where does the raccoon part come in? I am a little hesitant with my answer to this, but I think that they specifically chose raccoon here because raccoons typically represent secrecy and resilience and survival. I do think this suits Boothill very well. While he goes out of his way to make his actions known because he wants the IPC’s attention on him, he is very secretive. We still have not gotten an explanation, in-game, of what really happened to him or his planet. We only know everything from his character story. We did get some information in Banana Outrage, but I think that was mostly due to the fact that Boothill regressed into his child-self. The most he’s ever really told anybody of his mission was when he asked Aventurine where Oswaldo Schneider was. And then, tying it back into the jail thing, he has a massive bounty over his head, and yet he’s never been caught. He’s slippery and practically holding a beacon over his head to allow the IPC to find him, he always manages to evade capture.

So, that’s all I got. Thoughts?

#hsr #honkai star rail #boothill #hsr boothill

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princessleechan · 1 year ago

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"You're the man!" Chapter 29 (written chapter)

Masterlist

⚽Chapter tags: MDNI, she’s the man au, revenge au???, cross dressing!reader, reader identifies anything but male, sports au, queer themes, university au, love-whatever the fuck kind of shape, double date time, awkwardness, wonwoo's little operation, soccer boy banter, suggestive

⚽Tag list: @90s-belladonna @the-boy-meets-evil @lirtha97 @hipsdofangirl @justineasian @kwanisms @multi-kpop-fanfics @pantumin @wooahaeproductions @mayashu @shuasdraftsalt @lone-lone-ranger @headlockimnida @horanghaezone @haolistic @porridgesblog @jeonjungkaka @luchiet @ujimatchaaa @skzdesi @cheoliehansolie @vlbii @myghobi @sisterofsomeone @joonsytip @gyublues @alltheshineofthestars-blog @randomworker @isabellah29 @savgogh @too-many-kpop-hubands @shingsoluvely @kamabokogonpachro @skittlez-area512 @seccdlurv @chisskaa @mochiteez @theyluvfrankocean @lllucere @thomawifey @middle-of-the-earth @okiedokrie @itsokaytobedumb00 @humankimbap @zezedoesshit @teenyfinds @jeonghansshitester @aaa-sia @heyitz00 @silvsie

You couldn't feel more awkward sitting next to a girl you've barely known for five minutes while Chae throws herself onto Mingyu across from you, their closeness unbearable. Your gaze shifts to Ruka, your date for the evening, who remains absorbed in the game on her phone, her attention unwavering and completely detached from the dry atmosphere between you two.

Just perfect.

“I’m so happy to see us all here, right Gyu?” Chae's voice is tinged with playful affection as she clings to your roommate's bicep, her fingers lightly tracing over his firm, taut skin. Mingyu, caught off guard by her touch, tries his best to maintain composure and not melt under her lingering caress.

“Y-yeah. It’s great,” he stammers, clearly flustered.

You nod half-heartedly in agreement, the uncomfortable silence thickening the air between you and Ruka. She sits unmoving besides her finger tips, her focus unwaveringly locked onto the tiny screen of her phone, seemingly oblivious to the world around her. The ambient sounds of the restaurant—the clinking of utensils, distant chatter—fade into the background, and you feel like a useless fourth wheel with holes jabbed at either side.

Meanwhile, 'Operation: Save Wonwoo’s Love Life' is in full swing. Wonwoo and his carefully curated team sit in the shadows of a dimly lit booth, strategically positioned far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to catch snippets of the conversation—or the lack thereof—at the next table. Wonwoo adjusts his glasses, the lenses reflecting the faint light, before hiding behind his newspaper, leaning back against the worn leather booth and pretending to mind his own business.

“You know you only look more suspicious like that,” Jeonghan quips, his eyes darting briefly from his phone screen, where he's engrossed in scrolling through social media. The other boys—Jihoon, Soonyoung, Joshua, and Junhui—take Wonwoo's lead, their gazes fixed on the double date unfolding before them like they're watching a dramatic reality show.

“Until it fails me, it hasn’t failed me yet,” Wonwoo mutters, his voice tinged with anxiety as he peeks over the top of the newspaper.

Jihoon coughs in disdain, "I swear, we're one restraining order away from becoming stalkers.”

Junhui hums appreciatively as he savors his sundae, each spoonful a taste of pure bliss. The rich chocolate sauce drips down the sides, and he makes a show of enjoying every bite. “You guys need to try the new dessert specials. It’s so good.”

“How are you eating dessert already?” Joshua asks, eyeing the decadent confection with envy as he lowers his newspaper. “Our entrees haven’t even come out yet.”

“I got excited and came by early,” Junhui explains with a sheepish grin, offering a spoonful to Joshua. “Want some?”

“Of course,” Joshua replies sassily, but he takes the spoonful almost immediately, the sweet treat melting on his tongue.

“Guys,” Wonwoo exclaims, exasperated, as he rustles the cumbersome stack of papers in front of him. “Focus, boys. I’m about to lose my girl to the eighth dwarf, Slutty.”

Jeonghan rests a reassuring hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, his touch meant to calm the frazzled mastermind, though a hint of amusement plays at the corners of his lips. “I really don’t think you have a problem with Yeonam, but who am I to question your judgment?”

“I have a question though,” Jihoon interjects, nursing his Coke Zero with delicate fingertips as he stirs it with a singular straw. “What exactly are we supposed to do? Watch their date like some weird old perverts and twiddle our thumbs while we wait for it to fail?”

Wonwoo sighs, frustrated, and puts down his newspaper. “No, we ensure that Ruka comes out of this still single.” His determination is palpable, a blend of desperation and hope driving his every move. “My chances were already low, I don't want them to be zero.”

“For what? For you to yandere over her in the shadows?” Jihoon taunts, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Don’t make me climb over there.”

“Guys, wait,” Soonyoung gently halts them, his voice unusually serious. “Look.”

The boys' attention shifts to Ruka, who suddenly slams a palm against the table, her scowl deepening. “Fuck! Two stars? This shit’s annoying.”

“Ruka, look up from your phone, girlie,” Chae encourages brightly, her arm still linked with Mingyu's. “Yeonam was so excited for this.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, haha.” You force a grin, turning to your date. “So, did you win?”

Ruka scoffs dismissively, her attention still fixated on her phone. Without acknowledging your question, she flags down a passing waiter with practiced ease. The waiter moves swiftly, as if guided by the wind, and returns promptly with another shiny aluminum can of Mountain Dew Kickstart. Ruka cracks it open with a familiar motion, taking a long gulp, nearly draining half of it in one go, and returning to her mobile game.

Wonwoo shrugs, his voice tinged with resignation. “Monster is the better choice–if not the right one��but not all relationships are perfect.”

“This is so stupid,” Jihoon grits out, already letting his impatience show.

Meanwhile, Chae delicately prods at her date, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness as his arm was sandwiched between her breasts bulging through her shirt. “Mingyu, I’m having a great time.”

“Really?” Mingyu's eyes light up, hope and happiness dancing across his face like flickering flames.

“Mmhmm,” Chae hums softly, her gaze locking with his, eyes sparkling with genuine enjoyment.

And here you had believed men couldn’t be more uncomplicated. Despite the sparse exchange of words throughout the date, Mingyu is visibly enthralled by Chae’s simple affirmation. You observe him practically glowing with delight, his usually composed demeanor giving way to earnest stammered compliments, each word twisting a dull ache deeper into your gut.

“So, Chae,” you ask, trying to steer the conversation away from your discomfort. “When did you know you liked Mingyu?”

“Oh me? Well, I guess I’ve always known how…strapping he is, but he’s always felt out of reach, but I said ‘fuck it.’ So I finally picked up my boots and asked him out. And boy do I not regret it.” She drags her fingers down his chest with deliberate slowness, tracing the divide between his pectorals, eliciting timid giggles from him. The sensation of her touch against his skin causes Mingyu to squirm slightly, caught between delight and nervous anticipation.

“That tickles.”

She laughs, running her perfectly manicured fingers through his hair and enraging you even more. “Sorry, You’re just so adorable.”

“Right, right.” You interrupt. “But you like him, why? Surely it’s not just because of his looks.”

“Of course not,” she chuckles, “he’s also like so…ambitious. Athletic. Charming? Need I go on?”

“Sure, those are great qualities but—“

“Are you jealous? Yeonam, Ruka is right next to you.” Her teasing tone carries a hint of amusement as her eyes flicker over to your date.

You steal a glance at Ruka, noticing her continued absorption in the game on her phone. Despite your attempt at a smile, a knot of unease tightens in your stomach, and you nervously rub your dry palms against your textured pants. The soft hum of the restaurant surrounds you as Ruka leisurely takes another long sip from her recently acquired Mountain Dew, seemingly indifferent to the suffocating tension that fills the air, particularly affecting you.

“I’m not jealous,” you assert quietly, though the words feel hollow in the midst of the uncomfortable silence.

“Really? Because you’re acting like I’ll steal your roommate right from under you.”

“Yeah, Yeonam,” Mingyu agrees with a chuckle, “it’s all good. What’s the issue?”

"Just making conversation, Ruka. So, do you like… cheese?"

She responds with a slight grimace, a fleeting expression of annoyance crossing her features, before swiftly returning her gaze to her phone screen. The dim glow illuminates her indifferent expression as she continues tapping away, lost in her virtual world.

“Great,” you mutter.

“That’s my girl,” Wonwoo grins, brimming with pride.

“This date is kinda lame,” Soonyoung mumbles before Jeonghan chimes in similarly, “Yeah. When does it get good?”

“This isn’t a fucking soap opera,” Wonwoo retorts, “just keep watch.”

The date takes a turn when Chae gets confident. His hands move with gumption, gliding over Mingyu’s skin as her lips run a feiry path down his neck. A moan escapes past his lips as he leans into her, gently caressing her shoulders, and getting into the rhythm faster than any blue hedgehog.

“Oh here we go,” Soonyoung observes with a growing smile.

“Mingyu, you useless virgin,” Wonwoo grumbles.

Barely able to endure another second of the couple in front of you lost in primal acts, you reach your breaking point. A storm of frustration brews in your chest, and your fingers dig into the denim of your Levi jeans, the fabric stretched tight against your tense thighs. With a shallow breath, you gather your resolve before abruptly rising from the booth.

“You know, I think I forgot to do something back at the dorms. Sorry for the abrupt end, Ruka, but maybe we shouldn't do this again. Bye.” Your words come out rushed, laced with unease and annoyance.

You storm out, leave the boys watching in a bit of shock before they avert their gazes back to the threesome as sound of the door swinging shut behind you with a decisive thud erupts a domino effect. As Chae watches your departure, she disengages from Mingyu as swiftly as if unclasping Velcro, her expression shifting to a forced, amicable grin. “Yeah, this was nice, but I've got to go too,” she says quickly, her eyes darting between Mingyu and the exit you just stormed through.

“What? Why?” Mingyu asks, disappointment evident in his voice, heart still pounding from the tension Chae’s abrupt display of affection.

“Sorry. I just suddenly remembered I think I left my living room lights on, but this was fun. We should do it again. See you.” And with that, Chae exits just as swiftly as you, leaving Mingyu to process her departure.

He turns to his roommate's abandoned date, Ruka, who is still engrossed in her phone, and slumps down in his chair, not only disappointed but regretful. “So, you and Chae are cousins?” he engage awkwardly.

“Mmhmm,” Ruka replies nonchalantly.

He scratches his forehead, blowing an exhausted sigh. “Did you like the date?”

She shrugs. “Whatever.”

“…What Valorant rank are you?”

Ruka pauses her game for once, looking up at Mingyu with a hint of interest, thumb pads hovering over her phone screen. “Ascendant. Why?”

“Want to know an Immortal, before he becomes Radiant?” Mingyu suggests with a grin

“You’re an Immortal?” Ruka asks, intrigued.

“No, but I know one.”

And somewhere in that restaurant sits a very embarrassed man with strawberry colored ear tips and bright tomato expression, he was ready to crawl back in his humble hole now.

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amomentsescape · 2 years ago

Note

hey, how are you doing?

I would like to ask for a one shot (Victor Zsasz x Female!reader) where the reader is kidnapped and used as a bait by some guys that wanna kill Zsasz.

Risk and Protect

Victor Zsasz x Female! Reader

Summary: Victor goes on a mission to save you after past enemies decide they want revenge on him.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, and Victor's scars

Word Count: 1,525

A/N: I've always loved fics like this. And I'm doing great, thank you for asking! I hope you're doing good too!

Victor has a lot of enemies. It only makes sense for someone who kills random people for a living. But he never really worried about it for a while.

He was a lone ranger of sorts, only working with the Zsaszettes in a professional manner. And after letting himself get close to Falcone and feeling that pain of losing him, Victor promised himself he wouldn't let his own attachments get in the way again. It was for the best.

But then you happened. Of course, you walked into his life when he least expected it.

And although Victor is a smart man, he couldn't logically find a way to let you go. His heart won, but he always worried that this would end up being a mistake.

And today, he really believed it was.

He quite literally had eyes on you 24/7. If it wasn't his own, then it was a couple of the Zsaszettes. He knew that there were people out there to get him. And no matter how hard he tried to hide you away and keep you safe, he knew that he could only do so much.

Victor had a lot of hits today, so he assigned a couple Zsaszettes to watch over you while he was out. He promised you he'd be back that night to spend time with you.

And you were really happy with this arrangement. You had actually befriended a few of his workers, enjoying the random conversations you would have with them. Plus, they made you feel safe to be around. They may have been pretty faces, but they were incredibly skilled and powerful as well. They felt secure.

But unfortunately, they weren't ready for 15 armed men to burst into the place on such a gentle evening. Even Victor couldn't predict just how far his enemies would go, ganging up to increase their numbers and their chances that they could catch you.

The Zsaszettes did the best they could to hide you before the men got to you. They managed to hold them off for a bit, but sadly, it only ended in bloodshed.

A few of the men were killed upon entry, a few others were injured. But the girls were out numbered, and they ended dying to protect you. They cared about following Victor's orders of course, but they also cared about you. Your safety was their priority as much as Victor's, and they sadly gave up their lives for you.

You were choking on your sobs as you tried to hold them back, watching the scene unfold in the hidden away room near the back of the apartment.

But with one wrong movement, you had bumped the wall with your elbow, and the remaining men froze.

Your eyes widened as you watched a couple of them walk towards your hiding area, ripping open the door.

They each took an arm and dragged you out of the room, a quick hit to the head forcing darkness upon you.

***

Victor rushed home just 30 minutes later when both Zsaszettes didn't pick up his calls. He even reached out to you, only to be met with your voicemail.

When he stormed into the apartment, he lost his breath. Two of his most loyal workers laid dead on the ground. The whole area was trashed and bloodied, and Victor could only hope that none of the red liquid was yours.

He searched around for you frantically, but all he managed to find was your phone, all of his attempts at calling and messaging you still listed on your lock screen.

But the latest message on your phone was one he didn't send.

You know where to find us. You have 1 hour.

He had a hunch that someone was after him these past few weeks, but he didn't know that they would drag you into this. But this would prove to be their biggest mistake.

He knew where you were. And although he didn't care to know who these men were, they would all end up dead just the same.

***

Victor smirked when he saw the building in view. He had to give them some props to be honest. They did pretty well staking out their own assassins in the area. But he couldn't expect anything less.

He was Gotham's best, so they knew that they had to prepare for him to arrive. They were wanting his head, after all.

But they clearly weren't as smart as they thought.

He had a few of his Zsaszettes set up on the opposite side of the building, their guns already beginning to fire blindly at the men.

This caused all of them to turn towards the shots, the rest of the men beginning to rush to the area.

With their backs turned, Victor began to take down each assassin, his own gun completely muffled from the chaos.

Each shot was like a silent blast of air, and men's bodies were hitting the ground without anyone noticing.

But by the time they did catch on to what was happening, it was too late. There were only a couple men left, and they were met with a bullet to the head before they could even spot where he was.

But Victor knew his battle wasn't over. You were still inside, and he was certain the "boss" and the rest of his men would be there too.

The Zsaszettes were ready for his call, but Victor wanted to finish the battle alone.

It was almost humorous for him in a way. They would have been stupid to mess with Victor in general, but to put your life in danger too? That only made his next plan even more enjoyable.

Victor walked into the building innocently, knowing they weren't going to kill him immediately. These men were too prideful for that. They wanted to toy with him, torture him, maybe even hurt you to make his own suffering worse.

The thought made him sick, but he kept his cool.

"Gentleman," Victor greeted, his eyes not leaving yours.

It pained him to see you strapped to that chair, your eyes full of fear. What made it worse though was the fact that he knew you weren't scared for yourself- you were scared for him. He never wanted to worry you like this ever again.

And thankfully, you looked unscathed. Your shirt was a little wrinkled, and your mascara had smudged, but there were no cuts or bruises anywhere Victor could see. He felt relieved.

"Victor!"

His eyes finally left yours to look at the brute man before him.

"You're gonna pay for what you did to my brother!"

Victor sighed. "Brother? I kill dozens of people a week. You think I care about what I did to your brother?"

The man was seething and ready to burst.

"But, if I do recall," Victor rolled up his sleeve. "I think he was probably... this one, right here." He pointed to a scar near his elbow.

Suddenly, the man let out a loud scream, beginning to charge at Victor.

His two men continued to stand next to you, their hands already beginning to reach for their guns.

You watched as Victor dodged away from the man, managing to slip in a swift punch to the gut.

The man spun back around and landed a sharp kick to Victor's shin, causing him to collapse.

You let out a muffled scream at this, worried that would be the end of the battle for your partner.

However, Victor took advantage of this new viewpoint, quickly grabbing the small gun from the man's belt.

With two loud bangs, both men beside you collapsed to the floor, not even able to fire off their own weapons in time.

Another two loud shots resounded as you watched the boss fall beside his fellow partners in crime, yelling and screaming at Victor.

You could see a bloody wound in each of his knees as a pool began to form around him.

Victor jumped to his feet and made his way towards you, helping you our of your binds. All the while, he continued to apologize and tell you just how worried he was.

"This will never happen again. I'm sorry I-"

"Victor," you softly smiled. "I'm okay. We're going to be alright, yeah?"

He quietly sighed and brought his lips to your forehead, silently agreeing. Even in the most chaotic moments, you were able to bring him a sense of peace that he never knew existed before.

Once he knew you were okay, he dragged his attention back to your kidnapper.

"As much as I'd love to see your entrails splayed across the floor, I have some other matters to attend to."

And with that, a single shot was made in the center of the man's head. You watched as his head lulled to the side and his eyes went blank.

You squirmed away a bit, but you felt Victor wrap his arm around your waist.

"What were these other matters you have to do?" you asked, looking up at him.

He smiled back down at you. "Our date night, of course."

#gotham fandom #gotham x reader #gotham #victor zsasz x reader #victor zsasz fluff #gotham victor zsasz #victor zsasz

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claitea · 1 month ago

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an au i've been messing with for quite a while now :) alto as a plasma leader + post-plasma! originally for a little swap au where n would have been a ranger (tbh its not developed at all, it was just an excuse to think about ranger n lmao), though with @jaredthebc we also made a whole thing with his oc jay hehe

ALRIGHT SO TRYING TO KEEP IT SHORT. we call this the replacement leader au. when ghetsis caught wind of a harmonia child being abandoned in the woods, he planned to get him for his plans as normal. however, he accidentally takes a 5 year old alto instead. when he realizes his mistake and finds the real n, he can't just toss out alto since he'd already introduced her to the rest of team plasma as the future queen. he keeps them around to keep up appearances, but also as a backup in case anything goes awry with n. alto's goal as plasma's leader is to make unova more like their homeregion fiore as opposed to complete liberation

they dont get to be they/them yet by the way. sorry. she/her and gender dysphoria be upon ye, alto. they get called A, or Lady A, but since reading just the letter A in text was hard, we also call them Alt. they never get called that in-universe, its literally just for us HJDHDHFH

so that n is assured that he is the true king, he's never made aware of alt's existence, but alt admires him greatly and works to support him from the shadows. when jay is discovered by ghetsis, since he can also talk to pokemon having been to the mystery dungeon universe, alt is once again pushed down the royal procession. at this point, they're so used to being looked over they fully accept this without question and pledge as much loyalty to jay as they do to n.

we liked the thing the manga did where in literally just one scene and never again, n's necklace is used as a phone. so ghetsis gives all three their necklaces to keep tabs on them all. jay and alt accidentally end up calling each other on them, initially unaware exactly Who they're calling. they keep this up for a while, since both are lonely as plasma's backup leaders who arent nearly as important as n yet. when they find out, alt is horrified thinking they've broken so many rules treating their superior so informally, but jay tells them he wants them to stick around. they end up sneaking off to each others rooms, and since they're so desperate for company they try a romantic relationship. its not exactly... the best?? they genuinely love each other but alt is constantly worried about the fact this is totally not allowed, jay worries alt is just "following orders" by being with him. they feel that all they have is each other though

in bw1 n loses and leaves unova as normal, so for bw2, ghetsis puts jay in charge with alt as his right hand. jared's oc Amity replaces the usual protag. the game proceeds basically as normal, up until the giant chasm, where ghetsis attempts to glaciate amity and n returns to save her. knowing kyurem did this only because it was being controlled, jay defends it, as do n and amity. alt, scared out of their mind having just seen ghetsis reveal his true colors, as well as watching jay and n, the only people left they could trust, defend a pokemon that almost killed a kid, alt runs away.

jay and n search for them for a month, and find them back in the ruins of the old plasma castle, injured from an ursaring attack they suffered on the run. they realize how harsh they'd been at the chasm and finally try to make up with both of them. it takes a while because they all have their own issues to sort out but jay and alt do get back together with a lot more healthy framing of that relationship :) n is also there bc these ocs were already n kissers. we had to alright. its in our nature

alt never actually interacted with many pokemon in their time with plasma so their main experiences are The Kyurem Thing and The Ursaring Thing so they develop a fear of pokemon for a while. the shiny smoliv in their second ref is their emotional support helping them get used to pokemon again. their name is Olive because alt still sucks at names, they were a rescue jay got from the plasma safehouse, and because of an inside joke they know wood hammer even though smoliv cant learn that

#clai's ocs #oc: alt #clai's art #basically like. the initial idea was playing with alto's sense of loyalty and morality #alto is so loyal to the rangers in canon bc they saw their work at a very young age #so it solidified in their mind that They are the people to follow #if. say. plasma got their claws in alto first. they'd be just as dedicated to That cause instead yknow?#alto believes the first thing they're taught and are really stubborn about it. which is why plasma alto is actually very interesting to me #anyway augh. ''i'll keep this short'' it wasnt short HJEBEIBEIFBF #waugh i promise. this is cooler than the basic synopsis theres just a lot behind this JSJBSJWBSJDB DONT LOOK AT ME

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ass-deep-in-demons · 5 months ago

Text

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + the Rohan Squad

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

Rating: T+

Chapter Length: 13k+

Author's Note: Took me over a year to complete this story. A labor of love. A Chinese translation by Ecthelion is available on Ao3, Jjwxc and Lofter.

✦ Chapter 3 ✦

… in which Boromir wonders whether the Golden Hall has lost its shine and sets off in search of hope.

[AO3] [masterpost]

[previous chapter]

Firienholt, Rohan, 9th of Cermië 3018 TA

Boromir decided to part with his escort after breakfast.

The highway leading north from Minas Tirith had become so perilous lately, that no lone man could traverse the land safely. Derufin had volunteered to be part of his host, as well as one of the Steward's knights, Negenor of Emyn Arnen, and two trusted men from the Guard of the Citadel, Hrodulf and Celeg. They had spent the first night in a roadside inn past Amon Din. This close to the city, ordinary commerce yet thrived, but the signs of the brewing war were already present and obvious. Most of the patrons were either members of the fleeing merchant caravans, or farmers and fishermen of North Anorien seeking to reach a refuge in western fiefdoms.

The inn had been the last civilized establishment before they had to brave the wilds. Past Amon Din, the highway forked; one branch led north towards Cair Andros, the other had taken Boromir and his party west, to Rohan. On the second day they had passed the Druadan Forest. The Wild Men rarely wandered into the vicinity of the King's Highway, but the woods gave shelter to all kinds of strangers, and this was where Boromir had been the most grateful for the presence of his companions. They had spent the night in the camp of the Rangers of Anorien, near the hill of Nardol - no safer and better provisioned haven they could have wished for. The rangers, who answered to the Steward in the absence of the King, but heeded their own codices and followed their own customs, were always ready to shelter those traveling in good faith. Boromir knew personally many Rangers of both Anorien and Ithilien, and they knew him in turn.

The way led steadily west from there. The party had had to spend the next two nights under the stars, with only themselves for company, taking turns keeping watch. Their last night together they had camped in the Firien Woods, known in Gondor as Eryn Fuir. For Boromir, the Whispering Wood had always held an aura of hallowed grounds, perhaps for the proximity of Halifirien, the original resting place of King Elendil. Boromir remembered a pilgrimage to the memorial mound with the Lord Steward, that they had made upon Boromir’s coming of age, shortly after his knighting. He was now tempted to abandon the Highway, hike up the Amon Anwar and kneel before the memorial to seek Elendil's blessing for his journey. Alas, he knew it would delay him greatly and that going off the tract meant inviting trouble. His father would not approve of it, anyway.

Their camp had been set on the western edge of the woods, past Glanhir. The gently rolling hills clad in dry grasses, that stretched before them, were telling Boromir that he was on the cusp of entering the demesne of Theoden King. This land enjoyed frequent patrols of the Rohirrim march riders. No danger could befall him on the King's own tract. The Men of Rohan saw to their affairs conscientiously and would suffer no highwaymen bullying any traveler, much less the Captain of the White Tower. He knew a small guesthouse on the way, where he could stop for a warm luncheon, and, Valar permitting, he should reach Aldburg by evening, and Edoras on the next day.

He could hardly wait to meet with Theodred. A long time had passed since they had last seen each other. A bad friend I have been, he thought, but so has Theodred. Letters can travel both ways!

"Are you so eager to return to your post, that you are willing to depart without any breakfast, Celeg?" asked Derufin with barely concealed mirth, snapping Boromir out of his musings. Celeg had recently taken a sweet young wife and so the cause for his impatience to return to Minas Tirith wasn't a mystery so hard to unravel.

"Merely thinking to be ready for departure in time after the meal, Lord Derufin," said Celeg, his cheeks and ears reddening not entirely from the morning chill in the air.

"Leave the lad be, Derufin,” said Boromir. We were all young once, he thought.

Together, they ate a breakfast of dry rations. Though their talk was merry, the ambiance remained heavy with the unsaid. Boromir could see past Derufin's veneer of humorous jabs. After breakfast, Boromir would set out to paths untraveled and fates unknown - their imminent parting saddened them both. Damn you, Derufin, son of Duinhir, but I shall miss you something awful, Boromir thought.

The dreaded time of goodbye came, implacable. Boromir related to Derufin his last orders for the Army, that he had orphaned for the duration of his quest.

"You only think you are irreplaceable,” said Derufin, “but rest assured - Faramir and I shall do very well in your absence. Certainly none shall miss your brooding." The salty streak upon Derufin’s cheek somewhat belied the irreverence of his words. Boromir was nevertheless grateful for the jest, as it helped him compose himself in turn. They shared a heartfelt embrace. The Gondorians mounted their steeds and drew their swords, giving the last salute to their general, and just like that they were off - Boromir’s last link to home on his quest for the legendary elvish domain disappeared on the woodland path.

Boromir cast a heavy glance up and to the south, towards the unlit beacon of Halifirnen's white marble glinting in the distance between the tangle of leaves and branches. He stood and, with only the trees of Whispering Wood and his best war horse, Bathor, for silent witnesses, unsheathed his sword. He raised it high in a pathetic salute of his own.

“Hail, o' Great King Elendil of Old! Boromir, your servant, salutes you, ready to lay his life in your name, in search of Isildur's Bane," he declared.

He sheathed his blade and silently mounted Bathor. In the ancient days, Isildur’s law forbade disturbing the silence in Eryn Fuir. Though the King's tomb had now stood empty for several centuries, it did not seem right to Boromir to go against the old custom, for he knew some still lived who obeyed it. However, as soon as he came out into the open fields, he blew the Horn of Gondor in memory of Elendil's bloodline and to signify his departure from Anorien. He felt some kinship with the heroes of old through it, and thusly fortified he took to the road.

Yet, even having left Anorien behind, his thoughts lingered on Gondor and his kin. Derufin's parting words made him think of Faramir. Ever since he had left Minas Tirith, whenever he recalled his brother, Boromir could not escape nor forestall the heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach. He was never one to dwell on past choices, having plowed through most of life's challenges with no regrets up until now. He had chosen to go in Faramir’s stead to spare his brother, to protect him, and to please his father. So why did it feel an awful lot like a betrayal?

It had been on that fateful day in Osgiliath, that Faramir had first mentioned this new strange vision of his, both chilling and full of hope. The fall of the Osgiliath Bridge had shaken Minas Tirith - left the brothers weakened in both body and spirit. Only after days of recovery could Faramir report the dream in full, first to Boromir, and then to their Lord the Steward. Lord Denethor had listened to Faramir’s recount of the vision in silence. Later, he had secluded himself in the chamber atop the Tower of Ecthelion, and remained there for several days, leaving Boromir to deal with the aftermath of Osgiliath alone.

The dreams had not stopped, either. They had returned to Faramir on subsequent nights, always featuring the same rhymed riddle, prophesying the return of Isildur's Bane. It had become an obsession for Faramir. He had taken to spending his time in the library, frantically searching for any records on what the Bane might have been. To his astonishment, he had found the relevant scriptures missing! That had worried Boromir - the whole affair had been looking more and more dire. He would curse Isildur’s Bane for dwelling on the minds and hearts of both his brother and his father. He had striven to console his brother as best as he could, to little effect.

And then something even worse had happened, that had Boromir tremble even now, weeks later. The dream of Isildur's Bane had come to him, leaving him heaving, covered in sweat in his bedchamber, wiping his eyes. A voice in his head would chant the strange riddle again and again in his head, driving him to distraction. Try as he had, he couldn't escape it. He had found himself knocking to his father's study that very morning.

"My Lord!" he had said to the closed door at the top of the Tower. "Sire! Hear me! Sire, I come to you with a dream." That had been what made the Steward open the door and let Boromir in, at last. Rare was it for anyone to set foot in the Steward's private study, even for his sons.

"Your brother has been begging me to grant him leave to pursue this strange lead," the Steward had told him.

"You cannot be thinking to let him go!" Borormir had exclaimed. "'Tis a fevered vision of smoke and mirrors! A fool's errand! Worse! A fool's last errand, likely." A strange glint had appeared in Lord Denethor’s eye, then.

"And yet, one of you must see it to the end," he had declared.

"Then let me go in his stead," Boromir had pleaded. Fear for his brother’s life had overcome him, made him offer his own neck readily. Poor, kind-hearted Faramir. A man in his own right; and yet at times it seemed to Boromir his brother had never outgrown the fanciful nature of his boyhood. Boromir would hate to see it shattered, but he also knew the cost of living in fantasy - he, who had had to abandon the tender dreams of childhood in his tenth year, when the Lady Finduilas had departed.

The Steward had ever been a strategist, first and foremost.

"Your brother's visions have truth to them, though they are wasted on a weak man like himself,” he had said. “The land of Imladris exists somewhere in Middle Earth, even though no map that we possess can show us a sure path. The cause is too great to abandon it.” Here the Steward had regarded Boromir solemnly, leaving no place for any doubts. “The power of which the riddle speaks shall become Gondor’s salvation, or our unraveling - in either case we ought not to let the Enemy have it. You will go, Boromir, you will take Isildur's Bane and bring it to me."

"Aye, Lord," Boromir had said, as he ever would.

"Swear it," Denethor had demanded.

Unknown dread had seized Boromir, then. Never in his life had he truly hesitated to answer the Steward's command. Yet this time, something deep inside him had called out to him pitifully not to take the oath. But why? Had his father ever stumbled? Had his father ever erred? He hadn’t. And so it followed that Boromir couldn’t either.

Frightened and discouraged, he had knelt and he had taken the oath, unheeding of his personal doubts.

"I beg of you Boromir, do not go!" Faramir had said, later. "I am overcome with the strangest foreboding that something dreadful shall happen, should you go!" Boromir's heart had broken, then. He had taken Faramir's dream from him, he had done it behind his back, too. And yet Faramir's concern had been first for Boromir's own safety.

Still, Boromir could not heed his brother's warning, for he had been already sworn to carry out their father’s orders towards the end, whatever it might be. That evening, he had assembled the host. On the morrow, only two people had been present at the stables to see the party off. Boromir’s own squire, Huor, his face red and eyes tear-rimmed, had come to attend to his Lord one last time. And the Lord Steward himself, who had descended to the Sixth Level's stables to bestow upon Boromir a proper blessing and impart the final advice.

“Seek out the Wizard Saruman on your way to the West,” had been the Steward’s last charge. “He alone among our allies can point for you the path to Imladris. Otherwise, you shall err and roam the Valar-forsaken desolation of Arnor in vain, and lose both your life, and our only hope.”

Faramir had been notably absent when Boromir’s small host had departed. Even now, after five days, the thought was almost too painful to bear.

Such were his somber musings as he advanced on the West Road. He reached the guest house where he had used to always stop for a meal during his journeys to Edoras in the years past. Their bokenade had a special place in his heart (and hopefully soon also in his stomach) and he had been looking forward to a more substantial repast ever since his party had left the Rangers’ Camp in Druadan. However, to his surprise, he found The Grasshopper closed for business, with the quaint wooden building’s doors and windows barred and nailed shut. Further investigation revealed no signs of recent traffic. That cannot be good, he thought. He had a nagging suspicion that The Grasshopper’s closing down had something to do with the ongoing evacuation of the Gondor’s populace, that it might mean that the people of Rohan had also experienced the unrest of the brewing war. He resolved to content himself with a quick meal of dry rations and to not tarry on his journey any longer; the importance of his mission only grew in his mind.

Alas, as he continued west throughout the afternoon, a sight appeared that gave him an even further pause. Behind the road's turn, that encircled one of the rocky hills of Eastfold, a grey pillar of smoke billowed towards the sky ahead.

He had not known any settlement nor a camp to have ever existed in that location. He could only conceive of one cause for which a Rohirrim patrol could start this sort of fire in the wilds - a funeral pyre. But such a thing, here, in broad daylight? Could it be the Enemy? he wondered. After all, orcish warbands weren’t exactly known for environmental conservationism. But that would belie his so far unshaken faith in the Eored, that would allow no enemy encampment in the King’s Fold. In addition, from his dealings with the orcs in Ithilien, Boromir knew that the creatures remained dormant during the day and only became active during the night, sometimes into the morning hours. He was too far west for it to be the Haradrim and too far east to stumble upon a Dunlending tribe, under ordinary circumstances. No place for highwaymen to hide for miles ahead, either. Upon consideration, he deemed it his duty as a friend of Rohan to discover the source of the smoke, and report about the suspect activity once he reached Aldburg.

Resorting to stealth seemed to be the wisest approach, as Boromir was only one man and the nature of the threat - an unknown. He knew that Bathor, as a fine steed bred and raised among the Horse Lords, a gift from Theoden King himself, would wait for him patiently without revealing himself. Having left his horse in the safety of the nearby bushes, Boromir commenced his trek uphill, meaning to take a measure of the source of the smoke from the top, hoping to remain unnoticed. He approached the rocky outcropping at the hill’s crown and peeked out from behind it.

A view of the Eastfold’s rolling meadows stretched from his vantage point, and right under the hill he spotted what he'd been looking for. An orc encampment, after all! Unexpectedly bustling with activity during the day, even though Boromir knew that all goblins hated sunlight - these goblins however seemed unaffected by the day’s brightness, and, more worryingly still, appeared to be readying for something. The smoke was coming from a huge cauldron in which a foul concoction boiled and bubbled. How can it be, that a fully furnished goblin camp has been set up here in the Eastfold, right by the West Road, not half a day’s ride from Aldburg, and that the Marshal of the Mark would suffer it? Boromir thought in amazement.

He dutifully noted the commando's numbers and their armaments. The orcs were about a dozen warriors, attired in mismatched and incomplete armor, that nevertheless served to cover their vital parts well. Savage they may be, but the orcs know their warcraft, he thought, admiring the heavy, vicious weapons that the goblins seemed to be able to lug and wield without much effort. They had no mounts; instead, several crudely constructed carts, that must have housed their equipment, served as makeshift walls of their camp - a rudimentary cover in case of an attack.

Having satisfied his curiosity and his sense of duty, Boromir thought to retreat, reunite with Bathor and pass around through the thicket on the other side of the hill, to give the encampment a wider berth. Just as he was about to turn around to descend the knoll, he heard a slight rustle behind his back.

The years of training availed him, then; he drew his blade just in time to parry a heavy, ugly orcish club aimed straight for his head. Alas, he hadn’t enough time nor wit about him to account for the second orc, who seized Boromir from behind his back and caught him in a lock. Boromir tried to hold on to his sword for dear life, but it had gotten stuck in the first orc’s wooden club when he had parried the blow. With Boromir overpowered, the first orc yanked the sword from his grasp with frightening ease.

The orcs uttered a throaty gurgling laughter and traded a few grunted words in Black Speech. After years of battling the enemy forces on the banks of Anduin, Boromir had learned a few Dark Tongue phrases. He caught two familiar words: one, "alive", that sparked a small hope in his heart, and another, "food", that swiftly extinguished it. What a dullard I have been to turn my party back to Minas Tirith, before having reached even the first major stop on my journey! A foolhardy, puerile mistake, that will now cost me my life, and worse still, my oath, he thought bitterly. Had his situation not been so dire, he would have laughed at himself and his own half-witted hubris. He had thought himself more practical, more down to earth than Faramir, and so more suited for the quest! Yet he had already, not a week into his journey, acted in a way that had made a mockery of his noble intentions.

One of the orcs bound his hands behind his back with a length of coarse rope; the other pulled a dirty burlap sack over his head and torso and then tied it. Boromir was then swiftly thrown over the back of one of his captors, who carried him down the hill towards the camp. What shortsightedness, he thought, to not realize that the vantage point on the hill would be guarded. The foul smell of whatever had been carried in the sack earlier overpowered him and almost made him retch.

After a bumpy ride on the orc’s back, still tied in the sack, Boromir had been thrown face down onto the dirt, and kicked on the back for good measure. From the smell of smoke and the heat emanating from nearby, he surmised he was now in the middle of the camp, near the fire pit with the huge cauldron. He was truly going to end up as an orc supper, unless he managed to break free!

The first step was surely to regain his vision and free his limbs. However, if he began to struggle overtly, the orcs would only bind him tighter and kick him even more, to prevent his escape. Boromir wriggled slightly to dislodge a hunting dagger he had sheathed under his belt, that the orcs, careless and impulsive as they were, had forgotten to take from him. To them, a small dagger might appear no more dangerous than a toothpick, Boromir thought, as he moved carefully, causing the dagger’s crossguard to catch on a small rock jutting out from the ground. The dagger slid out of its sheath; it was now lying under Boromir inside the sack. After some effort, careful not to raise any suspicion on the outside, Boromir maneuvered the dagger towards his head. He listened and made sure that no orcs were walking directly near him and all of them sounded occupied with… well, with whatever it was that they were doing, then got ahold of the dagger’s grip with his teeth. He jerked his head, managing to pierce the sack through and drive the blade into the ground. They say to always keep one’s blades sharp and they are right, he thought triumphantly. He might have also chipped one of his teeth in the process. Better to walk out of this with a chipped tooth than to become orc dinner with a perfect smile. The orcs had tied his hands, but not his feet, evidently having assumed that he couldn't run if he couldn't see - that had been their mistake, as it gave him more options. Having made an opening in the sack, Boromir tried to guess how much time he had until the orcs decided to chop him and throw the pieces into the cauldron.

He had to rely on his hearing, but soon another of his senses took the lead. Something had gotten the orcs on high alert. They stopped their bustling near the cauldron, where Boromir lay, and all of them gathered on the western edge of the camp, close to one of their carts. Before Boromir could think of the root of this disturbance, he felt with his whole body a sensation that caused a burst of hope in his chest: a deep, reverberating through the earth, unmistakable vibration of hoof beats.

Boromir let go of the dagger’s grip and yanked his body, which, with the dagger still stuck in the ground, caused the sack to rip open. He peeked through the tear: the orcs were crowded on the other side of the camp, bracing for a fight, preparing to use two of their carts lined up as a barricade. He couldn’t see past the carts, but he could feel the vibrations grow stronger; they were now accompanied by the sound of hoof beats that seemed to resonate with Boromir’s very heart. It poured new vigor into his veins. He sat up abruptly, which caused the sack to rip even further, and emerged from the torn canvas, fully regaining his vision. He crawled towards the cauldron, and twisting his neck forcefully, he held his tied hands out close to the fire behind his back. His flesh sang with agony - muscles taut, tendons overstretched; his skin burned when the flames licked his leather gauntlets, but he achieved his goal: the rope that bound his wrists caught fire. He tugged at it forcefully and it gave way, knots coming unraveled momentarily by the flames. He bit his cheek to stifle a cry of pain, but was not afforded any time to examine his singed armor nor the burns underneath it, for the Riders of the Mark descended upon the orcish camp in that moment like an angry tornado, and it was all Boromir could do to scramble from under their hoofs to avoid getting trampled.

The orcs started shouting in Dark Tongue and hacking blindly at the Men with their crude weapons - vicious giant scimitars and heavy war hammers. Boromir used the commotion to stand up and disentangle from the remains of the sack and the ropes. He wasn’t much help in the fight without his sword, that could not be located among the wild tangle of orc, horse and man. He prayed to the Valar that none of the goblins would remember him and think to strike him down before he could make an escape, but the orcs, who evidently held a vendetta against the Rohirrim and were eager to meet them in battle, paid him little heed. Avoiding errant blows, he picked up his dagger from the ground and looked around in search of any other weapon he might claim for himself.

The battle was in full blow. The Eored counted about a score of warriors, and as many horses. The Lords of the Mark evidently had had some practice with raiding similar orcish camps, as they were making short work of this one. The carts had only served to slow them, but had not prevented the riders from invading the encampment, and the space around the fire pit was crowded with Rohirrim on their horses trying to skewer orcs on their long pikes from above. The orcs in turn would either try to knock the riders down, or they would attack the animals directly - a bad move on their part, for one would be hard pressed to find braver and more formidable opponents than the steeds of Rohan. Any goblin that tried to come at one of the chargers would inevitably end up with a horseshoe in their skull.

Suddenly, a loud thud to the right alarmed Boromir. He spun and saw one of the riders fall to the ground. The young warrior's plate got cleaved in two by one of the orc’s ugly hatchets, rivulets of blood sprouting from the wound in his chest. The goblin that had attacked him now raised the hatchet and readied for the final blow that would have finished the effort - but for Boromir, who readily jumped the monster from behind, with a knife to its neck. He felt the warm juice flow through his fingers and pushed the blade in deeper. The orc tried to shake Boromir off his back, but he was too late - already he was gurgling and gasping for his last breath, and swaying on his knock-kneed legs. Together with Boromir, the two of them toppled to the ground, right beside the wounded rider. The goblin uttered his last, blood-curdling shrieks, as Boromir was trying to disentangle his limbs and rise from the ground.

Unfortunately, another goblin, mayhaps the fallen one’s companion, rushed to Boromir to deliver swift retaliation, with his giant club raised and ready to strike. Boromir, whose right arm was pinned to the ground by three hundred pounds of dead orc, had nowhere to run and no way to shield himself. He was tempted to close his eyes, but he resisted, wanting to meet his death bravely, without flinching. Here ends my quest, he thought, as the world around him slowed down. He saw his attacker swing the club overhead; the mismatched plate that covered the orc’s torso rode up revealing the rippling, cording muscles of the orcish underbelly, as the warrior prepared to drive the club into Boromir with all the might in his robust grey body…

… at once, a blurry mass of hooves and plate slammed into the orc from the flank. He was knocked down and trampled, yelling and swinging the club blindly, until a well measured kick to the head silenced him for good.

“Bathor!” cried Boromir, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. Bathor stood proudly over his goblin victim and neighed at Boromir with self-satisfaction.

That was entirely too close, Boromir thought. Around them, the sounds of skirmish were slowly dying down, signifying that the Horse Lords had conquered the camp.

"Up you go," said a voice over Boromir’s head, and he felt the weight that was pinning him down lift. An outstretched hand appeared above him; Boromir took it and hauled himself upright.

“Hail Boromir of the White Tower,” said the rider who had helped him up. Boromir recognized his pointed helmet with horsehair crest as the sign of the Marshal of the Mark, but even without it, his voice was familiar and gladdened Boromir’s heart.

“Hail Eomer, son of Eomund!”, he said.

“Ever are the Lords of Gondor welcome in the King’s Folde, and Boromir first among them,” said Eomer, who seemed to be in high spirits, still in battle frenzy. “Even when he appears mid-fight, out of thin air, no less. We heard someone blow a mighty war horn in the morning, and we rode out, ready to aid whoever be in need. Yet, none of us expected we’d find you. Now I must know, whatever were you doing in this orcish camp, alone and unarmed?”

“Preparing for dinner,” said Boromir tersely. He was glad that he’d decided to blow the Horn of Gondor when crossing into the Eastmarch. “‘Tis true what they say, then, that when the Horn of Gondor sounds, her friends and allies listen,” he remarked. “I was on my way to Edoras, when I chanced upon this camp; you’ll hear all about it. But first - one of your men is gravely wounded,” Boromir turned and pointed to the unfortunate dying soldier. The young man was lying on the ground, bloodied and unconscious, and already the other riders were by him, wiping and tying his wounds. Eomer knelt down by the man and beheld his pale face. His brow grew heavy.

“Reinmar son of Reinhold. You fought bravely,” said Eomer. “Bema guide you,” he invoked reverently. “I fear he is past hope,” he added once he stood up. “Eorlingas! Build a pyre! We cleanse this place and then we take our fallen brother back home!” he bellowed. The riders of the Eored were already busying themselves with piling up the dead goblins and all the filthy remains of the encampment in one place. Eomer once again turned to Boromir.

“Your horse fought well too,” said Eomer. “Valiant Bathor, Rohan welcomes you back,” he addressed the horse, who wouldn’t leave Boromir’s side ever since the skirmish had ended. Boromir couldn’t help but smile, despite the loss of the young rider’s life still weighing on him. That Eomer remembered the name of every horse that had ever come out of Theoden King’s stables, and could greet each of them as an old friend, never failed to astound him.

“Aye, that he did,” he agreed readily. “I’d be orcish marmalade by now if not for him. Best boy in all of the Western Kingdoms,” Boromir patted Bathor’s head.

“I’d say he deserves a good night’s rest in Aldburg’s cozy stables, and a sack full of Rohan’s best oats,” said Eomer. “And we deserve some mead.”

***

The Eored did not talk much on their way back to Aldburg, and they reached their destination just as the sky began to blush. Even in the best of years, compared to Minas Tirith, or even to Edoras, the town of Aldburg wasn’t much to behold - two dozens of wooden houses and several shops crowded around a few cobbled streets. The settlement served as a commercial center and the lonely guard to the farm fields that stretched far and wide around the fortifications. Now the town seemed to Boromir even more empty and quiet than he remembered. The main street led to the Hold, where Boromir headed with Eomer’s men, while Eomer himself went to return the body of the fallen rider to his kin. The castle consisted of a walled courtyard with two watchtowers and the well maintained stone Keep. Boromir beheld the old fortress that had once served as the seat of Eorl the Young. Out in the courtyard, the Men of Rohan busied themselves with their chores - mighty warriors in their prime, tending to their horses and their weapons, just as it had likely been in the times of the First King. Boromir left Bathor with the stable hands and followed Eomer’s lieutenant Eothain into the Keep, to clean himself and have some refreshments.

No sooner had Boromir finished the supper of bread, sop and cold cuts, that the Lord of Aldburg returned to the Keep. Boromir had known Eomer since the latter had been a lad with a loose tooth and scraped knees, barely able to lift a shield. In fact, Boromir distinctly remembered several occasions on which he, along with Theodred and Grimbold, had tutored young Eomer on footwork and proper defensive stances, during Eomer’s years as a squire.

"I see you have been fortifying Aldburg," Boromir said, when Eomer approached him in the hall of the Keep. "Though ancient, the Keep holds strong. The masonry is in excellent condition."

"Aye. We spared no expense," said Eomer proudly.

Boromir also remembered that the House of Eomund had a daughter, a wispy yet fierce young thing, that would follow Eomer everywhere and try to fight men twice her height with swords thrice her weight. The people of Rohan valued bravery and battle prowess, and took great pride in warcraft. Boromir knew that, in the ages past, some of the Ladies from the House of Eorl would choose to train as shield-maidens. He had often wondered if little Eowyn would follow in their steps one day. Only, she is likely not so little anymore, he thought. After all these years that I’ve been absent, she will now be a woman in her prime.

"Is the Lady of the castle present?" he asked.

"My sister dwells in Meduseld nowadays,” said Eomer calmly, even though his face tensed up. When Boromir said nothing, Eomer clarified. “She bears great love for Theoden King. Our uncle requires care in his old age."

"Old age?” Now Boromir could not halt himself and spoke out in surprise. “Mine own father has nigh to a score of years over the King, yet he would allow none to dote on him!”

“Aye, that might be true that the Steward has weathered more winters, but his must have been kinder than my uncle’s. He has been infirm of late, and very jealous of his health.”

“Has aught unfortunate befallen the King? An ailment, or a misadventure, Valar preserve?" asked Boromir. He had long harbored filial sentiments towards Theoden King, and was now struck with guilt. I ought to have at least written to him and inquired about his health once in all those years, he thought with self-recrimination.

"I wish I knew," said Eomer, leaving Boromir still somewhat puzzled and very worried. "Come, Boromir,” he said, aiming to change the topic. “We ought to stand vigil by Reinmar's bier tonight."

Boromir felt tired and discouraged after the day's adventures, but he wouldn't disrespect the Rider who gave his life to liberate the orc camp. Together with Eomer they left the stronghold and passed through the evening streets of Aldburg. Reinmar’s home was lit and its door opened wide, inviting any who wanted to pay their respects to the fallen warrior. Several men were standing vigil out on the street, and once Boromir and Eomer entered the house they saw even more mourners crowded inside. The body of young Reinmar, already cleansed and dressed in finery, was laid out on a makeshift bier. By it stood a young woman, her cheeks tear-stricken, but her head held proudly up. She carried a tyke on her hip, who was also crying and clutching her neck. On the other side of the bier, a young lad lamented the departed by intoning a sad dirge.

"Lord Eomer!" exclaimed the grieving woman, interrupting the chant.

"Hail, Léofdis" said Eomer. "We are come to honor your departed husband. May he ride in Bema's hunt."

"Lord Boromir," said Leofdis, turning to him. “Yours was the hand that killed the one who took my Reinmar's life, as I was told. That is a kindness you did to my son, as his would now be the duty to avenge his father, despite his young age. I thank you."

Boromir was moved by this display of magnanimity. Truly the people of Rohan are pure of heart, to greet death itself with such grace and dignity, he thought.

"May your noble husband rest in peace and with honor," said Boromir. “He died bravely, and may have very well saved my life.”

"I shall take solace in that, when there is little to be had," said Léofdis.

She intoned another dirge, pathetic and heart-wrenching. Boromir listened to her hypnotizing song. It appeared to him as if even the flames of the numerous candles lit by the bier flickered to its rhythm, casting long, trembling shadows of the gathered mourners on the chamber’s walls. After the sad song, Léofdis opened a cask of mead, and everyone present drank of it, toasting the departed - only then did Boromir finally get that cup that Eomer had promised on the road. The vigil lasted for hours afterwards; Eomer and Boromir stood by the bier with the others and listened to the tales and the singing, and once the midnight oil had been burned, they returned to the Keep in sombre silence.

A sturdy bed with fresh linens had been prepared for Boromir in the Keep’s barracks. Going to sleep next to the other warriors would be a comfort, he decided, as he would not relish solitude on such a night. The kinship felt with the Riders of Rohan contented his spirit.

"I will see you in the morning," said Eomer. "We will go to the Golden Hall together. I must report to the King about our recent battle, and you should seek out Theodred. He and Elfhelm have been battling Dunlendings in the Gap of Rohan for some time now and I imagine he has much to tell you.”

***

On the next day, Boromir and Eomer left Aldburg early. They were traveling with several of Eomer’s men, Eothain among them. The White Mountains towered on their left, and the seemingly unending meadow and the open sky of the Folde enveloped them. Here and there, they would pass farmhouses and hamlets - they were now approaching the very heart of Rohan, and Boromir suspected that, here at least, his journey would be safer than on the borderlands of the Eastmark.

Eomer was in a better mood than on the day before and considerably more chatty.

“Tell me, Boromir, what do you seek in Edoras?” he asked, as they rode on. “If you’ve come to seek allies, to recruit men to fight the Enemy in the East, I fear you will not win them easily.”

“Why?” asked Boromir, incredulous. “Have the Men of Rohan forgotten their friends in Gondor?” He would sooner believe in Mordor freezing over than in the Sons of Eorl forsaking their oaths.

“Friends to Gondor we remain,” said Eomer, not a little indignant at the accusation, “and yet we have to first and foremost protect what is ours. Uneasy times for Rohan are coming.” The Marshal’s face darkened.

“Aye, you do not have to tell me,” said Boromir. “It is the same in my homeland. Goblins on the prowl, towns and farmlands abandoned… Even Aldburg, the seat of your House, I have found much changed - once a place of bustling commerce, now more akin to a military base.”

"I have been fortifying the whole of Eastmarch,” Eomer admitted. “It's all we can do to weed out the orcs and the bandits from Dunland, but they keep appearing like mushrooms after an autumn rain. Most of the farmers have evacuated."

"To where?" asked Boromir “To the Folde? Or to Edoras?”

“To Dunharrow,” said Eomer.

“To the mountain fortress?” Boromir exclaimed. “Is it truly so dire? Surely while Minas Tirith and Cair Andros yet stand, Edoras cannot fall?”

"You are thinking of the threat of Mordor, like many with you," said Eomer with pain in his eyes. "Yet it is not Barad Dur that has me worried - it is Orthanc.”

"Orthanc!?" exclaimed Boromir. "It cannot be! Though I harbor no great love for the White Wizard, long has he been a friend to Gondor and other tribes of the Men of Numenor."

Eomer scowled.

"Yes, I have heard that already, from my uncle and cousin alike. We have had no overt signs of hostility from Isengrad so far, they say. And yet, in my very bones I feel it, the tides have changed.” Boromir noticed Eomer’s fists tightening about the reigns. “Saruman the White is arming for some secret ill-doings. The weapons that the goblins lug on their carts are Orthanc-forged.” He sighed. “Theoden King will sadly not heed my counsel in this. And you know how Theodred is."

“Aye.” Boromir knew Prince Theodred and his constant nature. In contrast to the hot-blooded Eomer, Theodred, with his diplomatic inclinations, was unlikely to throw accusations or see hostility where there had been none previously.

“I am hoping the news from Gondor that you bear shall serve to open their eyes to the direness of our situation,” said Eomer. “And about that, you never answered my first question - what is it you came here seeking?” he turned on his horse to regard Boromir with renewed curiosity.

“I seek only a safe passage through the Gap of Rohan,” said Boromir. “The Lord Steward entrusted me with a mission, and for this reason I must reach the Old Arnor.”

Eomer looked like he wanted to ask more questions about this secret quest, but he must have sensed that its nature was delicate, and, perhaps for the presence of Eothain and the other men, he refrained from further inquiries. Instead, another matter captured his focus.

“You mean to climb the hills of Dunland and traverse the ancient woods of Edenwaith with Bathor as your steed?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Boromir. “Why should I not? You said it yourself, yesterday: Bathor is valiant and has ever served me well!”

“Aye, that may be - during grand battles! As a cavalry horse, part of an entire rank of other riders,” said Eomer. “To brave the wilds, you need a steed that isn’t easily provoked, that is cunning and effortless to guide.”

Boromir knew that when a Man of Rohan offered advice on horses, a wise Man of Gondor listened. Bathor, on the other hand, yanked his reins and stomped his hoof, neighing in indignation at Eomer’s words.

“Peace, Bathor!” said Boromir. “Let it be known far and wide that you are plenty cunning and stout of heart!” he declared.

Eomer laughed at the horse’s antics.

“Nay, Bathor,” he said. “None would ever dare to suggest that you are slow-witted,” he amended, which served to appease the proud stallion.

“'Tis true what Eomer said, that you love the open fields much more than woodland paths and rocky passages,” said Boromir. “Though, I am loath to part with Bathor.”

Such was their chatter for most of the way. They dined in one of the roadside taverns, then admired the view of Edoras, as it first appeared from behind the Ironsaw Mountain, and as it grew bigger and more splendid with their approach. Boromir let Bathor drink from the Snowburn. Must be like tasting mother’s milk again for him, he thought, for he knew that Bathor would graze on the grasslands surrounding Edoras and drink from the icy river in his foal years.

“Ah, Bathor,” Boromir said when they passed the hallowed Barrowfield, “you are home again and I am among brethren.”

And yet, the ‘brethren’ did not welcome Boromir and Eomer with overmuch cheer at the gate. This was a change from what Boromir remembered from the time of his frequent visits to Edoras in the past, when the guards at the gate would greet him as a celebrated guest. What did you expect, when you have been absent from so many years? he gave himself a light reprimand. But he found it hard to dwell on his disappointment, when the Golden Hall glinted invitingly in the afternoon sun and he was momentarily overcome with a new wave of warm nostalgia.

Together with Eomer they climbed through the meandering street uphill on their horses. Despite Boromir’s cherished memories that readily lent color to all things around, not everything in Edoras was as he had remembered it, either. The burg had lost some of its glow in his absence. The local folk seemed downtrodden and dreary, the houses weren't as clean as they had used to. Could it be that the people of Rohan have lost their pride? His initial enthusiasm at being back gave way to creeping sadness by the time they reached the summit.

The crown jewel of Rohan, Meduseld - the Golden Hall, towered now over them. How many times in his youth had Boromir climbed up the stone steps, only to be met with Theodred’s warm embrace, and greeted as a friend by Theoden King? He would inquire after the health of the Princess; on a good day, he would even be allowed to meet her and escort the Lady on a walk around the Hall. Countless nights had Boromir passed under Meduseld’s golden thatched roof, drinking mead with the King and his family.

And yet the Hall’s doors, with their heavy wrought-iron hinges and weathered wood carvings, that Boromir had always, in the past, found wide open, akin to a mother’s arms beckoning a child, were now closed. In front of them, two guards were stationed, as had ever been the custom. Only this time, the men did not look like they had been put there just for the sake of appearances. An even greater shock came, when Boromir and Eomer approached the door. Boromir had thought they would be readily allowed to enter, and yet the guards made them wait, as one of them went to fetch someone.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Boromir. “Surely the Marshal of the Mark is allowed to enter the King’s Hall?”

Eomer only shook his head, resigned.

“This is a new edict of the King - all must be first questioned who come knocking, no exceptions,” he said. “Better just wait -” But he was cut off by the door opening, and out came Hama, the captain of Theoden King’s guard. Boromir knew him well, and was pleased to see him in good health, even if the years had sprinkled Hama’s temples with more silver.

“Who comes here?” the doorward asked solemnly.

“Eomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, and Boromir of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower,” Eomer answered. Boromir elected not to comment any further on the new closed door policy. I am a guest here. I would be amiss to put my nose into Rohan’s internal affairs, he thought. Only after hearing their names announced according to the new custom did Hama’s face lighten.

“Lord Eomer! Lord Boromir!” he spoke with candor. “Your arrival gladdens me, as it is sure to gladden the King,”

“We shall see,” Eomer muttered darkly, so quiet that Boromir barely caught it.

“Enter in peace,” said Hama, and pushed the door wider for them, allowing them a passage.

The Golden Hall took its name from its outside appearance - made entirely of Firien Wood’s hallowed oak timber, thatched with the straw mowed from Rohan’s grassy plains, it would blaze golden under the sun’s caress. The Hall’s real treasure lay inside, though. The walls, the wooden supporting beams, the floor, and even the stone fire pit had been decorated over the centuries by the hands of Rohan’s most talented artists and craftsmen. Its carvings, paintings, tapestries and mosaics depicted the history of Eorl’s people and everything they held dear. The silhouettes of the Horse Lords of old would ever dance, and chase, and battle, animated by the flickering flames of the central fire pit and the numerous torches that bathed the Hall in their warm glow. It made for an almost religious experience, and it had never failed to render Boromir awestruck upon entering the chamber. Never until now, it seemed, for this time the Golden Hall did not seem to Boromir all that golden.

The hearth at the center was dead, with only mounds of cold ash remaining where the fire had used to burn. The hall was illuminated only by the bluish light falling through the louver in the roof and the small windows high on the eastern wall. The air was foggy with incense smoke and dust lingering in the air, which completed the eerie, chilling ambiance. The masterpieces of Rohirric arts and crafts remained covered by the heavy shadows lingering about the chamber’s corners. The Hall was empty of people, save three: Theoden King, sitting, or rather - slumping, upon his throne, a tall, handsome Lady clad head to toe in white, and a third man dressed in all black, whom Boromir had never met before.

"Hail, Theoden King," said Eomer as he bowed before the throne. "Your servant Eomer greets you. I bring with me Boromir of Gondor, who is seeking hospitality in your Kingdom."

"Hail, Theoden King," Boromir echoed and bowed before the King as well.

"So you have come to me, at last, Eomer," spoke the King, his voice feeble, but with a stony undertone. "A long time has passed since your prior report,” he remarked.

“I have been keeping busy, Sire, with defending the Eastmarch,” said Eomer and bowed again. The King ignored him.

“Longer still since last the son of Denethor has graced these Halls with his presence,” he said. Boromir perceived the jab and had the conscience to feel sufficiently chastised. “Rohan welcomes you, Captain of the White Tower."

Standing before the throne allowed Boromir to assess the monarch’s health for himself. Theoden King appeared much changed. He was bent and dourly clad, with his once bright face now overshadowed with a frown and obscured by a tangled beard. But the greatest change appeared to be in Theoden's manners. Boromir had always known the King as an energetic, jovial man, generous and kind to all guests, cordial with his family. The cool distance, the underhanded remarks - this did not agree with Theoden King’s character, and yet…

“Theoden King,” Boromir began. “None is more saddened by my long absence from Edoras than I, and none more happy to be standing here again,” he said. “I bring with me dark tidings from Gondor, and I humbly ask for a safe passage through the Gap of Rohan for myself.”

“Aye, aye!” said the King. Ha waved his hand impatiently. “You may respite in our Guest Hall, then pass and be on your way.” This felt an awful lot like a dismissal. Theoden did not appear at all concerned with any news from Gondor that Boromir might relay.

Boromir was shocked. This was the first time that he’d been greeted so curtly in the Golden Hall. In the past, Theoden King would invite him to his private chambers, where they would discuss in detail the state of Gondor's affairs, the Steward's health and Boromir’s present tasks. He would also be given accommodations in Meduseld proper, with the King’s family. Relegating him to the Guest House was a new development, one of which Boromir was hard pressed to figure out the meaning.

“My Lord,” the white Lady spoke out. “Allow me to escort Lord Boromir to his chambers and see to his needs in your name.”

Boromir had guessed the dame’s identity immediately, though reconciling her present image with his memory proved more of a challenge. Young Eowyn, sister to Marshal Eomer, as Boromir had remembered her, had favoured boys’ attire, and would wear her hair tightly pleated around her sun-bronzed, perpetually scrunched visage. Now, standing on the dais tall, in all her womanly glory, with the cascading hair catching any sparse light and creating a halo around her, she made for a study of contrasts. Her skin was clear, and yet unnaturally pale, her face as gentle as it was unresponsive. The youth that adorned her seemed eclipsed by burdens beyond her years. A sad and pathetic image she made, and Boromir's heart was gripped with grief. She had used to be a cheerful child, always so eager to meet and greet him. Now - nothing save the barest nod of her head signified she had even noticed his coming. Boromir was tempted to yank her from the gloomy Hall, which might as well have become her tomb.

“Yes, go, sweet daughter. See to our guest, if it be your will, and return swiftly to me,” the King allowed. “Eomer, you shall stay. There are things we must discuss in private,” he ordered, and Eomer once again bowed in acquiescence.

The Lady moved, yet as she descended the dais, another voice spoke out - an oily, whimpering opposition, the source of which Boromir had at first some trouble placing.

“Be this strictly wise, my Liege,” questioned the advisor, to whom Boromir paid little attention until now, “to let the sweet Lady go alone with the foreign Lord? Could not some ill fortune befall her, away from our watchful eyes?”

This insinuation outraged Boromir. Beside him, he saw Eomer also bristle, and lay his hand on the pommel of his sword, Guthwine. Boromir’s first impulse was to challenge the impudent to a duel. How dare the lowlife suggest that he, Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, could ever allow, or worse yet - cause any injury to a dame in his presence? This could not stand! Only the advisor’s measly stature and the lack of any weapons on his mean person, which would make for a rather uneven match, stayed Boromir’s hand.

“Mark your words, sir!” he warned instead, but, as it turned out, he need not have worried, for he found an equally staunch defender in the Lady herself.

“A sad day would it be for our Kingdom, indeed, and cause for much shame,” Eowyn declared coldly, not even gracing the advisor with a glance, “on which, instead of a soft bed and a warm meal, our noble guest would be met with cowardly mistrust and discourtesy.” The advisor winced and blanched. The Lady’s disdain wounded him more severely, it seemed, than Boromir’s iron ever might.

“You may leave,” said the King, and that was apparently all he was going to contribute to the matter. Deeply saddened, Boromir bowed.

“Come, my Lord,” said Lady Eowyn and passed him, swishing her white gown. “If you would follow me.”

They came out of Meduseld, into the last light of the day. As they descended the stone steps, the Lady addressed him again.

“I beg you, my Lord, do not take my uncle's manner as a slight meant for you,” she said, and looked to Boromir solemnly. “No one, save for the Crown Prince and I, has been allowed to reside in the Golden Hall for some moons now. The King’s health has unfortunately worsened, of late. It has made him reclusive and less trusting." Lady Eowyn's words were measured but even Boromir could tell her distress ran deep. “Believe it, he is glad for your coming,” she offered.

“Do not trouble yourself on my account, Lady,” Boromir said. “I am, and I shall ever remain, a friend to the King your uncle, and to your people.” Lady Eowyn nodded, thankful. “That advisor, however, is, if you’ll allow it, a right piece of work.”

“Oh, I allow that and much more,” Eowyn bristled. “Grima son of Galmod, he calls himself, though good old Galmod must be turning in his barrow for all his mischief. Ever since Grima became an advisor, he has sown only discord and worry among the court.” She sighed. “But, he is very attentive towards the King. My uncle came to rely on him greatly in his infirmity, so all of us must suffer the wretch.”

“If I may, Lady,” said Boromir, “you did not strike me as particularly long-suffering when you had told him off.”

The Lady smiled privately, at that.

“I have my ways,” she said.

Though she made light of it, Boromir marvelled again at the burdens that young Eowyn had to shoulder daily.

"I laud your spirit, Lady. I hope it never dims," he offered, and admired the first tinge of colour that dawned on Eowyn’s face in response.

The Guest Hall was a spacious wooden building, with stone foundations and decorative carvings on the walls, erected in the vicinity of Meduseld and the King's Stables. Boromir followed Lady Eowyn through its well lit main chamber with several rows of wooden tables and a big fireplace with a stone chimney, to one of the adjacent suites meant for the guests. The Lady then ordered that a bath be drawn and a meal prepared for Boromir.

"The Prince my cousin should arrive shortly,” she said. “A patrol in the Westfold must have delayed him.” Then she departed, bidding him a good evening.

The legendary hospitality of the Horse Lords did not disappoint. Boromir could not stifle a groan when he entered the steaming bath, feeling the flesh of his back and legs release the tension that had accumulated during the days spent on the road. He washed the highway dust off of his body and hair. Would that I could clear my head of all the worries just as easily, he thought. He realized that this might be the last time he got to enjoy a warm bath and a meal freshly prepared for him. Whatever awaited amidst the treacherous hills of Dunland, and among the ruins of the lost kingdoms of Arnor, he very much doubted scented oils were part of it.

Thoroughly refreshed, Boromir left his clothes to be cleaned and emerged from his assigned chambers. He was unprepared for how the sight of Prince Theodred, who had been sitting by one of the tables in the hall, and now stood up to greet him, would affect him. When the bath had lightened his body, Theodred’s embrace eased his mind.

Boromir and Theodred had been friends since childhood, acquainted at an early age during one of the formerly frequent diplomatic visits between Gondor and Rohan. They weren't exactly kindred spirits. Theodred was a calm and reticent man; he often had a mollifying influence on Boromir. It had been the similarities between their circumstances, and their shared lot in life that had made brothers of them. There used to be a time when they would correspond daily. Now, as statesmen and warriors, they had less time to continue with the frequent letters, but Boromir knew that it had not diminished the honest regard in which they held each other.

"Welcome," said Theodred.

“It has been too long,” said Boromir. Tears nearly choked him, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “I almost forgot how your face looks,” he resorted to humour. “I certainly don’t remember it being so long.”

Theodred released him and frowned, regarding Boromir earnestly.

“Your brow is also marked by worry,” he said. “If the unrest brewing in the East has clouded the sky of Rohan, then Gondor has been weathering violent tempests for years now because of it.”

“I take it you have heard of Osgiliath?” Boromir asked, not really needing a confirmation.

“Aye,” said Theodred. “The waves made by the Great Bridge falling have reached Rohan in the end.” Boromir frowned. Theodred's words and manner seemed to indicate at something hidden.

"The waves? What do you mean?" he asked. He saw Theodred hesitate, as if he were mustering the courage.

"There are tales of frightful Black Riders, among the people," said the Prince finally. "They have passed through the Wold, leaving despair in their wake."

"The Black Riders of Mordor?" Boromir gasped. He trembled even at the mamory of their last encounter. "Whither did they go? Do you know?" he asked urgently.

"They rode to the West," answered Theodred. "Beyond that, none here could tell you aught."

Wonderful, thought Boromir. They rode west, which is, coincidentally, where I am also going. This did not fill Boromir with much confidence. He had hoped that in Osgiliath he had seen the last of the Morgul Knights.

Some of Boromir's morose thoughts must have shown on his face, for Theodred made an attempt to lighten the mood.

“There are no Black Riders here at present, at least," he said. "Come, Boromir, let us sit in peace and dine together.”

Theodred signaled one of the serving girls, and they sat down at the table. Before long, platters laden with fresh bread and roast meat, along with two tall tankards of mead, appeared before them. For a time, they traded news as they ate. Boromir recounted the defense of Osgiliath and Gondor’s fortification plans. In turn, Theodred told him about the heavy trouble that the riders of the Mark were facing on their Eastern and Western borders.

“Of late, it feels as if Rohan was squashed between two hostile forces, Mordor and Dunland,” he said. “The White Wizard has made no move to help us during the last raid, nor have we heard any news from him for some time now.”

"Eomer seems to believe that Saruman broke faith with the race of Men," Boromir ventured.

"Aye, I have heard that," said Theodred. "Eomer has had his hands full, defending our eastern borders. Out of despair he gives way to such dark thoughts."

“You do not suppose there might be some truth to it?” asked Boromir. "You said it yourself, Curunir has allowed the Wildmen to cross the Gap and challenge you in his wake."

“The Eorlingas have never known Saruman to side with evil,” said Theodred. “I only wonder what he is doing, locked up in his tower like that."

"Mayhaps he is pondering his orb, or whatever else the Wizards be doing in their long hours," Boromir said tersely. In truth the situation wasn't funny. It's always something with the Wizards, isn't it, he thought. I sure hope there are no Wizards in Imladris.

"We have to hope Saruman will keep faith," concluded Theodred, "for I do not think we can challenge Mordor without his support. We shall try sending envoys to Orthanc, once the valley is cleared of the Dunland Men.”

To that, Boromir said nothing. He had his own matter to bring to the Wizard, as per the Lord Steward's instructions. And yet, could the old Curumo be trusted? The riddle of Saruman's alegiance rattled Boromir's mind in vain.

They finished the repast and then raised their tankards.

"Your arrival here gladdens my heart, Boromir," said Theodred and they drank together. "Only looking upon you brings to mind a happier time. I dearly hope it will serve to cheer up my Lord father, as well. Say, Boromir, will you stay for longer?”

At that, Boromir grew wistful.

"Would that I could,” he said with genuine regret. “Alas, I have to push on to the West as soon as I am able."

"You mean to go into the land of the Dunlendings? Now, so soon after the raid? Whatever for?" asked Theodred, mighty surprised.

Boromir looked around the crowded Guest Hall, which afforded for excellent company, but very little privacy.

"I shall tell you, but not here,” he said. “Let us walk to the stables, if you will. There is a thing I wanted to ask of you, anyway.”

Theodred agreed easily and the two ended their meal. They went outside, enjoying the warm air of summer night and full stomachs. Boromir afforded himself a minute to forestall his awesome tale and simply walk with Theodred. Edoras, the Golden Hall surrounded from all sides by golden fields, would during the warm months erupt after dark in cricket song so loud, that Boromir often wondered how the dead could slumber in the barrows amidst such clamour. The chirping of insects now served to cover Boromir's secrets, so that none save for Theodred could learn about the sword that was broken, his quest for Imladris, nor about Isildur's Bane. He recounted the dream and the riddle in full to his friend.

"Why would you need a sword that was broken?" asked Theodred soberly. "Wouldn't it be a disadvantage in a battle?"

"Doesn't sound very helpful, does it?" Boromir grimaced. "These visions are filled with such nonsense. Though, Faramir says it could be the lost sword of Elendil, if you can even imagine it. I suppose I won't know until I find this land of Imladris."

"I've never heard of it," said Theodred. The whole thing clearly perplexed him. "And what about the so-called Halfling? There are songs of Halflings from ages past, but I do not think anyone has seen a proper gnome in hundreds of years, if indeed they ever existed," the Prince mused.

"Let there be a Halfling, or even a flock of them, I care not," Boromir bristled. "It is the part about Isildur's Bane that has me worried the most. The lore is forgotten, the ancient scrolls misplaced or stolen. I find myself venturing in search of the Bane, not even knowing what it might truly be." Boromir fell silent for a while and felt Theodred's eyes on him in the darkness. "Do you suppose it is some terrible weapon?" he asked quietly, dreading the answer. "It must be, to have felled so mighty a King. Who will I have to fight for it? To what lengths will I myself have to go to secure it?"

The welcome weight of Theodred's hand settled on Boromir's shoulder, anchoring him to the present.

"Nothing good comes of guessing. Venture out, see the Bane for yourself, and only then decide the course of action," Theodred said, ever the voice of reason. "Tomorrow, I will see you off with my men. I have cleared the path west with Elfhelm's Eored, yet I cannot in good conscience let you travel through the Westfold alone, so soon after the raid."

"Very well," said Boromir. "Thank you for the advice and for your company." The words failed to encompass the depth of gratitude that he currently felt, but they would have to do. Their walk had taken them to the King's Stables. The light of torches spilled out from its open gate. The musty smell of animals that wafted from it had a calming quality.

"Let us go inside," said Theodred, "and make sure our horses are ready for the journey."

"Ah!" said Boromir, entering the stables after Theodred. "That is the very thing I wanted to ask you." They passed along the row of stalls, that housed the horses in the whole of Middle Earth. Boromir halted in front of Bathor's cubicle and opened it for Theodred's appraisal. "Behold my steed. What do you make of him?"

Theodred approached. Bathor snorted in way of friendly greeting and let the Prince pat his head.

"That is the horse you mean to take with you to Arnor?" Theodred wondered.

"His name is Bathor. He was a gift from your father," Boromir said defensively.

"Aye, I recall," Theodred nodded. "And do not mistake me; he is a fine steed, picked especially for you. But - a war destrier? In the wilderness?"

Boromir sighed.

"Eomer advised against it," he admitted.

"As he should!” exclaimed the Prince. Horses were the sole topic that could get him excited in no time at all. “Bathor can push through and trample, but will he find his way alone, in the wilds?” Throdred tutted and shook his head. “A lone rider on a treacherous terrain, with some need for stealth, as you will be, shall have more help from a lighter steed, with a shorter back and surer hoofs.”

Theodred beckoned him and they passed onto another stall.

"Here. Felar has been uneasy to venture forth for some time now,” he patted the horse’s neck. “He is nimble, wicked smart and easy to reign in. Should you get lost in the wilds, he can find his way home without mistake.”

Boromir heard the wisdom in Theodred's words. He knew better than to argue with the Prince of Rohan about horses. But Bathor was his friend, the only friend he had thought he'd be allowed to take with him to Imladris... Was he to part with all that were dear to him after all?

As if reading his mind, Theodred spoke further.

"Unused as he is to braving the wilderness, he might come to harm on steep mountain paths, or drown in a bog," he warned.

Sooner will I leave him behind than let any ill-adventure befall my friend in the Wild West, Boromir thought, and his mind was made.

"And what will become of Bathor?" he asked.

"I will take care of him personally,” offered Theodred. “When you come back, you can claim him again."

"Nay," Said Boromir. “Better you send him to Minas Tirith, with a rider and a missive for the Steward. I am not sure when I shall return, or indeed if I shall pass through Rohan on my way." He did not mention the possibility of him not coming back at all, because that in Boromir's mind wasn't a viable option - he was under oath. He had to keep it, or else Gondor would perish, and with her - dearest Faramir, and the Steward, and Derufin, and the beloved White City, and Rohan, and Theodred...

***

Despite the long journey that awaited him, sleep eluded Boromir that night. Ere the first rays of dawn he rose, got dressed and left the Guest Hall. His feet took him down, and down, seemingly of their own accord, through the languidly rousing city, through the gate, towards the Barrowfield that stretched outside of it. Covered in mist, the meadow appeared to him akin to the Sea, as it had been on calm summer mornings he’d spent in Belfalas as a child - with an archipelago of burial mounds of the Eorlingas covered in white bloom. Though the barrows looked nearly identical, even after all the years, Boromir had no difficulty seeking out the one that he had come to find. He waded in the mist until he stood before the sealed entrance to Princess Idis’s* tomb.

Not for the first time he wondered how his life would have been, had fair Idis had survived her illness and had they wedded. Would she have stayed in Minas Tirith, while he had gone off in search of Imlardis? Would he have left a child in Minas Tirith, as well? Or several small ones? He could hardly wrap his mind about the idea. Going to war would have been much harder, had he had a family of his own to orphan. Aye, but returning might be easier, he thought, remembering Celeg, so eager to be with his young wife again, and Reinmar, whose body had been washed, and dressed, and looked after by his kin. I should be glad, he thought, to one day return here, to Idis's barrow. It was easy to lay down his life for an entire nation - had something happened to Boromir, someone, likely his brother, would readily take over his duties. But who would have been a father to his children and a husband to his wife, in case of his untimely death? Do not think along those lines, Boromir, he told himself. First, you do not have a wife. And second, even now, there are people that would grieve you. His thoughts went once again to Faramir. Would they yet have a chance reconcile their wounded hearts?

Right then, Boromir felt a presence near him and turned around to see who had come. He blinked, wanting to dispel the remnants of sleep clouding his sight still, for the vision before him appeared taken straight from one of Faramir’s prophetic dreams. Here, among the buried bones of the Eorlingas, one of the great Kings of Rohan from yonder days marched through the mists - his brow solemn, his back straight and his step plenty spry. Boromir knelt before the Lord of the Mark.

“Rise, Boromir of Gondor,” said Theoden King. For it was Theoden King, and not Eorl the Young himself, as Boromir had at first guessed in his awestruck wonder. The proud, noble Lord that Boromir remembered from his youth, and that now stood before him, was an image so far removed from the dotard that had greeted him on the day before in the Golden Hall, that it left Boromir disoriented, with a vague sense of his mind reeling. “Though you already have a father to claim you, in my heart I still name you my son,” the King spoke further, unheeding of Boromir's inner turmoil. “And even so, even for all the love I bore for you, Death became my daughter’s groom before Boromir did, and this cold tomb became her alcove. A shroud in place of a gown. A dirge for a hymn. Where are Boromir and Theoden to find consolation, when all hope appears lost with the Ladies that we have loved?” Though the King’s face was clear again, his speech remained mournful and marred with despair.

“In the memory of their goodness and in the service of our Kingdoms, Valar permit,” said Boromir, his voice raspy from unshed tears. The deaths of Queen Elfhild and Princess Idis, while tragic, had fallen on the House of Earl years ago. And yet it appeared that to Theoden’s heart these wounds were as if fresh, opened anew and bleeding.

“Ha!” Theoden uttered a mirthless chuckle. “That was rightly spoken indeed,” he said. “The Steward has taught you well. Is that what you have come here seeking? The solace of her memory?” To that, Boromir said nothing, feeling his supply of wit depleted for the moment. “Tell me this, Boromir. Why is Gondor’s most valiant protector leaving her fields on the eve of a great battle?”

And Boromir almost told the King about Isildur’s Bane. Almost, for he saw in that moment, over the King’s shoulder, another figure approaching. A thin, mean silhouette, that appeared to be skulking even when traversing an open field on a bright morning. Boromir knew him - it was the advisor, Grima, that had offended him yesterday in the Throne Hall. A strange feeling of suspicion and ominous foreboding seized him. Do not reveal your true purpose, the spirits of the barrows whispered in the wind.

“In search of allies beyond Gondor and Rohan,” Boromir answered instead, which was true, but vague enough to conceal his quest for Isildur’s Bane. One day I shall tell Theoden King all about it. I shall tell him when my purpose is fulfilled, when he is himself again, and this dark malady of the spirit has abated in him, Boromir vowed.

Theoden sighed and his shoulders rounded.

“You will have to forgive this old man for not having been a better host yesterday," he said, regretful. "I lose my temper easily these days, it seems.”

"No harm done, my Lord," Boromir rushed to reassure the King. "I harbor only gratitude for you and yours." The King smiled. Over his shoulder, Boromir could see the advisor steadily clearing the field, heading in their direction.

"Thank you for not forgetting about her," said Theoden. "One child I have lost already. If aught happens to Theodred..."

Boromir almost choked on his own tongue, hearing that.

"My Lord!" he objected. "The Prince is in good health. Why say so?"

"My heart grows heavy with worries sometimes," said Theoden King. It seemed that his strenght was leaving him again. “Every time the Rohirrim ride out to battle, I get this vision of another burial mound sprouting from this hallowed ground…” Theoden’s eyes became glassy, as if he bore witness to some yet unheard of grim future, that only he could see.

"My Liege!" sounded an oily voice from behind the King. It was the man, Grima, who had finally reached them. "My Liege, you shall surely catch a cold if you are out this early! Be this Lord Boromir's doing?" he asked, throwing an accusing glance Boromir's way.

"I do not recall that we've been introduced," said Boromir coldly, indignant at Grima's continued impudence.

"Ah," Theoden sighed. "A more concerned advisor than Grima I could not have hoped for. But hold Lord Boromir blameless for my escapade - the thought was independent; I see it's folly now," the King rambled on, in every way now the dotard that he'd appeared yesterday. "A chill has overtaken my bones, indeed, I must hurry inside."

Was this how the mighty Theoden King spent his days, then? Cowering inside the golden walls, behind the closed doors? Boromir wondered this, as he watched the King and the advisor retreat towards the gate. I must allow an old man his eccentricities, he decided finally, more to reassure himself. Seeing what had become of Rohan, he felt all the stronger the import of his mission. Once again he made a vow to himself, to his father, and to the bones of Princess Idis, that he would not fail. Wherever you are, Lady, please, guide me and watch over the success of my quest, for much depends upon it, he prayed.

Trust your heart, and do not give in to despair, the ghosts of the barrows answered, or mayhaps it was just the wind. With a heavier heart, Boromir returned to Meduseld. Theodred awaited him by the stables.

***

Boromir and Theodred made good progress through the Westfold. It took them near to two days to reach the Fords of Isen - they sheltered for the night at a small riders' outpost, in one of the farming villages surrounding Hornburg. They whiled away the hours spent on horseback with idle banter, talking about this and that, just like they would in the old, much simpler times. It would be hard for Boromir to express how much that camaraderie meant to him, how blissful was it to hide in the illusion that nothing had changed, that this was just one of his many friendly visits to the Land of the Horse Lords.

And yet so many things were different. Theodred, for one, had ever been a solemn, thoughtful man, but now he came across as downright broody. In those moments when the Prince thought Boromir wasn’t paying attention, his face would become drawn and his eyes downcast, as if he were shedding a mask of good humour he only kept up for his friend’s sake. The March seemed eerily silent - abandoned in the wake of recent raids, as if the land itself held its breath.

And finally, the fantasy of a carefree country ride shattered completely, for when they reached the Fords and looked upstream, through the Wizard’s Vale, the sight of Orthanc, that stood proudly erect and seemed to dwarf even the mist-clad Methedras itself, made Boromir remember the Steward’s parting words. Seek out the Wizard Saruman on your way to the West. His father’s charge had weighed heavily on him even before, and caused some inner confusion, so he had not mentioned this design to Theodred on their way through the Fold. And now that he beheld the sight of Isengard’s walls glistening in the distance, a heavy and bitter dread entered Boromir's heart. He remembered the strange feeling that had seized him upon beloved Idis's grave, the bone-penetrating, ominous foreboding that nothing was in truth as it presented itself.

He decided then and there not to go to the White Wizard and to forgo his counsel entirely. He had promised his father he'd bring the Bane back to Gondor - and he would. However, how he went about it remained his concern. Boromir might not have been a strategist like the Steward, nor a clairvoyant like his brother, nor a wise man like Saruman, but even he could tell, after nigh to ten days of his journey so far, that some unforeseen powers were at play in this entire quest for Imladris, and he would do well not to tempt them. The Wizard's betrayal was unthinkable. And yet, to trust him fully was also an impossibility. He could not, he would not in good conscience appeal to Curumo as a friend. Ignoring his father’s advice sat ill with him, as it ever had in the rare cases where he had not heeded the Steward’s word in the past. Yet, a strange thought occurred to him: Perhaps by not going to Saruman when his allegiance remains untested, I am indeed protecting my father, and Gondor as well. But protecting from what? That, he did not know.

Theodred must have guessed that Boromir’s thoughts were heavy, for he had not intruded upon Boromir’s brooding and only spoke up once Boromir looked to him, his dilemma finally resolved.

"This Ford is the limit of the Westfold,” said Theodred. “You are leaving the King’s Land behind and entering the Great Wilds. The Valar avail you, for none else will."

“What of Felar?” Boromir asked, rubbing the horse’s neck affectionately.

A rare glimpse of mirth chased through Theodred’s face.

“Aye, Felar shall aid you, so long as you do not slack off with his care.”

Boromir dismounted and took Felar’s reigns. Slowly, solemnly, he approached the Ford. He would not go to the Wizard, but neither would he cower from Orthanc’s sight. Nor from anyone or anything that might meet him in the Wilds. He unfastened the Horn of Gondor, inhaled a lungful of fresh mountain air and blew with all his might.

To Felar and Brego’s credit, the horses did not spook, though their ears twitched and Brego snorted loudly, clearly offended. Theodred, who had also dismounted, only shook his head, but knew better than to tell Boromir off for blowing the Horn.

"Theodred, Prince of the Horse Lords, from the bottom of my heart I thank you. And Gondor thanks you,” Boromir said, clasping the Prince’s arm. “We may not be brothers in blood, but we are brothers in mind and heart."

"So we are. Be safe, brother. And Boromir…" Here Theodred’s voice faltered wetly, so overcome he was with feeling.

"Aye?"

"I pray that you come back bearing hope for our people. It is long since we had any hope."

=======

* Princess Idis of the House of Eorl is JRRT’s own OC, not mine. In the initial drafts, Theoden King had two natural children: Theodred and Idis. Tolkien later either scrapped her parts or gave them to Eowyn. You can read about her on Tolkien Gateway (they cite Christopher Tolkien’s The Treason of Isengard). I used the discarded lore to give Boromir a more setting-appropriate backstory. It just didn’t make sense for an heir to the Stewardship, with such a controlling father like Denethor, to never have made even an attempt at courtship and marriage. Their engagement also adds to the reasons why Boromir was so well liked in Rohan.

This part of Boromir's journey ends here. See you in other works!

Cover image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you so much! <3 I want to also thank Ecthelion again for the helpful Middle-earth history corrections.

#[arda]#boromir #[wandering birds]#ass deep in demons #theodred #eomer #theoden #grima wormtongue #hama #eowyn

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