#parental boromir

[ao3statistics]

Lord-of-the-Rings-Event Week: Day 1: Boromir

Welcome to my LotR charts event!

Date of creation: 10.05.2024

He's supposed to live! Case closed I guess.

I assume no guarantee or liability for the completeness, correctness and accuracy of this chart despite my best efforts.

Includes fanfictions in all languages available on Ao3, NOT English only.

This sounds cute btw but also weirdly specific?

More charts will follow. :)

Want to have a chart for different pairings, headcanons etc. in your favourite fandom? Send me an ask!

[shirefantasies]

LoTR Characters + Pregnant Reader (Wife!Reader)

Back with more parent AU because it's some of my favorite fluff! Consider this a Part 1 to an anon request that’ll be on its way hehe (also an AU where something happens with Celebrían apparently 😥)

Warnings: conception, pregnancy-related illness and symptoms mentioned, very long post lol

Aragorn

✧ Neither of you had made any concrete plans. No set in stone hour of your marriage reserved for the growth of your family or dubbed too early. Thus, you are unsure how your husband will feel about your news, the fact that you got yourself checked out the first moment of illness, mother's intuition in full service already, it would seem. You cannot keep your smile to yourself, though, as you stroll in search of Aragorn, hand hovering about your own waist as if in disbelief. He had just returned from a hunting trip when you found him, smiling shakily at his amusement when you pulled him immediately aside into the next room over. "What troubles your heart?" The man had intuition of his own, years of silent observation- there was no lying to him. "I just learned that I am with child, Aragorn," you took his hand, seeing no point in being anything but direct, "due for the birth next spring if all goes well." "With blossom comes the next blessing of my kin," your husband replied, that wise look in his blue eyes causing you to shake your head fondly, "what could be more beautiful? What a gift you have given me and how could I ever repay it?" Shaking your head once more, you simply grinned and, sighing with relief and anticipation alike, replied that being the amazing father you know him to be will be all you need. Leaning forward, Aragorn laid his head against yours, brushing your noses as he held you.

✧ Looking out upon the kingdom, the realization that is is his kingdom still sinking in, and that he has made this place a home for new life as well. That this is the very reason he fought for a safe world. It brings such a rush to his heart that he goes off in search of you at once, kissing you warmly and caressing your still-small bump.

✧ Aragorn loves doing anything he possibly can to make your days easier, treating you like the queen you quite literally are! He pampers you with treatment like massages, washing your hair for you, drawing you baths, and the like.

✧ While you no doubt have many people at your disposal, quite similarly your husband enjoys cooking for you by hand and memorizes everything that makes you sick if anything as well as the random foods your cravings make you obsessed with, trying to creatively incorporate them into everything.

✧ You knew it already, but your pregnancy brings about the reminder that this man has such a way with encouraging words, his voice the only thing that cuts through the clouds of your changing moods.

✧ Aragorn is the one who tells you not to be so hard on yourself, that you are doing an amazing thing and you are desirable as yourself, no more and no less. No need to hide yourself, no need to perform, no need to feel anything less than the beautiful soul you have always been. Remember, he tells you, he is going nowhere, and you will endure all together.

Legolas

✧ For so long had you and Legolas hoped for your little life, long enough of trial and hope that you’d all but given up until you felt a shift. Felt on the brink of illness at nearly all times, seeking healing for a mystery illness and leaving with news that had your husband holding you for minutes on end, tears sliding down his cheeks, and refusing to let go of your hand all day. Holding you like you might shatter, his other hand wrapped gently around your waist where his hand can brush the curve of your soon-to-be-growing belly. “We did it, my love. We will finally be three.”

✧ Your husband grows wistful, getting a distant look in his eyes before smiling and reminiscing on his younger days. “What demeanor shall our little one have, do you say? I would not mind having two of you,” he teases, while you say a child like him would be much easier!

✧ “Both of your little ones sound quite healthy.” “Both?” You are shocked, but Legolas’s grin never falters, nor does his surprisingly tight, hearty grip upon your shoulders. “Twins,” he keeps repeating in wonder throughout the day.

✧ You and Legolas have a bet running on the twins, if they are to be identical or not. You think they are both boys, while Legolas thinks he has a little girl waiting for him, too. “Wishful thinking,” you tease him. “Absolutely,” he agrees, smiling softly at you.

✧ As time passes, he does tease you about your waddle. “Shall I slow down a bit?” Cheeky prince, but that’s why you love him!

✧ Legolas’s eyes never fix you with anything but awe. He is simply amazed at all the wonders your body is capable of and what it endures. Even though that wonder also manifests as him almost constantly asking if you are alright, it is worth it when your husband looks at you as though captivated by a goddess.

Boromir

✧ Boromir caught you with your eyes bulging out of your head, not a single chance of delaying your discussion. Such news as you have just received can only be considered a blessing, and yet you still are shaken to the core with the spiking precursor of excitement and hope, hope that your husband would be happy. Your words burst forth the moment he took your hands, asking you whatever was wrong and nodding faster and faster with each step of your detailed medical visit. His smile grew and grew until he could hardly help himself, taking your face in his hands and pulling you into a kiss that more than assuaged your worries. “Why do you look so worried? Such a wonderful blessing was beyond anything I could imagine,” he tells you, a hand reaching to rest gently upon you.

✧ He all but tackles you to bed that night, kissing again and again your lips, your cheeks, and down finally to your belly.

✧ Boromir’s appreciation of your body never ceases your entire wait. His hands always caressing you, his words always sweet upon your ears, especially to cut through the deprecating ones your own lips utter. It baffles your husband that you cannot see how utterly glowing you are.

✧ One hundred percent though will he be teasing you about the odd cravings you get; even as he goes to fetch them he’s making faces, asking if you’re sure, joking about what strange taste the little one has.

✧ You suspect you are carrying a son while Boromir’s guess is a little girl. After you remind him that a mother knows, he rests a hand over your bump and replies with a teasing grin “Why can’t a father know as well?” “Because you do not have to carry him for the better part of a year!”

✧ One of Boromir's favorite things in this world is the sight of how his lent garments fit you tighter and tighter, bringing a twinge to both the loving and the possessive sides of his heart...and his hands to wrap around you or cup your cheeks and pull you into a kiss!

Gimli

✧ His intuition is off the proverbial charts. It is he who first makes any mention of your chances, stating you should not strain yourself in your condition. You are confused, you even protest, but in the end you have your little appointment and your husband has a smug little moment of ‘I told you so’ before the realization of just what he’d been sensing hits him, dropping his jaw and sending his arms flying about you, lifting you up into the air with a hearty laugh. “The mighty line continues! And thanks to such a beautiful lassie no less! You'll want for nothing, I promise you, and no harm'll come to either of you while I yet draw breath."

✧ Has strong opinions about how well you should be eating, so barring you being stricken with sickness Gimli will be making or otherwise providing for you the heartiest of meals, all the things he believes are necessary to raise up a strong little dwarfling. Thank the fortitude and solace of his people, but you are sick very little your entire journey with this and all other little ones you share!

✧ Given the strength of dwarven genetics, you both assume that you are expecting a boy; thus, your husband insists on crafting a tiny axe for him. “For when he’s older, of course!” Gimli assures you, waving his hands defensively.

✧ No worries about your pregnancy weight here- suffice it to say that a dwarf finds the extra pounds quite appealing and has no hesitation about showing you such!

✧ Any exhaustion you feel is the only thing that stops Gimli from taking you around to all his friends and loved ones and likely anyone else who will listen and announce that he has a child on the way!

✧ Nesting is a very strong instinct of his! Gimli builds and crafts by hand all of your baby's furniture and decor, even an adorable mobile of horses, little dwarves with pickaxes, and little effigies of your favorite animal all dangling above his crib! Leaning his head against your belly, he asks the baby "Well, what do you think? Only the finest for my little flame!"

Frodo

✧ Your husband wasn’t sure at first. Not sure if he would feel whole enough after all he endured to bring a life into this world, but you, oh, you… The one who brought life vividly rushing back to his heart, color returning to his life and comfort to his pain. One day a pang struck his heart and he realized it would mean the world if after it all he was able to create life, and more importantly to have something so amazing come of your love. Soon after you both eagerly hoped for the signs, and it took but a few months. Frodo worried you would be sick, but confirmation comes after weeks without your cycle, nothing more. For once, no pain shall come to Frodo Baggins or those he loves.

✧ Your health is his greatest concern, so much so in fact that Frodo has soon befriended practically every midwife in the Shire, melting them with his endearing eagerness to know all he can about your possible afflictions and what you need. His concerns soon gather you the proverbial village of help should you ever send Frodo off for something beyond his breadth.

✧ It breaks Frodo's heart when his nightmares or moments of panic coincide with your own fragile emotions for the first time, for he should be caring for you, not the other way around, but when you hold each other, tears soaking into the opposite shirt, he realizes that what you two have is an understanding and trust strong enough to fortify each other even in darkness.

✧ In case you were not already aware, you are so lucky in your choice of husband! Discussing names soon emerges into your conversation and it almost takes you aback how quickly agreements on a girl and boy name are reached!

✧ The one time during your entire wait for your little one that brings tears to Frodo’s eyes is the day you bring home a bolt of fabric and when he asks what it is for, you answer to make him and your new arrival matching garments.

✧ You catch him smiling widely at you, love glowing in his bright blue eyes as he watches you do even the smallest things, your little waddle or the way you practice folding diaper cloth. All you can imagine is those same eyes fixed upon a babe in his arms, shooting Frodo the same look right back.

Sam

✧ It seemed that every other conversation you shared with your beloved Samwise revolved around babies, so much so that your few still-unmarried friends had grown sick of it. Anyone with a baby in the Shire, though, knew who to look toward for care! You and Sam gushed over little clothes, little hands, went on for goodness-knows-how-long about how much you'd like a little Sam and he wants a miniature version of the loveliest girl he'd ever seen followed of course by you saying why not both? Sam loved life so much, saw beauty in growth and creation and every joy in it, so of course he wanted a big family and all his infectious sunshine on the subject just made you fall in love with him more and more. Months of trying passed, though, before you came to Sam in a daze, before you cupped his precious face in your hands and whispered to him we did it. Before he tackled you to the soft grassy ground and held you, weeping tears of joy and kissing your hands, your cheeks, finally your lips once he'd spoken how much he loved you.

✧ Takes to sleeping a bit lower, his head nuzzled against your torso. In the night you can feel his nose and lips ghosting over it and even hear little whispers when you both can't sleep, but you say nothing, letting Sam have his moments with the little one.

✧ The worry he has about everything the first time around. "Are you sure you can eat that? I don't want you to get sick." "Is that too heavy?" "Don't trouble yourself a mite when I'm right here, I'll bend over for it." "Alright, only if you're certain nothing will happen to the baby, sweetheart." As much as you want to remind him that you are still a fully functional woman, you know that Sam is an action man and this is his way of showing he cares.

✧ The meals he cooks you. You will be eating like a queen all because Sam wants to keep the baby strong, of course! As a bonus, it truly is like he knows what sets you off and avoids those things without even having to ask.

✧ “Imagine all the wee feet running through here,” Sam muses in bed one night, your head tucked in the crook of his neck. “The little hands grasping ours,” you add. “All the little ribbons we can tie in a girl’s hair.” “Taking your little boy out to the garden!” Once again, your friends act positively sick of how sweet you are, but inside anyone can see how deliriously happy you and Sam are and feel warmed by it.

✧ “When the time comes,” Sam always assures you, your hand tightly in his, “I’ll be right here. Wild horses could hardly drag your Sam away.”

Merry

✧ Your reveal is made a bit anticlimactic thanks to your husband’s teasing ways. “You’re knitting.” Glancing down at your work, you simply nod. “Yes.” “You never knit.” Merry’s eyes narrow. “Is it for somebody?” “If you must know,” you set your needles carefully in your lap and tease back, “this is for your child. Any complaints now?” “My child?” Jaw dropping, Merry looks at you like you’d just offered him the whole of Middle Earth. “That’s right,” your voice softens, even cracking a bit with emotion at the sight of his smile, “you’re going to be a father, Merry.”

✧ Merry’s adorable little habit of making you a pillow pile to lay on during your time of the month carries right through to your pregnancy. And of course it continues even when you remind him you’ll not be able to stand up from in because he will be right there to help you up!

✧ Because you've taken up knitting, Merry wheedles with all his charm and love and kisses an additional creation from you: a sweater made from the same yarn as baby's. "You are lucky to be so adorable," you tease him, looking up from your work to kiss his lovely lips. Maybe, you thought, a whole matching set for three would be in order, though…

✧ Another one who teases you, joking about how he is finally able to outrun you!

✧ The type of father to chastise the baby whenever they kick you too hard, lecturing to the front of your dress about hurting your mother and how that simply won’t do, then looking up at you with a humored smile.

✧ Compliments increase at least twofold upon your revelation, Merry never sparing the kindest words about your strength, certainly, but mostly your beauty. Never once during any pregnancy do you feel unloved, unwanted, unattractive, for even when your eyes can find no light within your reflection there your husband is practically worshipping every corner of your form.

Pippin

✧ Desire for a family was something that had drawn you two together as a couple, though you may have found yourself talking Pippin down from ten children! “Maybe start with five,” you would always tease him. So the moment your hypothesis is tested and confirmed, a grin you can’t remove spreads across your face and you run to collect everything for your surprise. Surprise is the only word you can use when Pippin opens his gift and sees the tiny knitted hat you’ve placed inside the box. “What is this for? Little small, is it not?” “If it was for us, perhaps.” It ended up taking you reaching out for his hand and resting it upon your lower belly for the massive grin to spread across his face, but once it does Pippin is laughing loudly and giddily, swinging you back and forth in ecstasy!

✧ Runs to get you whatever your need with barely an question. After all, who is he to say what it's like being with child, and if you want it, you shall have it. Hot water bottle? Certainly. A cup of tea? Of course. Three more pillows? Why, he'll strip your whole bed down. Panics a little if the request is to relieve pain, so prepare to hear a crash or the shuffle of a trip or two before you have the item in hand or on body.

✧ "What is this for?" "What are these?" Lucky you love him, your husband does have many a question of all the supplies you gather for after your new addition is welcomed. "Oh, to keep the hands safe? That makes sense." "Wait, you need to wear that... to catch the bloo- oh, my." He gulps. "I'm going out right now. I'm getting you a cake and some jewelry and some flowers and anything else you'd like."

✧ Can barely keep his hands to himself. Pippin was always the most affectionate husband you could ask for, but now? Now you two are practically a package set and nary can you travel without his arm around you, hand about your waist and gently running up and down over your little growing bump.

✧ Your baby seems to have inherited your husband’s personality, for even before the birth many signs of how active your little one is are present! Those poor ribs of yours will get kicked more than a few times with all the fluttering your little one stirs up inside of you! Pippin, of course, wants to feel it all and luckily he is never far from the scene. If he is, though, you bet he will run!

✧ Pippin is always laying with his cheek resting on your belly, talking to the baby about anything from how his day’s gone to how they have the most amazing and beautiful mother. Your heart can’t help fluttering every time.

Faramir

✧ Faramir has the most uncanny way of reading you like a book, a habit endearing as it is frustrating. Thus the moment he catches you smiling to yourself he is smiling back, approaching you with teasing question of what has you so happy. For once, though, you have the satisfaction of catching your husband off guard, resting your head against his shoulder and a hand upon his chest as you tell him you just cannot wait to see him as a father. "Someday, my love," he takes your hand and kisses it, "if I am so blessed." Giggling, you shake your head against him. "Blessed indeed! Someday shall be this fall," you answer, and peeling back from him you receive another spike of satisfaction at his wide blue eyes, the drop of his jaw and the race of his heart beneath your hand. "Are you certain?" You nod. This time, he takes both of your hands in his and with tears in his eyes thanks the heavens for you even as he shakily laughs, your bright demeanor never failing to put a smile upon his face. "Our child will be so loved." "I know."

✧ Your husband finds himself lost in reverie more and more often, drifting out of reality into some distant, but nowhere near out-of-reach, dream of your family, seeing you as a mother the most beautiful sight he can conjure.

✧ Faramir adores holding you from behind, his hands curled gently over where your bump forms and his head resting gently upon your shoulder, flowing hair tickling your cheeks and neck lightly.

✧ "One for each of us," is Faramir's joke when one of Gondor's finest medics grants you the knowledge that you are not expecting one child, but two. Your husband is there in the storms, the waves of anxiety rolling within you over being there for your twins. "You are not alone," he always reminds you, a hand joined with yours right over the twins' little hearts.

✧ If you wanted a husband who actually does his due diligence learning all he can about growing babies, birth, and postpartum care, then Faramir is another excellent choice! He’ll be spouting off facts about the whole thing ranging from what size the babies currently are to why you might have contractions after giving birth. Your mood determines whether you listen in or tell him to kindly stop.

✧ Just as with you, Faramir’s insecurities sometimes get the better of him, but they also fuel him, bringing a fire you can see to his fair eyes as he speaks with determination how he will love all his children equally.

Eomer

✧ Pride glows upon your countenance as you flit about the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the roast you'd made for dinner. A kingly feast is in order, for not only had you heard your husband performed exceptional drills this day, but you yourself are the host of something exceptional. Eomer and you have been enjoying each other's company much these days, so the news is not so much of a shock as it is a celebration, exuberance at a line enduring, two dreams fulfilled as one, especially for your husband, who speaks often of how he longs for a full, boisterous home. Six if he's lucky. Well, you can hardly wait to help him along, pulling Eomer into your arms for an enthusiastic kiss before he can even toe his boots off, and when he chuckles and asks what has taken hold of his beautiful wife you let your news fly. Shouting for joy with abandon, Eomer lifts you up into his arms bridal-style, kissing your lips again and again. Dinner is all but forgotten as he kneels before you, holding your waist and pressing kisses all over the bodice of your dress and thanking you for making his day, nay, his life, perfect.

✧ Eomer is always proud of you, but the moment he finds out you are with child that feeling swells and positively drips off of him, every outing with him suddenly seeming quite like a chance for him to show you off. An arm around you at all times, a smile of great joy and satisfaction, news shared to all who dare make conversation with you both, and even kisses in public! Eomer is simply on top of the world and not a thing will topple his spirits.

✧ As somebody who never much studied the workings of women, though, Eomer is… a bit out of his depth. You will have to teach him some things like why your emotions swing so or what to look out for to know when your water breaks. This man has been in battle, seen heads roll in the most literal sense, and yet when you describe the eventual passing of your placenta his entire face contorts in a look of horror that has you all but doubled over in laughter.

✧ “You look so beautiful with child,” Eomer purrs, “we’ll have to do this again sometime.” You smack his arm, but cannot resist giggling at the way your husband still gives you butterflies.

✧ Your new addition had not even arrived yet and Eomer is commissioning a child-sized saddle, unable to contain his excitement as he describes all their future rides to you!

✧ As you dream up names, Eomer has many suggestions from the great halls of his own people, ancestors and great warriors alike, but making considerations of your own background is equally important to him, so he is more than willing to go back and forth for the perfect solution.

Eowyn

✧ No one had thought it possible, but they should have known. Impossible was not in Eowyn’s lexicon, and that was exactly why you loved her, one part within many of why you became her wife. And now, the healer confirmed you were carrying her child. …Very well, technically her banner-bearer’s child as the two of you had been forced to get a bit creative, but to have support and help from those who had begun with such uncertainty meant the world. Even Eomer had come around, having offered similarly, but of course you had to remind him that Eowyn wanted a child of her own, not a niece or nephew! Without Guthláf’s, er, donation, you would never bear witness to the broad and beautiful smile on your wife’s face, the tears glistening in the gorgeous blue of her eyes. “A child…” “Our child,” you add, leaning forward until your foreheads touched and noses brushed, a tearful smile upon your own face as your wife gently held your waist.

✧ Having worked so many times as a nurse lends well at least to Eowyn, for she is firm and unrelenting in her urging, nay, forcing, you to rest. No ifs, ands, or buts are to be accepted from your strong-willed beauty, let her dote on you, for she does it with great pleasure. And besides, the harder you fight, the harder she'll work to keep you lain down.

✧ Understanding the pain and symptoms of your time of the month completely also translates; thus Eowyn is ready with remedies for your aches and pains, hot water and herbs awaiting you. She rarely snaps back at your moods, choosing to be silent in the worst of times because she knows. Really, she does.

✧ She cooks for you, and whether you say anything about that or not likely depends on how willing to hide your honesty behind the hormone excuse if it is not taken well.

✧ Reminds you constantly how strong you are. In your lowest of moments, the times you struggle to stand and straighten your aching spine, feeling massive and utterly useless, Eowyn is there to hold your hand and tell you that you are hosting and creating life as she so speaks. You have made the ultimate sacrifice of your body and the greatest of pain to bring just as great a blessing to yourself and your wife. Far from useless, you are divine.

✧ “What does it feel like?” Resting her head on her hand, the one that wasn’t lain against your fluttering belly, she questions you as the baby kicks. “For you?” Part of her wishes to have this experience herself someday, while another takes your descriptions with trepidation. She does not enjoy being restricted, after all.

Haldir

✧ “Lie down, please, my love.” Haldir’s concern with your sickness increased daily as did the pain of seeing you feeling so weak and ill. You tried to push through and for as much as he loved your strength, your husband was not having it this time. Pride was not worth seeing you doubled over again, whether from pain or, arguably worse, illness. You relented in the end, resting and beneath the spinning of your head at the end of the day feeling not a seed of energy to protest an inspection. Healing herbs had you perking up a bit, and perked up you needed to be when the dark-haired, round-faced healer nodded sagely and with a wide smile told you you were with child, and these early days were likely to be the worst. For the first time in days the sobs that escaped you were accompanied by a smile, your face utterly breaking as Haldir held you against his chest, weeping too and thanking you for all you would endure for this blessing.

✧ Physically carries you places as often as he can be spared to do so. Lifts you up bridal-style to move you across your home and sits you up before he feeds you. Your illness brings out a tender, caring side you have never seen in your strong, stoic husband, but it makes your heart swell that much more for him and for the life you two are to have with your child.

✧ Another symptom you experience is the aching and swelling of your feet, but Haldir sits you down facing him and makes the best work of them he can, hands gentle as always as they soothe your skin.

✧ Even in the later months as your illness abates, though, your husband remains protective as ever, standing between you and any potential harm with the fiercest look upon his face and a hand upon your middle, even if the threat is an object you’ve hurt yourself on.

✧ The way shock melts into a wide, ecstatic smile unlike your husband’s typical demeanor when the healer repeats that yes, she could definitely hear two heartbeats beside yours is worth more than any gold in the world. Haldir pulls you into his arms, chuckling deeply. You feel his head shake slightly, slowly, atop yours in wonder.

✧ When you sleep, Haldir will always be holding you close, whether it is an arm draped over your bump loosely if you’re hot or need space or else you fully tucked into your husband’s warm embrace.

Galadriel

✧ Galadriel is actually the one who assuages your worries that your dream will not come true, having full faith in you as much as the magic of this world. And she is right, of course, confidence proven in the aid you receive from a member of her guard and even the way she knows it to be true before the healer even confirms the news. As much as she jokes about seeing a glow around you, the width of her beautiful blue eyes, the shine therein, tells you that your wife is as elated to hear it beyond a shadow of a doubt as you are: you are hosting a little life for you both to nurture.

✧ You being pregnant only aids in her mysterious nature. She can be convening in a council with the wisest of minds from afar and will use you as an excuse to step away at her will. "If you will excuse me. My wife is with child." They are not even aware she is married. Some of them may not understand how it all works, but before they can ask any clarifying questions Galadriel has already slipped away to be with you.

✧ One tendency you unwittingly adopt is falling asleep in the oddest of places, your exhausted body giving out upon its own terms. Always will you wake up draped in one of your wife’s shawls or blankets, however, no matter how odd the spot.

✧ Both of you can hardly resist the allure of tiny garments, smiling every time you see them. It also rings a bell of realization within your minds as you hold a tiny gown up to your midsection. Truly as you speak, there is a tiny body within you! What magic it is to be a woman!

✧ What magic indeed, you later reflect as another pain strikes your back not long after. Hosting tiny bodies came with all the assorted blessings and curses of your kind, one not long without the other. Sighing, you make to approach the chaise across the room and soon your wife is with you, moving its drapes aside and lowering you gently to its cushions, a soothing hand tracing up and down your aching spine.

✧ "I hope she looks like you," you both turn to each other and say simultaneously, mothers' intuition firmly aligned in your hearts, from which so much love for each other pours from, Galadriel immediately drawing you closer to press her lips to the crown of your head.

Arwen

✧ Elrond had been quite hesitant about your relationship with his daughter at first- were you the best choice for her? Could someone like you keep her safe? And how, of course, would she be given the child she so desired? Questions you yourself had posed to her, but she refused to listen, telling you her mind, and heart, were sealed. Little do you know, however, that all of Rivendell would come to love you as their own, see and praise the way you cared for Arwen, and in Lindir’s case even provide the healers with a chance at you giving your wife the family you both yearned for. The moment you tell her the healers’ method worked and she is to he a mother, you both are, her features lighten, taking on the wondrous joy of youth again as she grabs your face, falling onto you with a kiss of pure love.

✧ So accusing if you've overexerted yourself, leaning in closer with a look of sometimes-teasing, sometimes-serious scrutiny. "Surely you did not carry that up the stairs all by yourself, right?"

✧ Do not even bother trying to fake feeling up to anything, whatever the task, for Arwen can see right through you and will insist you sit down, taking your hands in hers. "Rest. You have your burden- let me take the others. My heart bears no ill."

✧ Her affection gets softer, light touches to your waist and hands resting over yours. One hand upon your hip or belly and one on your shoulder as you two sway gently, foreheads pressed together.

✧ Arranging your nursery is one of Arwen's favorite pastimes: painting a gorgeous meadow mural upon the wall, stitching a soft toy to lay within the crib, asking you which fabric you prefer for blankets.

✧ Your bundle of joy can make sleep difficult, but one silver lining Arwen points out in a low whisper one morning is how many sunrises you’ve now gotten to share with each other.

Elrond

✧ Reservations about having a fourth child so long after the others disappeared every time Lord Elrond caught sight of you holding a neighbor’s child or even just showing the loving care that had him convinced he would be well even marrying a second time at all. Every smile, every sweet thing you did, all of it came back to Elrond in a rush when you told him he was to become a father again. For once he did not feel too old, too tired, nothing but the elation of his every desire unfurling to him before his very eyes from your warm embrace. To be chosen as the father to your child was the greatest honor the lord of Rivendell could imagine.

✧ Your every ailment is minimal, for Elrond knows exactly what is best for each and every one. Nausea? The perfect tea blend awaits to calm the waves you feel. Aches and cramps? Your husband is happy to give you the most heavenly massage, his hands finding every needed spot as if by magic. A swell of emotion? He does not speak unless bidden to, simply holding you through sudden waves of tears, frustration, or both until he feels your body relax against his.

✧ Being married to an elf with the gift of foresight comes with the benefit of worries soothed, but also a joke shared between you both. For many a time you teasingly chastise him not to look too far and spoil the surprise of whether you have a son or daughter on the way!

✧ Standing behind you, Elrond rests his hands around your middle and presses a kiss to your cheek. Just when you think the bliss of this moment, of having your whole little new family all together within your husband’s arms, cannot increase is when Elrond shifts his hands, taking on the great weight you carry. Peering up into his soft blue eyes, your whole body deflates in a sigh of sweet relief as he holds you.

✧ He can never truly understand your experience, but Elrond has witnessed this process. All he wishes is to tell you all your pain shall pass, even the worst memories will fade and ease, but such words will sound insensitive, so all he does is continue to hold your hand and stand proudly at your side.

✧ One thing your husband cannot resist is showering your future little one with gifts, even jewelry for when they are a bit older and the tiniest circlet to place upon the beloved head, matching Adar's perfectly.

Want to meet the little ones? Part 2 coming soon 😉

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch | Message/Reply/Ask to join 🥰

[meteors-lotr]

Boromir: Is it my imagination, or have tempers become a little frayed in the fellowship lately? Aragorn: I hadn’t noticed. *they round the corner to see Legolas and Gimli having a slap-fight Aragorn: I see what you mean.

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 5 (15th Dec)

loss | sacrifice | despair

Word count: 4,573

Boromir’s steps echoed in the stairwell of the Tower of Ecthelion as he descended them at a careful pace. Plunged in the obscurity and left out from the cast of moonlight, there was little light filtering through the sparse windows. One missed step, and he would surely shatter his neck and back on the marble. Clinging to the wall with one hand, he aided himself further, calculating each motion. The halo of his torch enhanced the furrow on his forehead and the dark rings under his tearful eyes. A lump had long settled in his throat, stifling his hitched breath and rendering him incapable of producing a single sound. His aching heart pounded within his chest forcefully enough that he expected it to tear itself asunder at any second. His thoughts plunged into despair, surrendering to the relentless tumult of his mind.

Earlier that night, hurried footsteps and hushed voices outside his door had dragged him out of his slumber. People came and went, the heaviness and recurrence of their steps even causing his bed to quiver. Every so often, the familiar clatter of armour would follow suit. He would have dismissed it without a second thought if not for the maidservants’ peculiar words echoing in the hallway and retaining his attention.

‘Any trace of the little one?’ one voice, which he recognised as that of his father’s housekeeper Tíriel, urged to another.

‘None. Ivorwen and Orodreth have searched the kitchens, but the child is nowhere to be found.’

‘Eru, protect him!’

Lighting up the extinguished candle on his bedside table, Boromir had kicked off his legs from the bed and emerged from underneath the covers. He had risen and marched to the door, yawning and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. Something was afoot, and his instinct had predicted that this would be a very long night.

When he heralded his presence by opening his door, the two servants had started and bowed.

‘What is the matter?’ his groggy voice had inquired.

‘My lord, you should be in bed,’ Tíriel had spoken with the fondness in her tone she reserved for children. Yet this had not sufficed to conceal the alarm that gripped her voice and tensed up every muscle in her frail body.

‘I was until I heard you and the others running about. Now tell me, what is the matter?’

Tíriel had regarded Damrod, the chamberlain, with a discerning gaze betraying her uncertainty. Despite his pursed lips and the vehement shaking of his head, the housekeeper had found herself drawn to revealing the situation to the steward’s older son. If he had awoken at this particular time, then he deserved to know, she deemed.

‘My lord, is your brother in your room with you?’

His heart had stopped. The child they could not find was Faramir?

‘No, he is not,’ he had responded, now wide awake and seized by dead. ‘Is he missing?’

‘Well, he is not in bed, and we have yet to find him.’

Leaving no room for hesitation, Boromir scurried back inside his chambers, placing his candleholder on his dresser, snatching his trousers from the back of his chair, and jumping on one foot as he slid a first leg in it. Dumbfounded at the door, the two servants turned their heads to give him some privacy. A frown marred Damrod’s countenance as he cast a disapproving glare in Tíriel’s direction.

‘Fetch me a torch,’ the young lord called out as he slipped on a warmer shirt and a vest. ‘Tell me which places have already been searched.’

‘My lord,’ Damrod pleaded, ‘it is unreasonable for you to come with us. Please remain in bed; we will notify you once your brother is found. You have an important evaluation tomorrow morning; you cannot miss it.’

Without bothering to put socks on, Boromir laced up his boots and snuffed out his candle. He reappeared at the frame, buckling up his sword at his hip.

‘There will be other evaluations. I have only one Faramir.’

As he set out for the hallways, Damrod had departed in the opposite direction, leaving Tíriel to accompany Boromir. Traversing the lofty corridors of the citadel, he had observed the conspicuous absence of most guards. He could only imagine — and hope — that they were on the same quest as he was.

On their way out, Tíriel had handed a torch from the wall to Boromir, whose fingers had instantly clasped it until his knuckles turned as pale as his face. Although aware that none of her words would ease his anguish, the housekeeper revealed everything she knew about the situation.

As soon as she had noticed that Faramir’s door had been left open, the passing governess had peeked inside the bedchambers, only to find the bed unmade yet unoccupied. After looking around for the boy, suspecting that he might have snuck into his playroom, she had found herself at a loss over the child’s whereabouts. She had questioned the guards in the hallway, but none had seen him leave, having taken their posts only a few minutes prior. One of them, however, had indicated having heard agitation and crying inside the room.

Crying… Boromir’s heart ached at the mere mention of it. What had Faramir gone through that had warranted his sudden disappearance?

Spurred by the guard’s statement, the governess had felt compelled to sound the alarm among her fellow household workers. Most abandoned their duties to join the search for the child, but success had thus far eluded them. The palace, except Boromir’s chambers, had been scoured from stem to stern. No trace of Faramir, whether in the kitchens, in the garderobes, the guest rooms, the offices, or the hall. Not a breadcrumb.

Once Boromir and Tíriel had exited the citadel and stood near the White Tree, five guards on horseback had urgently trotted up to them. Bowing their heads to the young lord, the latter had gritted his teeth, having no use for such triviality at this dire hour.

‘Sentinels, what news do you bring?’ he had queried, resting his trembling hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Nobody has seen Lord Faramir, and neither have we,’ one of them replied sternly.

A knot had tied in the pit of his stomach. But there was still hope. If his younger brother had not been seen in the city, there was a chance that he was much closer than they had thought. Boromir had drawn in a sharp breath and given orders to the sentinels.

‘Guard the path to the citadel and send one to the gates to notify the guards there. If anybody enters or departs the city, I want to be notified promptly before they do. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘It matters not to me who goes. Decide it between yourselves.’

With a last nod towards the guards, Boromir turned to Tíriel and beckoned her back towards the citadel.

‘Has the library been searched? I believe my brother’s newfound obsession for books now that he can read is known to all.’

‘Yes, my lord. The archivist was awoken and is now watching the library. He vowed to alert us if your brother is seen there.’

‘Very well. Now, we must think of our next step.’

Tumultuous waves of thoughts had coursed through his mind as he internally reiterated every place that had been combed, every post occupied by those who helped. It had left them with few options to consider. Pensive, he had instinctively raised his gaze towards the magnificent Tower of Ecthelion, and an idea had burgeoned in his mind.

‘I must search the Tower,’ he had muttered. ‘I doubt that he bothered to go inside, but if I could reach the top and have a better view of the upper level in case Faramir is outside, I will see him immediately.’

Before the housekeeper could object, Boromir had run off to the doors of the Tower. Climbing the stairs in a hurry, peering through the few windows on his path to the top, he had ignored his erratic breathing, burning the little energy left in him. Despite the burning sensation in his calves and thighs, he had pushed forward, skipping steps if necessary.

In hushed prayers, he beseeched any listening ear for Faramir’s well-being, fervently hoping that his beloved brother had not fallen into the clutches of vicious hands. With each step nearer the top of the stairs, his plea grew louder. His quivering voice yearned to witness his sibling blossoming into a formidable man, partake in a ride to Osgiliath with him, or even share a pastry torn in halves between them.

Battling the urge to collapse on his knees, Boromir had pledged to the Valar to cultivate greater patience for Faramir. He had committed to indulging the child, reading him tales and letting him read others in return, and lending an eager ear to his enthusiastic banter about the new knowledge he acquired. He cared not about their differences. All he wanted was his brother back.

Once at the summit of the stairs, he had flung open the door with an abrupt burst of strength. The guards stationed there had jolted at his sight, clutching their spears and the hilts of their swords. Upon recognising the steward’s oldest, they had eased yet attempted to dissuade him from remaining where he stood, urging him to return to the citadel. Stubborn and much too worried to listen to any of it, Boromir had circled the Tower’s peak, leaning over the marble guardrail, his eyes scanning the city and the Pelennor Fields for possible movement. All he had seen were the scarce figures of adults, no child to be seen.

‘FARAMIR!’ he had called out from the top of his lungs, clutching the guardrail until his nails and knuckles felt as though they would shatter. Gripped by an uneasy foreboding, he had screamed his brother’s name again and again until his voice grew hoarse. There was no reaction besides the guards covering their ears.

One of them had approached the young lord and squeezed his shoulder to pull him back as he nearly bent over the void beneath him in sheer despair.

‘Lord Boromir, you must return to the citadel. I will escort you there myself. If we see Lord Faramir, we shall blow the horn.’

The boy had dropped his hand on the side of his body in defeat, nodding in obedience. Holding his torch still, he had allowed the guard to direct him back into the stairwell of the Tower and to escort him to the terrace below.

And there Boromir was, descending the stairs with tears brimming his eyes, threatening to fall at any second. His legs wobbled underneath him, weakened by his erratic climbing and running, threatening to give in. Before they would, the guard caught him by the arm and held him up.

‘There, there, my lord. Fear not, we will find him.’

Boromir wanted to believe him; he truly did. But something did not sit right with him. How did nobody see Faramir leave his room, alone or in the company of another? Were there no guards stationed at his door? How had the disappearance eluded them?

Before he could delve deeper into the thought, they reached the bottom of the stairs and exited the Tower of Ecthelion. At its foot, Tíriel had waited for his return, and the guard mumbled something that he did not make an effort to hear. He felt the housekeeper’s arm encircle his shoulders, but he gently put her arm away.

The search had to continue. He could not give up.

‘Has anybody asked Ioreth at the Houses of Healing whether Faramir has been seen or brought there with any injury?’

‘Damrod has just done so, but none of the healers saw any child in the Houses.’

‘Let us return to the citadel. We must proceed carefully.’

‘You must go back to bed.’

‘As long as Faramir is missing, I am not.’

They passed the White Tree on their way to the citadel and found the governess leaning against the wall outside the door, pressing a handkerchief to her lips to stifle her weeping. Boromir’s heart sank at her sight. This could not be good. Without hesitation, he leapt forward to meet her.

‘Morwen,’ he hailed, still out of breath. ‘Is there any news of my brother?’

‘No, not yet,’ she sobbed, patting her tear-stained cheeks. ‘It is all my fault!’

Boromir placed a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it. If somebody was to be held responsible, it certainly was not her.

‘There, there, brave Morwen,’ he whispered, taking out his clean handkerchief from his pocket and helping her dry her skin. ‘You did well. You were the one to notify us as soon as you saw something amiss.’

‘It is not that, my lord. I should have said something earlier. The poor child… He has not been himself as of late.’

His ears perked up at the governess’ revelation. As his brow furrowed, he clutched her arms, perhaps tighter than he meant to.

‘Not himself?’

‘Oh, no.  For the past year, he has been a troubled soul since the passing of Lady Finduilas. His mind is elsewhere, his eyes sorrowful… So young, so young!’

Something snapped into place inside Boromir’s mind. A gasp rolled off his lip as he shot up, releasing Morwen from his grasp.

‘This is it! This must be it!’

Without explanation, Boromir shouldered his way through the citadel's doors. Resolution and hope rekindled in his heart as he hurtled across the Hall of the Kings, startling the gathered soldiers and servants. Clad in his evening robes, Denethor snapped his head, only to behold his older son, not knowing that he had left his bed.

‘Boromir!’

The boy did not cast so much as a glance over his shoulder as he continued his course. A sharp pain tore through his calf as though the muscle threatened to tear in half.

‘I know where he is!’

And he cursed himself for not having thought of it earlier. How could he have been so daft?

The agitation and the crying in Faramir’s room… He had jumped to the worst conclusions before reasoning. What the governess had said was true. Their mother’s death had inflicted a more profound toll on his younger brother than it had already on him. Faramir had been much closer to Finduilas than himself, much to his regret, and the child was too young to process his grief.

Boromir darted across the bridge behind the citadel, his hair blown back by the night breezes. He placed his torch in an empty sconce at the crypt's entrance and solemnly entered, not allowing his anguish to desecrate the place. He bowed to the tombs in their alcoves before advancing, his hands brushing against his thighs.

Silence reigned in the hall. Even the torches’ flames licked at the air noiselessly, dancing upon the stone slabs and the walls. Their flickering accentuated the traits of each recumbent effigy of the kings and stewards that had once served Gondor and were now laid to rest and immortalised in statues, if not in scrolls and the memories of the living.

Carved into the mountain's flank, the crypt was devoid of warmth. Not even halfway through, Boromir regretted not having taken his cloak on his way out of his room. The cold nipped at him and sunk into his bones, stiffening his joints and reddening his hands.

Nevertheless, any discomfort became trivial when he caught a glimpse of a curled-up form upon one of the slabs ahead. He hastened but abstained from running, approaching the tomb with a measured stride — a place he had not visited often enough to his liking.

Boromir crouched beside the grave and offered a warm smile to the shivering figure facing away.

‘There you are, Fari,’ he murmured, his voice bereft of resentment or anger. ‘Everybody is looking for you. You gave me the fright of the century, little brother.’

There was no reaction from the little boy nestled against the breast of his mother’s effigy. Only stuttered breaths reached his ears as a visible hitch marked his brother’s every inhalation. He was so lightly dressed; Boromir could well imagine that he was chilled to the bone if even he could feel the frost despite the layers upon his back.

His fingers unbuttoned his vest and placed it across his bent knee before pulling his warmer shirt over his head and enveloping Faramir’s frail body. Having slid his vest back over his thin nightshirt, he patiently awaited movement from his brother, a word perhaps, but none came forth.

‘You had a nightmare again, mh?’

This time, Faramir nodded and peered over his shoulder at his brother. His blue eyes were bloodshot and swollen from incessant weeping. Boromir would have struck himself with his own sword at the sight for his stupidity. He should have known long before where his brother would run to for comfort. He would have been there for his brother and held him to ease his fear for as long as needed.

The younger boy rubbed his eye with his tiny fist and spoke at last, his voice feeble and broken.

‘I was so scared.’

Boromir’s eyes softened as they crinkled at the corners, his smile widening. He ran his fingers through the dishevelled curls on his brother’s head in a gentle motion.

‘And father’s scolding for the broken glass at dinner certainly did not help it.’

‘No.’

The older brother sighed.

‘Forget about him, little brother. As long as I am around, you have nothing to fear,’ he intoned, earning a soft smile from the child. ‘Let’s get you back to bed, shall we?’

When Faramir acquiesced, Boromir turned his back to him, maintaining his crouched position with his heels firmly grounded for balance. Gone was the weight that had lingered in the air between them. It had been replaced by the shared and unbridled affection that now enveloped them in its unseen mantle.

‘Come here,’ he instructed with a smile. ‘Hop on, little froggy!’

Faramir’s giggle resonated through the Houses of the Dead, insufflating some joy into its hallways. In other circumstances, Boromir would have seen it as a celebration of life in gratitude for those who were long stripped of theirs, who had rendered the miracle of their sole existence possible. For now, he only wanted to bring his brother back to his warm bed and reassure all who were worried to death about the child’s disappearance.

Having slipped his arms into the shirt's sleeves kindly lent to him, the little boy climbed onto his brother’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck. Much to Boromir’s amusement, the sleeves dangled way past his hands, a comical sight which applied balm to his previously aching heart. He hoisted himself up and carried Faramir, holding him under the knees. Before leaving, he bowed his head to the tomb beside him.

‘Good night, Mother. We love you.’

Faramir nodded, burying his face against his shoulder blade as they exited the crypt. Boromir did not bother retrieving the torch from the sconce, leaving it to burn in peace.  They headed towards the citadel in silence as exhaustion gained them both. He dragged his feet across the stone, unwilling to let his brother walk. The poor thing needed to regain warmth, and their proximity enabled just that.

Before his eyelids unconsciously drooped, Boromir flinched at the sight of the sleeve poking his nose. A sharp exhalation swirled out of his nose as he glanced over his shoulder with a grin.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you angry with me, Boromir?’

He patted the side of the child’s calf with the utmost tenderness.

‘I could never.’

‘Not even if I broke your wooden sword?’

Boromir regarded him with suspicion, although the smirk plastered on his face served as a silent understanding that there was no trace of irritation in his heart.

‘Why? Did you break the wooden sword?’

‘Maybe?’

A chuckle escaped his throat as he readjusted his brother upon his back whilst crossing the bridge back to the palace.

‘Ah, that is quite alright. Think nothing of it.’

‘But you love that sword!’

‘Perhaps, but I love you much more than I do a toy.’

Faramir smiled and tightened his grip around his brother, crossing his ankles against the older boy’s stomach. As they entered the citadel again, the first guards and servants to behold the reunited brothers sighed and exclaimed in relief, spreading the word to their colleagues to end the search.

When Boromir entered the Hall of the Kings to notify his father, Denethor stomped in their direction, his traits distorted by an unmatched fury. He pointed a finger towards the younger boy, who tensed up and flinched before a single word left his mouth.

‘You little brat! What foolishness has come through your head for you to disappear so?!’

‘Father, that is enough!’

Denethor halted at once, his wide eyes turning to his older son and yielding to the boy’s authority. Boromir put Faramir down and held him tightly against his side.

‘Faramir was found, and that is the end of the story,’ he scolded his father, scowling at him. As Morwen entered the hall and burst into tears of elation at the sight of the child, brought back safe and sound, Boromir held his brother’s hand. ‘Morwen, will you please take my brother to my bedchambers? I shall keep him company tonight. Please fetch his pillow and his stuffed horse from his room. Go with her, Faramir; I will be with you shortly.’

‘Yes, brother.’

Faramir took Morwen’s hand and followed her away until she picked him up out of sheer joy and carried him to the royal quarters. Boromir smiled as he watched them, sensing the lump in his throat fading at last. Yet when his father spoke, his frown was quick to return.

‘You waste far too much energy on this child,’ Denethor spat. ‘He has spoiled your rest with his antics. Tomorrow is an important day for you, with the master of arms’ examination. Now that you have spent half of the night outside by Faramir’s fault, he has ruined your potential. So do not make things worse for yourself, Boromir. Send the boy back to his room and have him locked up there, or you will not be able to even stand in your armour in the morrow.’

‘Then, tired I will be. But do not ask me to forsake my brother when he is in pain, for I will not obey.’

Denethor’s eyes glimmered with a spark of rage. Nevertheless, he did not lash out at Boromir. No, that was a treatment he usually reserved for his younger son. His father paced up and down in a futile attempt to quiet the thunderous words threatening to escape him, not helped by the older son’s defiant scowl and raised chin.

‘You cannot let the child lead you around by the nose, Boromir. He must grow up, and it is about time.’

‘Father, he is six years old, give him time! Mother’s death has scarred him deeply; do not blame him for his pain.’

‘He will be the death of us both, do you not see it? You cannot possibly care for him all his life to the detriment of your potential and virtues. You have much to achieve, my son, so much to accomplish. Do not let a brainless little boy waste any of that.’

‘I am his older brother, and if it is a burden, it is one that I gladly accept,’ Boromir retorted, leaving time for Denethor to respond. When the latter struggled to find his words, the boy bowed. ‘Good night, Father. I shall see you in the morning.’

When Boromir reached his bedchambers, he found Faramir already in bed, his curls a blond halo around his head while he pressed his yellow stuffed horse to his heart. Finding the sight most endearing, the older boy readjusted the cover on top of his brother, carefully tucking him in. He pressed a kiss to his temple before stripping down to his nightshirt and loincloth. When he slipped back under the blankets, Faramir stirred and sighed.

‘I miss Mother.’

Boromir turned his head with raised eyebrows and smiled softly.

‘Me too, Fari.’

Seeing the tears welling up in his little brother’s eyes, Boromir pulled him against his chest and held him close, rubbing his back to comfort the child. It had been long since he had mourned their mother. Not that he had not loved her. For years, he had enjoyed his father’s favouritism, finding comfort in the knowledge that Finduilas spent most of her time raising and coddling Faramir. But now that she was gone, Denethor’s spite towards the younger boy had been unleashed and had reached greater extents than ever before.

Thus, Boromir had done all he could for the past year to never let his brother alone in their father’s company. He had found countless excuses to lure the younger boy away or distract his father by doing something as simple as handing the maidservant his empty plate with the cutlery neatly laid on top of it to earn his praise and give some respite to his brother. But such moments were never to last, and he was more than aware that it was only the beginning.

Under the palm of his hand, he sensed the shaking of Faramir’s shoulder as the child began to weep again. Wishing to deflect the night's pain and emotion, Boromir chuckled and kissed the top of his head.

‘Hey, Fari, do you remember that day when Mother let you style her hair?’

Faramir’s sobs swiftly turned into stifled chuckles.

‘I got her brush stuck in her hair and couldn’t get it out.’

‘Exactly,’ Boromir responded with a hearty laugh, the happy memory filling him with joy. He could see it all again: Finduilas’ luscious black hair matted around the wooden handle and the boar bristles on one side of her head.

‘She wasn’t even angry at me.’

Boromir chuckled and pressed another kiss to his brother’s hair.

‘No, she wasn’t. You were not there to see it because you were with Morwen, but Mother kept the brush in her hair the entire day, pretending that nothing was afoot. Father commented on it, but she retorted that it was all the rage in Dol Amroth.’

‘She did?’ the little boy gasped in amusement.

‘Yes, she did,’ he confirmed, his smile slowly fading. ‘You know, little brother, Mother loved you with all her heart. And I love you all the same. Never forget that.’

And forget Faramir never did.

One evening, the younger brother entered the crypt again, bowing to the alcoves and following the trail leading him to his mother. He bent to place a kiss upon her statue’s brow and rested a hand upon the slab.

‘Good evening, Mother,’ his solemn voice echoed throughout the halls. With a sigh, he stared down at the cloven horn between his unsteady hands. ‘I fear that I am a bearer of unfortunate news.’

He lay down beside the effigy, no longer tiny next to it, but his head and legs reaching beyond those of the bronze figure. His chest heaving with sorrow, Faramir clutched the horn to his heart and wept for his brother.

[saentorine]

Patriarch vs. Parent

I feel like the films and by extension much of the fandom overlook how Denethor is not only Boromir and Faramir’s father, but also their lord and commander. There is ongoing tension between the personal and political dimensions of their relationships, which honestly explains like 99% of what can feel “mean” about Denethor’s treatment of Faramir. Indeed, part of Denethor’s arc is recognizing his personal love for and reframing his role as father to his son just as Gandalf predicts: Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end.

Denethor is invoking the political dimension of their relationship when he bids Faramir return to defend Osgiliath: if there is a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord’s will. Even as their discussion references Boromir and their personal relationship, Faramir makes his points about conditions in the role of a captain and Denethor ultimately commands him as is his right as the highest point of authority. And the command is not even a necessarily bad one: Denethor is a ruler in a desperate position, seeming even more desperate by the information he’s gleaned from the palantir, and is using the best resources he has left to defend the realm. Even as Faramir begs his father to “think better of” him personally, he accepts his commander’s instructions as he must as a captain of Gondor’s military.

Denethor’s choice of Boromir for the journey to Rivendell was also more political than personal. In the books Denethor initially prefers Faramir for the assignment but is convinced to send Boromir, who by political measures is the better choice: his heir, the titled Captain-General, the more experienced of the two brothers. The council favors him. Even in his bitterness Faramir acknowledges that it was “the lord of the city” that made that choice-- Denethor as ruler, not father, even if the consequences are deeply personal for both of them.

In general, Denethor seems to lean more heavily into his role as his son’s ruler and commander-- something which we can easily imagine has colored the lifetime of their relationship: duty over desire, public service over personal warmth. In the patriarchal inherited power structure of Gondor, especially in wartime, Denethor’s primary concern with his sons would be their efficacy as an extension of his rule. Under the pressures of the Stewardship of a struggling realm, no shit he’s too burnt out to sustain a warm father-son relationship distinct from the political, especially by the time his children are grown-ass adults sharing this responsibility. However, he is more father than commander in a few notable moments, which become more significant over the short period of time we see him. Faramir in the books (and Mablung in the movies) states that death is the penalty for flouting the Steward’s orders to waylay travelers and apprehend those of political interest. However, when Faramir returns from Ithilien, even though he has done precisely what Denethor hoped to avoid by allowing a strategic resource to leave their domain, Denenthor doesn’t even mention capital punishment. He literally ignores the stated law as it pertains to his only surviving son. He does throw some sharp fatherly jabs-- Faramir’s persistent naivety about the harsh realities of ruling during wartime, his relationship with Gandalf, comparing him to Boromir, etc.-- because indeed, Denethor must be especially disappointed that his own son cannot be trusted to respect his laws and the chain of command. But he also affords him major grace considering the established consequences that would presumably be enforced for anyone else.

Denethor’s fatherly grief for Boromir is also what first starts to compromise his efficacy as Steward, along with his use of the palantir. Gandalf is critical when Denethor’s priority upon his arrival is to discuss his son’s final days with Pippin rather than the state of the ongoing war. (And here is a place the books and movies differ significantly: in the book Gandalf and Pippin see that Denethor has already called for aid from Rohan and has set his people to work repairing the Rammas Echor; it is only in the film that Gandalf accuses him of having “done nothing”). And we only see Denethor after this point, which seems to be why a lot of folks assume Denethor is paranoid and incompetent and always has been-- but both Faramir and Imrahil, close to Denethor, observe that he is not himself. The man has held shit down up until that point; Gondor has lasted as long as it has because of Denethor’s rule, not despite it.

And when Faramir is returned to Minas Tirith on death’s door, Denethor flips dramatically, withdrawing his attentions from the siege to focus entirely on the fate of his dying son. (And he truly believes he is dying!). He renounces his command and soundly rejects Gandalf’s entreaties that he return to the defense of the city as his role demands, and chooses instead a private death alongside the child he believes already doomed by the choices he made as Steward. (In addition to reasserting autonomy over Gondor and his own fate-- but that’s another post).

It doesn’t end well, and it certainly doesn’t afford any opportunity to live a renegotiated, repaired relationship, but Denethor does indeed remember it ere the end that he loves Faramir and is first and foremost his father.

[garashir]

watching deep space nine season 2 episode 12 the alternate

[emyn-arnens]

It's been bugging me lately that I can't think of any more casual words for 'mother' that are used in Middle Earth, like an equivalent of Mum/Mom. For example, what would Gondorian kids like Faramir and Boromir be calling their mum? Like they're not going about the place calling her 'mother' all the time surely?

I often struggle with figuring out what children might plausibly call their parents because "Mum" and "Dad" sound much too modern (and are too modern for Gondor, since "mum" and "dad" were first recorded being used in our world in the 16th century). But "Mother" and "Father" often feel too formal and stilted.

As a comparison, I did a quick search through ROTK to see what Faramir calls Denethor when addressing him directly, and it looks like he does just use "father":

"'If what I have done displeases you, my father,' said Faramir quietly, 'I wish I had known your counsel before the burden of so weighty a judgement was thrust on me.'"

"'I would ask you, my father, to remember why it was that I, not he, was in Ithilien.'"

"'May I have your leave, father?'"

Of course, all of these scenes are when Faramir is an adult and others are present, and Faramir and Denethor are speaking formally and largely as captain and lord (and also use those terms when referring/speaking to each other). But it does give precedent to Faramir and Boromir possibly having called Finduilas simply "Mother."

One more important thing to consider is that they're the sons of the Steward. In medieval times and earlier, it was common among nobility and higher classes for children to refer to their parents as just "Mother" or "Father" or "lord" or "lady" (or their parents' full titles if other adults were present).

So I do think it's likely that Boromir and Faramir called Finduilas "Mother" even as kids because of their family's position. I'm sure when they were first learning to talk they used something more garbled and informal, but as they got older, it was probably just "Mother."

For lower-class children, I think you could use "Ma," "Mama," or even "Mammy" (and likewise "Pa" or "Da" for fathers). They all pass as "older"-sounding words to modern readers and wouldn't be too jarring to read in dialogue or prose.

I think Ma/Mama/Mammy would work when writing hobbits, too. (Although, interestingly, hobbits seem to only refer to their mothers as "mother," but they use "dad" when referring to fathers. Still, if they canonically use "dad," I don't think using Ma/Mama/Mammy would look out of place.)

Elves and dwarves, of course, have Sindarin/Quenya and Khuzdul/Neo-Khuzdul (fan-created) names for parents that you could use in lieu of "Mother" and "Father."

[sonxofxgondor]

Nothing hurts my heart more than thinking about the agony that Boromir went through as he watched his beloved father wither away. Someone so noble, so strong and proud, brought to insanity and madness by powers he couldn't overcome.

[borom1r]

I'll be honest, I don't know much abt lotr, but!!! for the text game you're putting together, what has been your favourite date and/or route you've written so far? + as an addition, if you'd like, what are things you admire/love abt any character of your choosing? (I hope you're doing okay bestie, I'm sorry you're having a rough night 💖)

haugh thank you dude i am. feeling more grounded now (and my hand stopped hurting so i Didn't actually burn it, yayyy) but gods that was bad for a hot minute

ummmm my favorite thing ive written is probs tied between Éomer's 2B date (go to a celebratory bonfire w/ him) because there's a lot of silliness, it's just very lighthearted + cute!! or Faramir's first date?? it's actually hard to pick a specific date bc Faramir is just very fun to write. I adore him so much lol — his first date's a little library meetcute and you get to give him a kiss on the nose and listen to him be So autistic about Really Old Texts (it's what he deserves)

uuuuuuuuuuu well u know as a Boromir Guy. a certified Boromir Enjoyer. Enjoyer of Boromir. there's just. oagh theres so much. I was rewatching th Osgiliath scene again for reasons (quotin it for sth i think) and the way he behaves with Faramir vs how he behaves with Denethor is so. im DERANGED i need to sit down w/ Sean Bean and talk abt Boromir for fucking hours. the way he prepares himself to have to speak w/ his father, the disbelieving shake of his head at Denethor's "I know his uses and they are few" line about Faramir. the "one more moment of peace can he not give us that" line. "the victory is Faramir's as well" and he's grinning, his nod of encouragement, motioning Faramir over because he's RIGHT and Faramir's achievements deserve to be recognized and they're fighting fucking FORCES OF MORDOR so how could he possibly blame his brother for Osgiliath falling? they reclaimed it and they're alive and that's cause for celebration! im so.

Boromir son of Denethor seeing the best in people. when he could so easily and so understandably be completely fucking pessimistic. He is ON THE FRONTLINES he would have every excuse to be a bitter jaded asshole having grown up with the sole purpose of being a soldier. he lives only to serve!!! and he lives watching the people he is supposed to safeguard suffering and dying, watching the darkness of Mordor spread with little hope of vanquishing it, only keeping it at bay for a time. it has been long since he had any hope!!!!!! and yet the victory is Faramir's too! his baby brother who he is so proud of, who he sees the absolute best in, who he longs for Denethor to see the good in too because Faramir is trying his absolute fucking best and Boromir sees that!! Boromir, who sees Merry and Pippin's determination and takes the time to coach them in swordplay when others would have made them stay behind. they're only hobbits, after all. what could they do? (quite a lot, naturally, but it was Boromir at first who empowered them to be more than just tagalongs. who thought they should be more prepared and took the time and energy to make sure they were.)

there is frailty in men but there is goodness too. the world is cruel and awful and he is surrounded by violence and death. and even a wizard like Gandalf can die. but there is goodness in men. goodness in the world!! Minas Tirith is on the brink of disaster but it is beautiful and he longs to return. even diminished, she is beautiful!! and he wants to share that. he wants to share Faramir's victories. he knows firsthand how horrifically cruel the world can be but he sees the best in the people around him and he wants others to see it too. ARGH!!!!!!!!

ALSO. ive talked abt it in another post floating around somewhere but while i do love book!Faramir i think he is. kind of a nightmare person. in that he has some Deepset Prejudices that he Needs To Unpack. smacking the shit out of him with a cardboard tube.

and while i thnk there are valid criticisms to make abt movie!Faramir i do actually GENUINELY adore that he is tempted by the ring. because on one side of it, his temptation mirrors Boromir's in that it is done out of love (desire for his father's love and approval vs Boromir's love for his people) and that he overcomes it. because that is Boromir's Baby Brother and isnt the goal of it all for the younger generations to surpass the older? isn't the hope that Faramir would learn from Boromir's failures and be better? not repeat them? and he doesn't. he is flawed and he is tempted by much the same thing and yet he does not fall!! and that's not to say there's any Legitimate moral failing on either of their parts because its the fucking One Ring, but i think its just. very poignant. I genuinely prefer it way more than the book where hes all "I would NEVER take the ring!!!"

but he also has his whole "boromir died well, achieving some good, and was even more beautiful in death than in life" thing and that gets into the spirituality of middle earth and the layers of Weirdness there which im not abt to unpack on this ask. not a fan of it in the slightest. shaking Boromir's hand for being rebellious against god tho i would be too if i was living in that whole fucking sitch. if the only thing my brother could say was "idfk if he fucked up or not but he was more beautiful in death than ever so ik he died a holy death, which is preferrable" my ghost would start throwing bricks.

also, having movie!Faramir fall prey to the ring when book!Faramir is like this. paragon of grace and goodness and holiness who Cannot be tempted. idk i think especially with Aragorn grappling with his humanity and frailty as a man, having Faramir Also be tempted is sooooo. like. augh!!! it is not a failure to be tempted. you can still be Good and Gracious and Lordly and a Paragon Of Men. he is Still Faramir even though he fell prey to the call of the ring. he resisted. he let Frodo go, putting his own life at risk in the process, because he is still a Good Man even though he is flawed. even though he almost didn't. movie!Faramir my beloved!!!!!!!

LASTLY ik ive talked abt this a couple times but it is fucking DERANGED to me that Éomer is only twenty-eight in TA 3019. HE SHOULD'VE BEEN IN THE TAVEEEEEERRRNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[emilybeemartin]

Boromir Lives AU: We Didn't Have a Choice

Alternate title is They're All Just Kids With PTSD, Your Honor

This (ridiculously long? omg why so long, I did not mean for it to be this long) comic is a good example of how my plotlines usually develop---I'll write what I think is a self-contained story and then realize there are whole new narratives beyond it. This is how my first novel, Woodwalker, became a trilogy---I was writing it as a standalone novel until about the last three or four chapters, when I realized I'd kicked off a whole new series of political events. For this AU, I was thinking about how it would feel for Elboron to grow up in the long shadow of his parents, and idolizing his uncle(s) while also wondering how he'd ever measure up. For Boromir, I think he'd be so fulfilled to see his nephew get to come of age in a gentler world that he and his brother and all the others didn't get. Though if he had a future as anything other than a soldier I'm pretty sure it would be as a TikTok star showing us how to create a perfect ballerina bun. Show us your products, Boromir, dang.

This comic also reminded me that I clearly have a distinct set of author tropes because this has STRONG Veran vibes (Sunshield, Floodpath), with a young character feeling overwhelmed with the legacies of his parents. This is a bit of an opposite arc, though--- Veran wants to follow in his mother's footsteps but isn't allowed to, and so gravitates toward diplomacy, while Elboron feels pressured to take up soldiering like his namesake but would rather study language. Come to think of it, the manuscript I turned into my agent a few weeks ago also has some of these themes, which either means I need to stop writing quest follow-ups or start a Protagonists With Heroes For Parents support group.

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

Boromir Lives: Helm's Deep

Boromir Lives: Whump-Time After Pelennor

Boromir Lives: GO TO SLEEP

Boromir Lives: Aragorn's Coronation

Boromir Lives: Faramir and Eowyn's Wedding

Boromir Lives: It's a BABY

Boromir Lives: High Uncle of the White Tower

Boromir Lives: The Haircuts

[shirefantasies]

Hey! Recently finished LotR for the first time and just wanted to thank you for sharing so much amazing writing with the fandom!

I was wondering, after reading the how many children they’d like hcs, if you’d be comfortable writing some characters(personally requesting Legolas and Eowyn, but whoever you’d wish of course!) meeting their(/them and their partner’s if they already have children ofc) firstborn!

Either way! Tysm for reading and have an amazing day!!

Forgot I had one more finished draft lmao sorry everyone🤙🏻 here's one more post

Bro OF COURSE I love doing parent AU stuff!!! This is such a cute imagine omg. Also thanks for the kind words & welcome to the fandom 🥰 consider this part 2 of the pregnancy headcanons~

Warnings: some descriptions/mentions of childbirth/labor pain/blood (not too graphic though!)

LoTR Characters Meeting Your First Child Together (Wife!Reader)

Aragorn

Concern paints your husband's handsome features, furrowing his dark brow and glittering deeply in his blue eyes at your sudden, frantic motions. You are too quiet, too focused. Hiding something, perhaps? "What troubles you?" Aragorn asks, moving to your side, a hand caressing your shoulder as he breathes your name. Eyes widening, you start for a moment before deflating in a sigh. "I think the baby is coming. But I did not wish to worry you until I was certain, until I had more prepared and-" Saying your name, this time a little more firmly and a lot more lovingly, Aragorn takes your hand. "Worry me? Cast all your worries upon me. I am your husband. My heart is yours, and my service. Come, we will go to the healing halls at once."

~

Aragorn smooths your hair, wincing as you cry out and calmly whispering encouragement. He quiets you down as the pain and stress wash over you in nearly blinding waves, your body writhing with each push. Hours pass like this, Aragorn your one anchor until finally, blessedly, your body can fall limp against your sickbed and pant and sigh in relief, the babe proclaimed healthy and taken to be soothed and cleaned. "What a marvel. Truly you prove strength beyond measure every day. Beyond that, I simply love you more every day," he adds with a smile. Leaning up to kiss him, you fix your husband with tired eyes, loving gaze broken only by the midwives' calls. "My king," they say, "a son was born to you! The prince of Gondor!" "A son," you repeat, finally breaking back into a grin as you accept your little boy. Aragorn looks down upon him too with as wide a smile, greeting him in Elvish. "My son," he says, "how loved you are, and how blessed are we your parents. May you grow strong, healthy, happy, our little gift."

Legolas

Even as far as you had gotten, an unspoken fear had crept up between you and your husband until the very day of your labor, but your twins held fast. Such a thought echoed through your mind as much as you could bear to will it between the waves of pain. They held fast, and so would you, your husband at your side stroking your head and holding your hand, whispering calming words in the language of his people. Through tears, you smiled at the beautiful sound, at Legolas's constant reminders that you are strong, you are the most amazing gift the prince has born witness to in hundreds of years. He reminded you to look into his eyes as you were urged to push harder, your hips burning like never before...

~

"A son. A son and a daughter,” Legolas breathed, pulling you and both your twins into a gentle embrace. “And my wife. What more could I desire? Nothing. Nothing indeed.” You feel moisture, realize a tear has slid from Legolas’s eye to your hand, and reaching up you dry his eye before bringing your hand down to stroke the side of his face. You can feel the bags of exhaustion circling your eyes and your whole body aches, but all you can do is smile, smile until your face is just as sore; with your aching pleasure glowing throughout you nuzzle the babe in your arms, your son. “Our dreams are finally reality, Legolas. I would ask for no more either.”

Boromir

"What for it? What can I do?" Boromir is less calm than you expected at your sudden pain, the downward rush you can only assume is the baby coming. Not that you have told him that already. "Let us go to the healers." You try to steady your breathing, praying your water will hold out and break only upon entry to the home of the dear friend you'd selected to aid in your birth. Grateful are you for the grasp of your husband’s hand and the strength with which his arm raises you, tugging you against him for support, even if you feel his heart racing like mad when your hand falls against his chest.

~

For hours you toiled, your body rent and torn in creative horror as Boromir tried his best with jokes and sweet words to keep your wits about you… for far shorter hours than usual in your friend’s words. “I find that hard to believe,” you panted as she cleaned the child. “No, truly that was quite amazing,” your friend shot back, stepping back your way with a bundle in her hands, “We’ve had them take twenty hours before. Five is quite fast I daresay.” Every orifice in your body cried out with pain, so all you could do was incline your head until you raised it again, saw the child in her outstretched arms and felt your lips part in amazement. Eyes still closed, your child groped for you, stilling a bit in satisfaction upon your acceptance, feeling the weight fall and rest gently upon your chest. “Impatient little man and with some fire too! He fought against cleaning quite well.” “Little man?” Boromir’s head snapped so rapidly up to your friend and back to your baby you thought he might snap something. “We have a son?” “Indeed you do, you old dog, you,” she grinned. “It’s a boy!” He shouted gleefully, one hand resting firmly between your son’s and the other cupping your cheek and yanking your lips to smash against his. When Boromir pulled away, he laughed aloud, hearty and triumphant. “Bless him and bless you for giving him to me! I never knew I could be this happy, love!” Your smile widened to match his grin. Suddenly your pain didn’t seem quite so bad.

Gimli

“Push! Push!” “Am I not?!” You reply, uncaring of the raise of your voice or the vice of your hand about your husband’s. For his part and quite in spite of himself, Gimli must laugh, for such was the fire that stole his heart some time ago and the fire from which your newest love was forged- though not without some trouble first. Chip off the ol’ block, indeed! “That’s it, that’s it,” the healer encouraged, “yer doin’ great, lassie!” “Doesn’t feel like it!” Even as he winces in pain by your iron grip, Gimli chuckles again.

~

“A healthy little lad!” Six more hours have passed, but finally he’s in hand and you won’t give him up for anything. Except Gimli- he is the only one to survive your death glares when he reaches for your son, and pushing some hair off his shoulder he gently extends his arms further when you acquiesce. His lips part in an o of endearment and shock at your son, crying moments ago but now laying peacefully in his father's arms. Breaking into a wide smile, Gimli stares down with moist eyes and it is like time is frozen. “My son,” he half-declares, half-sobs. His gaze tears from the babe after a minute or two only to meet yours and bring a wide, triumphant smile to his face. "And most importantly, son of the fairest this earth has yet set forth, she who gave herself that he should be here. You did wonderful, my love. Thank you." "Thank you for being his father," you reply, "and for loving me through it all, even when I was quite ugly about it." "Ah..." Gimli replies diplomatically, "you were in a great deal of pain." Of course he forgives you, he worships the ground you walk on, after all, and you have just gifted him the honor of a son, a little flame all his own! And who, the dwarf suspects with another smile, shall look a lot like his father too!

Frodo

Frodo walked you all the way to the bed and laid you down by himself before he would finally relinquish any care of you to the midwife, despite the fact that he had selected her. You knew it was borne of no distrust of her, however, only a sign of the immense care in his heart he felt for you and the sum of all the kindnesses done upon Frodo in his most difficult years. When you love someone, after all, you carry them up a mountain. You lay them down and take their hand and kiss their forehead, telling them you will never leave them in their greatest pain. Just as your husband now did, just as he spoke upon cradling you close, grip only tightening as you cried out in pain.

~

"You're doing so well," Frodo encouraged during your last pushes, stroking your sweat-beaded forehead, "This is almost over." Indeed it was, for minutes later your final whimper broke Frodo's heart, sending spikes of dread shooting down his spine until a new set of cries stopped them cold. "She's here," the midwife tells you, standing up and fetching the cloths she'd dunked earlier. "A girl," Frodo breathes, "A little girl!" "Our little girl," you agree, reaching out to accept the tiny babe. Frodo's heart melts at her now-calmed face, the way her tiny eyelids flutter and the spray of tiny dark curls already visible on her head. "Hello there," he whispers, "my beautiful little girl. Never did I think my heart could give any more, and yet here it is, doubly taken."

Sam

"What's wrong? You look a little peaky. Here, why don't we-" "Sam, I'm fine. I just think I twisted my- hngh!" Crumpling in half with a grunt of pain you cannot even complete your sentence. Sam is rushing to your side, taking your hand and leading you back to your shared bedroom. "Shh, shh, it's going to be ok, you'll see. I'll get the midwife and she'll know everything to do, alright?" Sam's green eyes are warm as ever, his tone the sweetest and most soothing thing you've ever heard and ever will. Despite the waves of pain and the gush you begin to feel soaking the sheets around you, you find yourself nodding and willing up a faint smile.

~

"You're a strong lass, aren't you?" The midwife remarks as Sam returns to the room with more boiled water, looking at you with wonder in her pale blue eyes. Panting, you manage to reply that you suppose so with a faint smile of amusement before being wracked with the pain of another contraction. The only thing that keeps you going is the way your husband is there, leaving only to help you both before tumbling back against the bedframe to grip your hand, never once losing his smile even as you crushed the life out of him. It feels like a lifetime and yet no time before cries fill the room, your head immediately whipping to Sam's and meeting the tears spiling from his kind, loving eyes. "You did it," he whispers your name with awe, kissing your head, then your cheeks sweetly and softly again and again until the midwife is ready with your bundle of joy. "She's beautiful," the older hobbit comments, handing your baby off to you and beaming as you pull your daughter into your chest, loosening her swaddle enough to see her peaceful face. "Lovely," Sam replies, tone even more awed now despite its faint sob, "she looks like her mother. Her mother who worked so hard. Look, she has your hair." "She sure does," you agree, "but I hope she got your eyes." "Nah," he shook his head, "that can be the next one. I love that she's the spitting image. You've earned it after all that, I fear." You laugh at that, still smiling down at your daughter's face, which is still red and calming from her cries of alarm. "That I have. But the only reason I could at all was because of you, Sam." Tears falling anew, he shakes his head one more time. "The thanks are all yours. I knew you could do it all along. It's 'cause of you we have our little beauty."

Merry

"Come on, come on, that's it," Merry coaxed, lowering you down into the squatting position you'd asked for. Inside he was screaming bloody murder, but it was no good letting you know that, not when he had a duty to do and the most important one at that. No indeed, courage was far beyond necessary. Just as he'd had on the battlefield, he was to have with you. For you. Merry only could thank his lucky stars that you began your labor at home while he was there. Once you'd gotten settled, he reluctantly began to pull away his hand from yours, face falling at the way your fingers trembled. "I'm just going to get help. I'll come right back for you." "I know," you whispered with a smile, and just as it had been broken Merry's heart was up and skipping beats.

~

What a good sport the midwife was, for she had been in the middle of her afternoon tea when Merry found her, but never had he seen a napkin thrown down so fast. She rushed with him back to you and found you there still squatting and wincing, this time with sweat beading upon your brow. For hours there you remained, flanked on both sides by husband and midwife, until suddenly your skirts were lifted even further and the lady was calling "He's out!" You cried out in pain and relief and Merry just laughed and gave a big smile before remembering you, looking down at you with great concern. At that, you gave a chuckle of your own. "Sounds like we have a son, Merry." "We have a-" "Certainly you do and quite a big one! Here, you can hold him if you like, but not after the missus has a turn," the midwife cut in, laying your son in your arms. Merry's jaw positively dropped at the sight of him, and he leaned down to speak at once. "Hello there, little one. It's me, your dad. You remember the sound of my voice, don't you?"

Pippin

“Pippin, it’s time.” “Time? Time for what?” You loved your sweet, wonderful, clueless husband, but now was simply not the time. “The baby is coming! Get my supplies, please.” Your command came out as more of a whimper, your face twisting into a grimace at the feeling of moisture trickling down your leg. Water’s broken, then. Pippin caught sight of this, paled, and tore off down the hall, a crash sounding and a handful of stomps before he emerged again, bag slung over his shoulder and a pile of rags in one hand. "You know, for your..." "Yes, I know," you nodded, smiling in faint amusement as he took hold of your arm, barely giving you any time to straddle the rags at all.

~

"Push!" "What am I doing, then?" Your reply shattered Pippin, for it dripped with no sarcasm, only broken tears as you struggled with the pains of labor. The midwife shed a tear of her own, promising you did well, but this went on for hours until suddenly, finally, cries pierced the room's tense air and a massive smile spread across Pippin's face. "You did it!" A loud, triumphant laugh. "You did it, my love!" "She sure did," the midwife agreed, handing the babe off to another older hobbit and chuckling at the way Pippin's open hands followed them. "Don't worry your head off, he's just getting cleaned up." "He? It's a boy! Love, it's a-" "I heard," you grinned, "A little mini-Pippin. Just what I always wanted." "Are- are you joking?" "No," you shook your head, accepting your son with open, grabbing hands, "Not at all. Oh, look, he really does look just like you, too! Oh, Pippin!" Another little Pippin. This time hopefully not one who'll make the same mistakes. No. No, he won't, because he'll have the big one to guide him. And you, oh, his lovely wife... "Pip, are you crying?" "Of course I am," he replied in a quiet, awe-filled voice, leaning to press his curly head to yours, "Our son. Yours and mine. What a glorious gift you've given me. I'm going to work every day to pay you back."

Faramir

Faramir would have given anything to escape the meeting he had become entrenched in, the droning on about some law or another that- Slam! A messenger came bursting in through the door, one of the young page boys whom Faramir had sent notes off with. Rather than pass a message, though, the young man strode right over to his seat and leaned in to whisper to him. Feeling his face contort in shock, then a smile, Faramir rose from the chair at once. “My apologies, gentleman, but my wife has gone into labor. I will review all notes taken at my earliest convenience.” So it seemed the twins inherited their mother’s sense of humor.

~

Watching you strain and hearing your ragged breaths, listening to every cry of pain, stabbed Faramir in the heart with a hurt of his own. He never let go of your hand for a moment, though, despite the ache in those muscles as well. For hours he whispered you words of encouragement, reminding you that you were his hero and that you were doing great, even if it didn’t feel such. And finally your grip was tightening one final time, one final cry of pain as the second twin was born. First your daughter had come. “A girl!” Faramir breathed. “We have a daughter.” And with that last push Faramir himself caught your son. “A son as well. Two beautiful children.” Tears welled up in his eyes, which quickly turned to you as your son was cut free, lifted from his arms, and cleaned. Thumb stroking over the back of your hand, Faramir leaned over, head resting against yours. His stubble tickled your face as he shifted to press a kiss to your cheek. “We got the most difficult one out of our way first, hm?” You joked. Breaking into a tearful grin at your words, Faramir nodded.

Eomer

He should never have agreed to ride out on that patrol, but the others were pushing harder than usual and Eomer knew they trusted him. Trust went far in the Riddermark. Hence his shouts of frustration upon returning to a herald rushing his way and telling him that you had gone into labor. Luckily only about an hour and a half back. He had plenty of time. Running to the halls of healing and all but throwing open the great doors, Eomer barreled in and was met with your smile, then your cry for him, to which he ran to your side and took your hand at once.

~

"It's a boy," he panted hours later, hand aching from your grip and mind fatigued by pained screams, "our son is here." How in this world could you have endured it all if it drained even a bystander so? What a warrior you were. And what a warrior your son would be! Taking in the cleaned babe being placed in your arms, the enamored smile upon his beloved wife's face, the great rush of joy finally overtook him, all pain and exhaustion melting away for a brief moment. "Our son is here!" He called out again, this time louder, more triumphant, and when you spoke it also in your softer tone Eomer pulled you gently by the back of your head into a kiss that spoke volumes, every year of your love story thus far and all of them to come.

Eowyn

The pains of birth were no stranger to your wife; in fact, Eowyn recognized them before you did, cutting into your panic that something was going wrong with the reassurance that things were going quite right. “Our baby is coming,” she told you with a small smile that quickly faded back down when your knees buckled. She was prepared for this, very prepared. Having been forced into work as a nurse for so long had some benefits, after all, and very quickly your things were in hand, your body settled into the most comfortable position possible, and your wife rolling up her sleeves and pulling back her hair to get to work. Her own child would not be the first she had delivered, simply her favorite by far. Spikes of pressure fought their way up Eowyn’s chest, but just like in the heat of battle they spurred her on and she got to work with renewed courage.

~

“You are doing so well, my love, there we are,” your wife coaxed, “almost done, in fact! Our little one is almost here!” “Really?” You smile widely before your next wince and Eowyn can see her words have encouraged you. You pushed with all you had, and crying out finally forced the head, then finally the whole of your child, out into the world. Eowyn cut the baby free quickly as she could, all her focus tied down to making sure she heard breath before she let herself truly look. At the first call of little lungs she sighed and collapsed down upon her knees, hugging the baby to her chest. “Healthy, perfectly healthy.” Hurriedly cleaning your child, Eowyn saw that you had delivered a girl. “You’ve birthed a healthy girl. We have a daughter, my love!” Hearing you sob, she hurried quickly over to your side. “We both did,” you told her, reaching out to caress your daughter’s reddened cheeks, “Both her mothers birthed her. Where would I be, after all, without you?” It was Eowyn’s turn for tears to fall at your words, smiling as she was when you pulled her close and kissed the crown of her golden head.

Haldir

Long, difficult months had led to the moment of your doubling over with the first pains of birth, hobbling out to where you could find a hand to lead you to the midwives. You were half-knelt at the side of a bed, gripping its post for dear life, when your husband burst in. “Your patrol,” you inquired between waves of pain. “Safely in the hands of another,” Haldir responded, hand groping for one of yours, hastily taking it, “and no, they blame neither of us. Nothing but the pain of death could have separated me from your side.” A smile crossed your face, but moments later another wave of pain split your smile into a cry of agony. “The little ones are coming very rapidly,” one of the midwives told you, “your labor will not be long, at the very least.” At that, you heard Haldir exhale in relief. After such difficultly carrying them, your struggles with the twins would soon abate. Soon they would be in your arms.

~

True to her word, the midwife saw you through every push of labor in just under three hours’ time, one of the fastest she had seen in her many years. Haldir’s grip upon your hand never faltered until the very moment one of the twins was placed wrapped up in his arms. The other held by you, exhausted, shocked, but joyous, tears of relief and celebration flowing. “Two daughters. Two fair and healthy little souls all our own,” Haldir remarked, his voice barely above a whisper and a stunned smile upon his lips as he glanced back your way. The moment your eyes met, tears fell from his, too, and you both let out another exhale in relief; shifting the little one in his arms, Haldir grasped your hand. Smiling up at your husband, despite every strain of pain and exhaustion upon your body, all you could feel was the glow of utter triumph and bliss. “I have said it countless times, I am sure, but you my fair maids have my sword, my word, my heart, my everything,” Haldir told you, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on your head, then that of the baby girl in your arms.

Galadriel

How Galadriel managed to remain so calm amidst your heaving breaths and calls of alarm, amidst a healer and midwives forgetting their place and trying to move her from your side, surrounded by bodies and screams and heat and fluid so serene, you would never understand. The way you’d doubled over in the middle of your wife’s vision, failing to smother the choked cry that escaped your lips, and she’d simply risen from the water with wide eyes and a nod, taking your hand. Had she let go? Not as you could recall, though memories blended and faded through great waving curtains of pain. Your strength is beyond admirable, my love. Head swiveling to meet your wife’s intense blue gaze, you smiled faintly. Comparable only to your beauty, her voice teased in your mind. Smile growing, the rush of joy gave you strength for another push…

~

“A daughter,” Galadriel breathes your name, joy permeating every faint crack of her so even voice, “you have borne us a daughter!” You see her extend a hand, accept a cloth you assume shall dry your little one off, but the midwife swipes your newborn for a moment and your wife dabs your tears, then the sweat clinging to your forehead. Setting the small piece of white fabric on the table by your head, Galadriel lets her hand drop down to trace the curve of your cheek, the ring you placed upon her finger some years back on your wedding day sliding over it with a pleasant cool. Your daughter, clean and swaddled, is placed in your arms, and beaming down upon you, your wife takes your hand. “A beautiful gift unlike any this world has seen,” she speaks out loud this time, though it is a whisper, “and surely with a heart as strong as her mother’s.”

Arwen

Pain rushed to you so rapidly it was as though you were stabbed. Crumpling and crying out was how your wife found you, rushing in with skirts held at her sides and dropped just as quickly so Arwen’s hands could close around both of yours, words of worry followed by encouragement whispered between you. Her father was the greatest healer you knew, thus he was to aid in his grandchild’s birth, the first of his family. Elrond was calm when through the veil of your pain you saw your wife bring him into the room, brows faintly furrowed as he pulled back his sleeves. Your hearing practically faded- or was it simply your memory?- as he began giving quiet but firm commands to another elf that followed.

~

Vision blurred with tears, you fell back against the downy pillow, breathing ragged. Much as Lord Elrond could do for you, the pain was still great. "The cord is severed!" You heard him announce and your head snapped back up to see your son in his grandfather's arms, hear him wail as breath filled his lungs. "Our little boy," Arwen grips your arm, grinning down at you, "He is here! Go on, Ada, keep us waiting no longer." Shaking his head at her teasing, Elrond gave you a wide, tearful smile as he lowered your son. Smoothing his dark hair, Arwen gazed down at him with loving eyes before leaning over to you, kissing your lips with such love and joy both of you were smiling into it. "My dearest love, he is so beautiful. Just like his mother."

Elrond

"My lord, your wife-" Lindir needn't say more. Elrond is already gathering up his robes and abandoning entirely the parapet on which he stood, regretting leaving you for a moment even if you had insisted he take some time while you rest. Hurrying down the staircase to your shared room, Elrond finds you sitting bolt upright in bed, brows furrowed and hand resting upon your middle. "I must get to the-" "No," calm as he is, Elrond seems to have developed a habit of interruptions, he thinks, "the midwife will come to you. Lindir?" "Sending for her now, my lord." At Elrond's side, you whimper. All too well does he remember this anguish; nodding, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Lie still. You will be well."

~

Thank the Valar for healing magic; soon your screams melt into whispers shared between you and your husband and winces become faint, tired smiles. Elrond feels the strain of each push upon you, but marvels at your strength, the midwife all but telling you to slow down. "I beg your pardon," you reply, gritting your teeth, "but I must be free of this!" And free you are, for not long later cries fill the air and tears of relief and joy spill down your cheeks. Elrond caresses your face and meets your eyes with a tearful smile; never does this moment stale, in fact nothing in this world can compare. As soon as the bundle is placed in your hands, you hold your newborn out between you, Elrond taking hold and reaching out his other hand, which your daughter grasps. "She looks just like her mother," he tells you with a smile. "But hopefully she inherited her father's wisdom," you tease back with a tired grin.

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[mushroomates]

the fellowship at fancy restaurants:

aragorn: literally would not care if he ate gas station sushi at a truckstop, does not see the appeal of fancy but appreciates the atmosphere. likes taking arwen out for fancy food, great at scouting out the genuinely good places, not just the expensive ones.

boromir: will fight you over paying the check. his current move is pretend to go to the bathroom, stop by the concierge’s desk and drop off his credit card there. always gets some sort of steak.

merry: deceptively well mannered. is polite and well spoken. offers to foot the bill (rich parents) but it’s an empty gesture cuz my man doesn’t carry a wallet on him 90% of the time.

pippin: gets like 80 appetizers and dessert. eats a little off of everyone’s plate. likes to order of the “secret menu” and enjoys french fries at every fine dining establishment regardless if they are offered to begin with.

frodo: very polite, has a hard time deciding what he wants. ends up getting several things and either sharing it with sam or giving the rest of it to pippin. all hobbits are incapable of bringing home leftovers.

sam: makes frodo order for him cuz he’s worried he will mess up the fancy names. fuckin loves him some fancy potatoes. takes a pic of the menu and tries to re-create it at home, 9/10 times it’s better than what the restaurant has.

legolas: eats the garnish. orders fancy cocktails and then will lick the salt rim off, eat the lemon, or the entire whole cherry, stem and all. likes to get pretty salads and sometimes will requests dressing on the side but not even use the dressing.

gimli: fantastic tipper. will fight with boromir about who pays the bill. has great table manners. will ask staff for recommendations and just order what they tell him to. not a picky eater, even if he hates it he will finish it all.

gandalf: shows up an hour, hour and a half, late. asks for servers to “surprise him” pays in cash, leaves whatever number feels right of hundreds on the table and heads out before the bill comes. he has been known to both dine and dash as well as tip 80%.

[velvet4510]

I just love how Tolkien averted the “jealous brother/brotherly rivals” stereotype with Boromir and Faramir.

Denethor has major “parental preference” issues - he has never made any effort to hide the fact that Boromir is his favorite and he thinks Faramir is mediocre by comparison.

But Faramir never resents Boromir for this, nor does Boromir ever look down on Faramir because of his dad’s views. They unconditionally love and support each other, and know each other’s true worth. Faramir is very aware of Boromir’s shortcomings and is quick to understand his struggle with the Ring, but it doesn’t make him love Boromir any less. And for all his worship of his father, Boromir never agrees with his viewpoint on Faramir and instead sees Faramir’s real value and makes sure to always let him know it.

It’s really beautiful.

[winterinhimring]

I AM NOT OKAY ABOUT BOROMIR

He lives his entire life in a country that's facing off against the forces of evil incarnate. The borders are shrinking yearly. Their people are dying faster than they are born. He is the son of the Steward; he must be aware of all of this from his teens.

He grows up. He grows into a general. Now every loss is on him. Every father who won't come back to his sons. Every husband who won't come back to his wife. Every son who won't come back to his parents. Every inch of ground lost. He knows it's inevitable. He knows this is an unwinnable war. It's still his orders, his men, his country. He's failing them. Nobody could succeed, but it is him that fails all the same.

He gets sent off on a quest that roughly amounts to a modern British soldier being told (in a dream) 'go find Camelot, talk to the brownies, and get Arthur to come back here with Excalibur and save the day'. He goes, because those are his orders, and he's a good soldier.

He gets yanked into the weirdest spec-ops mission in history. They are trying to destroy an atomic bomb engineered by Satan. Half the participants are the aforementioned brownies, who are waist high and have manifestly never been in so much as a skirmish in their lives. (He tries to teach them how to use a sword, in the hopes that they won't die if there is an actual fight.) One is a wizard, two are somewhat more mundane myths, and one is a weird scruffy wilderness man that people keep telling Boromir to swear allegiance to. He goes along with it because he doesn't really have orders in this situation, but when he suggested using the atomic bomb, the wizard got very angry and swore a lot in a language he didn't understand and made the sky turn black, and everyone else seemed to view this as conclusive.

(The atomic bomb could save his country if they were allowed to use it, he's pretty sure. He tries not to think about that.)

For some reason, the wizard and company are determined not to go back to the nearest fortified city and regroup. They are determined to go straight to the heart of the enemy's realm. In the course of this determination, they get chased by crows, they climb a mountain which might be sentient and trying to kill them or might just be having a snowstorm because of an evil wizard, and they get buried in snow. The hobbits almost die.

Wizard and company still refuse to return to the fortified city and regroup. They go into a mythical city where there are supposed to be friends, and they find halls full of bodies. (This is more familiar territory than he wishes it was.) They get attacked by a giant lake squid. People keep throwing hobbits at him. (Seriously, Boromir gets so many hobbits chucked at him over the course of this movie.)

They get trapped inside the fallen mythical city. They've almost made it through when one of Actual Satan's massive fire-demons starts chasing them. (Keep in mind that the Balrogs were last heard of at the end of the First Age, and Boromir is a soldier, not a scholar. From a modern perspective, this is something like having a dragon the size of an airplane show up and attack your military platoon.) The wizard dies fighting the fire-demon. He pulls the hobbits out, keeps the dwarf from running back inside (to do what, Boromir doesn't know, but Gimli probably doesn't know either; Boromir has seen men get like that before when someone dies in front of them), and accepts the orders from the weird scruffy wilderness man because he seems to at least have an idea of where to go.

He follows the wilderness man right into another myth. He meets a woman who reads his mind and tells him that there's hope for his country to survive. (Boromir has not had hope since he realised that Gondor's borders were shrinking year by year and their army dwindling and their allies weren't coming to aid them. This probably happened roughly when he was sixteen. He is forty. Hope, even the idea of it, hurts so much more than despair ever did.)

When they are on the verge of leaving even the vestiges of friendly territory behind, he finally asks for the chance to use the enemy's weapon. He is shut down. He tries to take it by force (the only thing crueller than being given hope is having it taken away)...he does and says things he never thought he'd say or do.

He tries to hurt someone he's sworn to protect.

He's sorry. He's so terribly sorry, but the damage is done. Frodo has run from him like he's an orc.

There are actual orcs. Everywhere. He doesn't know where they came from but he finds Merry and Pippin. He fights to protect them. For a while, it seems like he will be enough, for this at least. (All his life, he has not been enough. Not enough to protect Gondor. Not enough to persuade Aragorn that it is worth protecting. Not enough to resist the temptation of the Ring.)

Once again, he isn't enough. He loses.

He watches them be dragged away, shouting for him as he kneels, helpless, struggling for breath against the arrows piercing his chest.

And then. And then, for the first time in who knows how long (perhaps for the first time ever) someone takes the weight off of Boromir's shoulders. Aragorn arrives. Aragorn fights to protect him, and promises to defend Gondor in his place. He promises, I will not let our people fall.

For the first time since he first realised what was happening to his country, Boromir has real hope. Perhaps Aragorn can do what he couldn't. Perhaps Boromir never needed to win the war. He held out until Aragorn came, made sure that the promised king of legend had a country to return to, and perhaps...perhaps that was enough.

Maybe Gondor will survive this. Boromir won't, but that's alright, if his people (his brother) do.

He swears his allegiance to Aragorn now, taking back his words at the Council, with the last of his breath.

Then he dies.