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this is what frodo saw when galadriel and celeborn walked down those steps for the first time

(galadriel is the one on the left)

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that muppet post reminded me, most if not all of the main muppets have twitter pages. Fav has gotta be Miss Piggys, which is filled with selfies and vaguely uplifting text thats also egocentric. all the comments are people complimenting her and being like “YAS QUEEN”

Close second is Gonzos. Which is just…unhinged

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LOTR + text posts

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perfect new meme template just dropped

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More LoTR memes

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Legolas 🏹

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Waiting

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

Waiting

She kept on waiting. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so she waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Captain of Gondor took her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes, “Will you come with me now to my city? Will you marry me there?”

“There is nothing else I would rather do, Boromir,” she admitted, her words a whisper.

“I dreamed of hearing these words from you,” he placed another kiss on her lips. “Let us ride. We both have waited long enough.”

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last christmas man me a sand but the very next day man car door hook hand

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my only advice is to BE CAREFUL posting about holiday traditions around europeans. you'll post something casual like "anyone else watch the old Grinch movie every year? what a classic" and a european will appear as if summoned and say some shit like "funny how USAmericans always CONVENIENTLY forget that Not Everyone On Earth is from The USA…….. no of COURSE we dont watch 'the grunch' or whatever the fuck that is…. our tradition is to attend a community showing of Glummdorf the Racial Stereotype"

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I know that Boromir is explicitly compared to King Eärnur and I know why, but my baseless personal headcanon is that he's not that much of a fan of a king who got himself killed in tactically asinine circumstances rather than prioritizing his people, particularly when the end result of Eärnur's life choices is Boromir himself carrying the weight of protecting Gondor. Boromir's true icon is Tar-Telperiën, the proud unmarried queen who firmly maintained Númenórean autonomy and priorities, but who was the actual ruler when Númenórean forces first showed up on the coast of Lindon to save the Elves and kick Sauron back to Mordor.

The line about Boromir only being interested in lore when it came to military things—well, kicking Sauron's ass out of all of Eriador and forcing him to desperately flee counts as military lore! I imagine that Boromir knows and loves that story down to the most granular tactical details recorded. Whenever some hidebound loremaster goes on about Tar-Telperiën's reign being a period of total disengagement from Middle-earth's problems while Númenor only interceded under Tar-Minastir, Boromir goes from zzzzzz to "well AKSHUALLY" in about a quarter second.

(This is also aro-ace leadership solidarity in my mind, but mostly because Boromir thinks Telperiën's successful navigation of bullshit politics without marrying, while finding time to orchestrate the defeat of Sauron's armies, is awesome.)

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hi! i just read you leap of faith parts and it made my heat flutter🩷 how do you think legolas, boromir, and aragorn would react to you sleep talking during the journey? i always thought it would be funny !

Thanks so much!! I’m so glad you liked it. I’m still having trouble finding a voice for Aragorn, and I’m ready to move on from Legolas for now, but here’s a bit about Boromir and a sleeptalking reader for you <3 I meant for this to be a 300 word drabble but it got away from me a bit, as usual.

A Thief in the Night

Boromir/gender-neutral reader

Rating: G

Word count: 1,300

Read on AO3!

“No, no, please!”

Boromir’s eyes snapped open. Your bedroll was the closest to his in the Fellowship’s makeshift camp, and your panicked cry had him wide awake at once. He leapt from his bedroll with a warrior’s instinct, his hand flying to his sword to defend you from— 

Nothing. You were still asleep.

The entire Fellowship remained undisturbed, other than occasional resounding snores from Gimli, a peaceful breeze ruffling the tall grass around your camp.

But even in the faint moonlight, it was clear your sleep was not peaceful, not any longer. “Please, they’re mine, you can’t…please—” Your eyes darted back and forth under their lids, your limbs twitching. Boromir hardly recognized your voice, hoarse with misery, sharpening quickly to fury. “I said they’re mine, give them back!” 

In the throes of your dream, you stretched out a grasping hand, nearly clawing at his concerned face as he leaned over you. “Whoa now,” he murmured, catching your thrashing wrists in a broad hand. Your mouth twisted into a snarl as you strained at his grip, vainly reaching for something long lost. 

Boromir sent a reluctant look back to his sword. Would that your tormentor was a thing of flesh and blood, something he might tear apart on your behalf! Such intangible enemies as these were beyond him. How was one meant to calm someone lost to such a nightmare? Uncertainly, he whispered your name. “Come now, you must wake.” 

Your unconscious attempts to shake him off put him in mind of a horse beset by flies. “No, no, stop, you sneaking—foul—thief! Give them back, damn you…”

Clumsily, he brushed the back of his fingers along your cheek, interrupting your tirade. “Arise, dearest, for you—” He choked at dearest, stifling a hurried cough. Valar, he had hardly intended to address you so intimately—it must have been a slip of the tongue, he decided, in his haste to comfort you.

Or perhaps his own dreams, cut short by your cries, had not yet left his mind.

Still, you remained asleep, and likely for the best. He took a deep breath and jostled your shoulder—less intimate, and therefore a good deal safer. “Wake up! I shall retrieve what was taken from you, if I can. But you must wake.” 

“No—no, you thieving rat, Pippin—”

“Pippin?” he repeated, startled. Had he heard you wrong? 

“…don’t even need them—hobbits don’t even wear shoes, just give them back!” 

“What?”

His baffled exclamation woke you at last, traces of fury still lingering on your brow. “What? Where—where is Pippin?”

Boromir raised an eyebrow. “The thieving rat, you mean? Sleeping soundly in his bedroll.”

“No, no, it’s a lie! My walking boots, Pippin stole them, he…he…” But your voice trailed off in confusion as your mind returned to you. Your eyes flickered down to your hands, still caught gently in his, then back up to his face. 

Coughing hastily, Boromir withdrew. “You—you were dreaming.” 

“Oh. Yes.” Groggily, you sat up and rubbed at your eyes. “Pippin stole my walking boots.”

Boromir stared at you for a long moment. You stared back. Then he was laughing, more heartily than he had in months—perhaps since he’d left Minas Tirith on this cursed journey in the first place. He rested his forearm on his bent knee, burying his head in the crook of his arm to stifle the sound. 

Stretching out his other leg beside you, he met your gaze again at last, tears of mirth welling in his eyes. Your defensive scowl mollified him a bit, though he could not help smiling fondly at you.

“It made a great deal of sense in my mind, you know,” you protested. “Pippin grew jealous that hobbits wore no shoes, as the race of Man does. So he took my boots when I removed them for the night, put them on, and fled—oh, stop laughing, will you? You’ll wake the others!” 

Boromir nodded, valiantly attempting to calm himself. “I had thought you beset by some great terror,” he admitted, “but I had not expected such betrayal from within our own Company.” 

“It was not so dire as all that,” you muttered, looking embarrassed. “I had nearly caught him when you woke me.” 

“Is that so?”

You nodded. “Pippin was unused to wearing boots. He ran like a dog trying to cross a frozen pond.” 

For another moment, Boromir was lost again, chest heaving helplessly with silent laughter until you delivered a swift punch to his arm. “Ahem. Forgive me.” He had not meant to lose himself to your words like a drunken, lovesick youth. “Always you take me by surprise,” he said softly, in explanation.

“Yes, well. You are forgiven.” A shy smile played on your lips, and he beamed at the sight.

“Would that all our dreams were so lighthearted—that yours might remain so, though we journey into darkness.” On impulse, he took your hand in his again, squeezing warmly. “Would that I might protect you from—”

“From thieving hobbits?”

Valar, how he wanted to kiss you. “Yes, exactly.” He sent an exaggerated glower in Pippin’s direction, hoping to win more of your laughter. 

But your smile had grown pensive, and you shook your head. “Have your dreams been so dark, then, Boromir?” 

No one had asked him such a thing before, had ever given a thought to his dreams beyond the one that had brought him hither. “They have been, at times. But not tonight. I—” He looked away quickly, his traitorous mind supplying memories of his earlier dream in salacious, torturous detail. “Well. Pippin’s untimely theft woke me from it, in any case.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed it,” you said. “He interrupted a more pleasant dream for me, too.”

“Oh?” He risked meeting your eyes again, but found that you were the one looking hurriedly away now. It was too dark to tell, but he thought a flush was rising to your cheeks. 

“It’s—a dream I’ve had often before. There was no harm done, really.” Your hand fidgeted in his. “Boromir, I—I have not talked in my sleep before tonight, have I?” 

“Not that I have heard,” he assured you, and your shoulders slumped in relief. He eyed you curiously for a moment more, but you offered no further explanation, your eyes still determinedly avoiding his. “I should let you return to your rest,” he said at length, “that such a dream might find you again.” 

Now the heat on your face was obvious, even in the faint moonlight. “Thank you.” Meeting his eyes at last, you disentangled your hand from his, patting the back of his hand fondly before drawing away. “I wish you the same.”

“I...I will see you at dawn, then,” he said awkwardly, distracted by the heat of your fingers still sinking into his palm.

Smiling softly, you turned away and burrowed into your bedroll. “Oh, I hope to see you sooner than that,” you murmured. “Providing no thieving hobbits interrupt me again.”

It took a moment for your words to sink in. “What?” Boromir leaned over your bedroll again, blood thrumming in his ears—but your eyes were determinedly shut tight, the hand that had rested in his clutched tight to your chest. “Will you not speak plainly?” he demanded, and he swore a faint grin flickered over your lips.

“Goodnight, Boromir.” Your teasing voice was so faint that he nearly missed it, and he retreated to his blankets with his mind racing, his heart pounding, thoroughly defeated and thoroughly in love.

There was no chance of returning to his dreams of you now, he knew. In only a few words, you had robbed him of his sleep for the rest of the night—and likely many more nights to come.

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I don’t know if Denethor’s own relationship with his father played into it necessarily, but that’s an interesting idea. I always got the sense that Denethor saw not necessarily himself in Faramir, but who he could have been if the war hadn’t worn him down so badly.

Both Denethor and Faramir are brilliant and can read people really well (literal mind reading!!) but decades of war and doomscrolling through the palantir have made Denethor disdainful and suspicious of everyone, while Faramir still sees the good in people. Of course Denethor would resent his son for thinking that way!

In Denethor’s mind, Faramir’s kindness and gentleness and love of intelligence for its own sake are all things that are going to get him killed (and by extension everyone in Gondor) and are things he himself could never afford to have.

Maybe if things had been different Denethor could have afforded to see people the way his second son does, but they weren’t and he can’t and how dare Faramir have the hope and warmth that was denied to his own father?

It can’t help that the people of Minas Tirith love both Boromir and Faramir. What do you mean the people love Faramir, don’t they know he’s going to get them all killed the way he’s going about things?? Denethor may not have a lot in common with Boromir, but at least Boromir is a warrior at heart and that’s better for the war effort than whatever epic poems Faramir’s been reading all day.

Admittedly I haven’t read ROTK in ages so I’m sure there’s a million different reads on this fun family dynamic, but that’s always been my take

So in chapter one of ROTK we learn that Denethor loves Boromir more than Faramir because Denethor and Faramir are so alike, and Boromir is different. I feel like this is very much lost in the films, and we end up with the impression that Boromir is the golden child because he is following exactly in his father’s footsteps, thinks the same, and supports all his goals. But in reality, it’s the opposite.

I think this implies a certain level of self-hatred that Denethor carries, which he projects onto Faramir. But what happened to make Denethor devalue the characteristics of their Numenorean heritage? Why doesn’t he value he and Faramir’s foresight, knowledge of lore, and steadiness?

Could it be that Ecthelion treated Denethor like Denethor treats Faramir? Did Denethor learn the behavior from his own father?