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entishramblings · 1 year ago

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Fuck the Forbidden Pt. 1

[Boromir/F!MermaidReader]

PART 2 | PART 3 — coming soon!

Fuck the Forbidden: FTF LINK MASTERLIST

A.N: so, I went to see the little mermaid live action and I couldn’t resist making a one-shot inspired by it. however,,, there are some twists and turns to the tail (heh see what I did there) so it is a bit different ;)

Request: none

Pairing: Boromir X Fem!MermaidReader

Summary: The Reader is a Mermaid and witnessed a shipwreck. She becomes interested in human life—particularly one human: Boromir.

Disclaimer: Any mythology relating to the mermaids of middle earth is not canon. also I tried my best with arda water/river geography plz don’t come at me—it’s not one of my finer subjects :/

Word Count: 9.5k — listen, I have a problem

Warnings: depression, drowning, ptsd, alcoholism, angst, comfort, fluff, stalking (idk how to make that last one sound less creepy. you’re just gonna have to read it).

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The gulf of the great sea was known to bring down ships in the Bay of Belfalas during an unlucky storm. The rocky path towards the shore had claimed the lives of many during such circumstances. Though the weather was usually fair, now was not one of those times. The ship, The Deseirre, rocked and tilted under the storm's ruling, making it nearly impossible for the crew to evade the onslaught of unwelcomed waves crashing aboard. The harsh waters hit hard upon the men manning the vessel, nearly drowning them in the angry salt water of the sea as they desperately tried to keep the boat from going down. The captain of the ship was manning the wheel, turning and spinning it with frantic urgency. The quartermaster was calling out orders, directing the crew's efforts to secure the hatches and hold the ship steady. The sailors were running lines and yanking on ropes, hoping to pull the sails in a direction that would keep them afloat. However, as the night sky wept and bellowed in rage, it further obscured the treacherous rocks lurking in the cove. Still, Boromir prayed that their vessel wouldn’t be one to join the graveyard below.

“ONE. OF. YOU. FUCKING MORONS—“ A wave crashed down upon the quartermaster, stealing his sentence for a moment. The water slid across the deck, revealing his form. His waterlogged body fumbled to rise. “—GO REEF THE SAILS! NOW!”

The Captain of the Minas Tirith Guard caught the desperate man’s gaze and nodded—telling him that he would be the one to do the task. Boromir then took to stumbling across the rocking ship, dodging flying parcels and rolling barrels, as he attempted to get to the ship’s mast.

A sudden cry interrupted his actions, causing Boromir to turn his attention. It was Elidon, the youngest member of their group at the age of fourteen. He had been hit by one of the barrels—and three more were coming his way.

Instantly, the Gondorian Captain moved to his aid. He jumped in-front of the boy and took the blow of the next barrel before yanking them both out of the way of the other two.

“Sir Boromir, th—thank you.” Elidon stammered out.

He patted the younger’s shoulder in recognition of his thanks. “Help Heimir and the rest of the crew! Go!”

��But—but where are you going?! That side of the ship is getting hit with the most water?!”

“The sails must be reefed! Go to Heimir!” he yelled as he ran off towards the rigging.

A diplomatic mission, his father had called it.

Boromir, now at the mast, grasped onto the ropes and heaved himself up onto the first prong of the rigging.

Just a quick check-in across the seas to confirm their trade routes and hold relations, he had said.

The Captain of the Guard twisted his fingers as the wet material slipped from them, nearly losing his grasp.

It would be an easy sail, Denethor had claimed.

Boromir struggled to keep his footing as a large wave crashed upon him, disorienting him.

Not too far of a venture, he had insisted.

Of course, without any objection, Boromir had agreed to go to be the face of such discussions. After all, Gondor needed a representative, and who could be more suitable than the steward’s son himself?! Boromir had been actively assisting his father in various administrative tasks to ensure the smooth operation of Minas Tirith—hell, he was captain of the guard! Therefore, a simple sail was nothing; but, much to his dismay, this was no simple sail. They had come across rough waves and rocky terrain through their journey. They had hoped that the way back wouldn’t be as difficult. But, boy, were they wrong. It was worse.

So here the Soldier of Gondor was, climbing the rigging to reach the sails and secure the reef points. Hopefully, with luck, it would reduce the risk of the ship capsizing.

He was nearly there, only a couple feet away, when he first heard it: the shouting.

Though it was not just the yelling of orders and commands.

No, no, this was different.

This was the shouting of terror. A cry to let the rest of them know it was too late. There was nothing to be done at this point. It was just a warning—for them to brace themselves. They had but seconds.

One. Two. Three.

The ship crashed hard upon a rock, the sound of the splintering snap of wood getting lost in that of lightning.

Boromir's desperate grip grew stronger, his fingers digging into the coarse fibers of the rope as his legs flailed helplessly in the air. He could feel the burn of the material tearing and ripping open his skin, an agonizing reminder of the dire situation he found himself in. Yet despite this, he clung to that lifeline, his very existence hanging by a thread. He didn’t want to die. No, not like this.

The crew members' panicked voices echoed through the air, their urgent cries piercing the tense atmosphere and striking reality back into Boromir’s bones. Swiftly, they scrambled towards the lifeboats, driven by the need for survival. The soldier knew the ship was done. The irrevocable truth was evident—the ship was destined to sink and there was no saving it.

With a swift twist of his head, Boromir shook off the wet strands of hair that clung to his face, obscuring his vision. He knew he had to get to the others—quickly. His eyes darted from one possible route to another, assessing each for its level of safety.

Boromir, with his heart pounding, shifted his position. He would have to swing for it.

With a calculated movement, he extended his arm, stretching it out towards a rope that hung close by. His fingers grazed its surface, but it remained just out of his immediate reach.

He tried again. His palm collided with the rope, yet still, it slipped from his grasp.

Determined, Boromir reconfigured his stance once more, hoping that this adjustment would be the key to finally bridging the gap between his outstretched hand and his only lifeline.

However, just as he was to make contact, a powerful wave slammed into his back. This sent him flying through the air. Helpless and disoriented, he tumbled uncontrollably down the rigging, hurtling towards the ship's deck. With mere seconds to react, he desperately attempted to reposition his form mid-fall, aiming to land on the meatiest part of his body. However, before he could even try to execute any maneuver, a gust of wind propelled a swinging beam directly towards him. Its side rammed right into his abdomen, forcefully taking him along its path. A pained groan escaped his lips as his head collided with yet another beam. The darkness then consumed him.

From their lifeboats, the crew gazed in disbelief at the sight of the Steward's Son, a figure who had always treated them with kindness and compassion, being tossed about in the air like a little gnat. The rage of the sea batted him away dismissively, as if he was nothing more than a little pest. With mouths agape in astonishment, the sailors watched Boromir’s lifeless form plummeting into the water—water that seemed to almost reach up towards him, as if the ocean itself yearned to soften the pain of his fall. The roar and rumble of the waves then consumed him and his limp form vanished beneath the inky depths. He was swallowed whole by the relentless force of the sea.

“Make for the shore!” The captain of the now non-existent ship hollered.

“But Captain!” Elidon cried out frantically. “What of Sir Boromir?! We cannot leave him!”

Grasping the torn and drenched fabric of his younger companion's tunic, the captain hollered his reply. “No man could have survived a blow to the back of the head like that. Forget Sir Boromir!” His gaze then shifted urgently towards Heimir, a comrade who shared in the grief of the recently departed. "Row for the shore! NOW! We cannot delay a moment longer!"

“But Captain!” Elidon shouted.

“Shut it boy! Or I will throw you over too!” he snapped back.

Reluctantly, Heimir and another sailor, Stinar, started to row. The little lifeboat began to surge with the way of the winds as the men upon it desperately attempted to bring it home steady—the friend that some had held so dearly, abandoned to the black sea.

The men, however, did not know one thing—the most important thing.

They didn’t know of the legends that had almost since faded from their line. The legends that only the eldest of sailors dared to even whisper of—even after a couple pints. The legends of the beautiful and sinful beasts of the sea. The ones that lured men to their deaths and used their skeletons for fashioning jewelry.

…..

Amidst the disassembling of The Deseirre—its fragments mercilessly thrown upon the tumultuous waves to be claimed by the gods of deep—a pair of vigilant eyes floated atop the water's surface.

Their curious gaze captured the ethereal moonlight, reflecting its shimmering glow as the sea raged on. Observing intently, they absorbed the tragic spectacle of the ship bending and breaking. They witnessed the anguished cries of its crew and the frenzied efforts of those fighting for survival. In solemn stillness, they silently beheld the suffering. Yet, a tender warmth seeped into those unwavering eyes when they witnessed one soul selflessly shielding another of many years younger. This man took the brunt of debris, despite the pain. And, well, those inquiring eyes decided to follow that man.

They watched as he scrambled across the ship, desperately climbing to reach or do….something. They didn't know exactly what his goal was, but from his frantic behavior, they could only guess it was intended to prevent the ship from going down. His efforts, however, appeared to be in vain, for the ship was splitting into ruins and the men were abandoning it—all but him. He tried. Oh, yes, he tried very hard, but it seemed the odds were not in his favor.

Down he fell—spiraling unconscious towards the abyss.

And those eyes, the ones that surveyed the shipwreck, were connected to a lifeform that could feel such pain—pain of the heart. They belonged to one called (Y/N).

(Y/N) knew she shouldn’t.

They were not allowed to—none of them were.

It was forbidden among their clan.

Though the begging of the young boy yanked upon the crevices of her chest.

It was forbidden.

All men couldn't be like those ones—the ones her father fought in ‘TheWar of the Riptides’ all those centuries ago.

It was forbidden.

This man—this man couldn't be like them. No. No, he wasn't like them. He was a good man.

It was forbidden.

He had saved the boy and taken the pain with no complaint. After all that had happened in the past couple centuries, she had to believe that there was some kindness—some decency—left in the human race. And in that act, she saw it. She knew she saw it. So, here, listening to the young boy plead for the rescue of the man, Boromir, she could not let it disappear.

It was forbidden.

She couldn't let that kindness rot at the bottom of the deep.

It was forbidden.

She could not let it cease to exist.

Fuck the forbidden.

(Y/N) extended her palm outward, commanding the water to cradle the man's body, cushioning his descent and lessening the impact. The waves obediently rose, embracing his lifeless form for a fleeting moment before consuming him. Swiftly, she dipped beneath the surface, her tail propelling her gracefully through the depths. It took only mere seconds for her to locate the drifting figure, and without hesitation, she folded her arms around his limp frame. Drawing upon the innate strength bestowed upon her people, her fins pushed them both upwards. Their heads emerged from the water's surface and the moonlight bathed them in unison with the rain.

Ensuring the man’s head remained above the water's surface, the mermaid skillfully navigated her way towards the shoreline. She glided past the treacherous rocky terrain that had proven to be the ship’s demise. She evaded the broken debris that came from the hopeless fight. And she eluded the relentless onslaught of waves that came to snatch the prize she had stolen.

(Y/N) reached the shore at the break of dawn, just as the sun began its ascent to its position among the sky. The storm had halted during the first rays of light and now it kissed her skin and scales with praise. As she brushed upon the land, she gently laid Boromir’s head down upon the sand. Slow and soft she went about it. She was so careful with him. So diligent. She wanted him to survive. She needed him to survive.

With caution, (Y/N) leaned in and placed her ear against Boromir’s chest, her brow creasing and her lips tensing.

Please, please, please.

And there it was: the sound of blood thundering through veins, mimicking the tantrum of the storm in a mocking delight.

(Y/N) smiled softly. Oh yes, fuck the forbidden.

She lifted her head from the man’s form and bit her lip as a strange guilt flooded through her heart. Despite her relief, apprehension crept into her mind as she dreaded the potential consequences from the gods—and her father. She understood deep down that she should not have intervened. Just coming to the surface was bad enough. But this? Saving a man? Surely that was an extreme that shouldn’t have been trifled with. The mere glimpse of her tail, by even a single human, would forever rekindle the forgotten war between the races. It would seal the fate of the merfolk, burying them in their ocean.

It was forbidden.

(Y/N) turned to look behind her at the open ocean.

The little lifeboats were still a mile or two out. She had time—just a little time.

Despite the shame of her people that hung around her neck, she focused her care upon the unconscious man. Resting her elbow in the warm sand beside him, (Y/N) fixed her gaze upon his serene expression. Unable to resist, her index finger traced a delicate path along his cheekbone, his lips, and his chin. He didn’t seem like the humans from the tales. They all had been war-torn and death-driven. He was the opposite. He valued life—if it hadn't been for him that young boy would have found a new home in the watery graveyard. (Y/N) brushed his dark sandy hair from his face as she continued to caress his skin. Softly, she began to hum a healing harmony, seeking to provide solace to the motionless man. However, her efforts were brought to an abrupt halt when shouts sounded from the cliff above.

The land-dwellers had caught sight of the lifeboats, and it was only a matter of time before they set their eyes upon her. The fleeting sense of time she had once perceived vanished in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming sense of urgency. Yet, a spluttering cough at her side diverted her focus, triggering another surge of anxiety within her core.

It was forbidden.

“Who are you?” Boromir croaked, his squinting and blinking eyes conveying that he could not yet focus on her. His trembling hand then reached out to cup her cheek, taking its time to search for her skin in the air. As he did so, his palm accidently brushed upon her necklace of shell, seaglass, and bone. Still, he fumbled for tangible confirmation of her presence, and he did so until his hand found her face. “Who are you?” he whispered once more.

She placed her hand upon his beating heart. “Survive and live,” she commanded.

Then she was gone.

…..

Boromir sat up in his bed, the comforters pooling around his waist. His brother paced with restless energy before him, meandering across the floor in an agitated rhythm.

Back and forth.

“You never should have gone on that sail.” Faramir murmured. “Father never should have asked it of you—not with the waters getting more and more unpredictable by the day.”

Boromir sighed, tired of every version of this conversation that always seemed to come up no matter the circumstance. “Faramir, it is not his fault…”

The younger stopped his anxious steps and turned to look at Boromir. “Not his fault? You never should have been on that ship!”

“Yes, I should have. Keeping relations with neighboring territories is important. I had to be there.”

Faramir shook his head. “No, father should have gone himself if it was that important.”

“Faramir…” Boromir chided, emotionally exhausted and weary to the bone. “Please, let it rest. I cannot bear the arguing. Not now.”

The younger man let out a sigh, offering a nod of compliance. He settled himself on the edge of the bed, his kind blue eyes—that mirrored his brother’s—resting gently upon the fatigued figure. “I am sorry. I fear losing you to an ill fate, especially one so unnecessary.”

The Captain of the Guard offered a gentle smile. "Fear not, little brother. I managed to escape such a dire fate. The gods did not intend it for me, at least not now. I was saved."

Faramir arched an eyebrow, taken aback by his brother's particular wording. "Saved?"

Boromir inclined his head, his expression displaying a hint of reluctance. After a brief pause, he spoke once more. “Yes. Someone, well, someone rescued me.”

“What? Who? How do you know?”

A chuckle escaped Boromir, tinged with a touch of dark bitterness that resonated in his voice. "I was in a state of unconsciousness. I was drowning. There was no way I could have reached the shore, or even surfaced, on my own. Not in the state I was in."

“You don't think the tides brought you in?”

He shook his head. “Nay. The waters were too rough. They pushed me under and to the depths.”

Faramir huffed, trying to make sense of his brother's words. “Well,” he began, standing and patting his brother’s leg. “We must thank whichever crew member yanked you up and—”

“Faramir,” The Captain interrupted. “It was a woman.”

“—drug you to–to—a woman?” he questioned.

Boromir inhaled slowly. “Yes. It wasn't a crew member. It was a woman.”

“How do you know? Did you see her?”

“Just–just glimpses of colors and shapes.”

“Boromir–” he started.

With a bit of aggression, the Captain’s voice snapped. “I heard her!” He paused, regretting his tone and collecting his emotions before speaking firmly. “I heard her. She—she sang to me. She spoke to me.”

Faramir crossed his arms, his doubt evident. “She spoke to you? What did she say then?”

He looked up at his brother, focusing his gaze intently. “Survive and live. She said to survive and live.”

“You narrowly escaped death, Boromir. That was just your mind playing tricks on you as minds do to many who have a brush with such darkness. You, a soldier, know this.” He huffed. “Get some rest.”

With that, Faramir parted from Boromir’s bedchambers—leaving the stubborn man behind.

Boromir let out a weary sigh. Frustration, confusion, and restlessness weighing heavily on his heart. He had been confined to his bed for a day and a half, and the need to move, to be free, to live—it grew stronger within him.

Therefore, the Captain drew back the blankets and rose from the soft mattress that had carefully held his form while he healed. His feet felt strange upon the cold stone floor. It felt quiet and empty. It felt lonely and still. Boromir exhaled slowly. These feelings—they haunted him ever since the shipwreck. It was as if a fragment of his soul had been chipped away and consumed by the sea. It felt as if something dear to him was missing. He worried that whatever that piece was it lay at the bottom of the dark abyss.

He turned to look at the sunset beyond the glass of the window, shedding its soft gaze upon the waters that had threatened to claim his life. Driven to it, he moved near it, allowing that melody to echo in his mind once more.

That woman was out there….somewhere….and Boromir felt a pull to find her.

The Captain of the Guard shook his head at these thoughts.

Maybe Faramir was right?

Maybe there was no woman?

Maybe the tides had somehow rolled his body to land?

Maybe his mind was just plagued by the ghost of death that had reached for his soul?

Deciding that dwelling on such matters after two days of being bedridden was not going to help, he opted for a night out in his city. It would do him good—to see his people, his friends, his home. Therefore, Boromir was quick to dress and exit the castle of Minas Tirith, making haste towards his favorite tavern.

As soon as his footsteps passed the familiar threshold, his friends—sailors and soldiers—cheered his name and beckoned him further inside. With a radiant smile adorning his weary face, the Gondor Captain complied. His feet moved his form towards their table, glad for the welcome. The aroma of freshly baked bread and frothing ales mingled with the lively chatter of his companions, creating a relaxing ambiance of recognition. Food and drink were quickly passed to his empty hands, and he gratefully accepted. The nourishment, both physical and spiritual, infused him with renewed strength. The burdens of the past were momentarily lifted, replaced by a shared sense of joy and belonging.

However, as the ale flowed and lips ran loose, conversation soon turned towards the shipwreck—the biggest talk of the city.

“Man, I thought ya were a goner!” Heimir stated. “I watched as that beam ran right into ya and down ya went! By Eru, I swear the water came up to grab ya! There was no way ya could’ve survived that, I said. No way.”

Boromir shrugged, lifting his ale to his lips, unease regarding the direction of the conversation settling. “The gods must have been looking out for me,” he tried to dismiss.

The other dark-haired sailor, Stinar, shook his head. “And I’d be glad of it. Elidon was nearly in tears when the ship Cap’n said we had to leave ya behind!”

Boromir smiled softly. “He has a pure heart. Though I don't think there was a way that any of you could have saved me if you stayed. The Captain was right. I agree with his decision.”

Rollo, a soldier in Boromir’s guard, interjected. “See! This is why I stick to the sword! You'll never catch me on a ship. Hell, no.”

Laughter bubbled up at that comment, lightening the mood momentarily.

However, an older sailor, Iwar, leaned forward. “How’d ye do it then, lad?”

“Do what?” Boromir inquired.

“Ye know what I mean—” the old man grabbed him by the shoulder. “—survive, live, breathe for fucks sake!”

Boromir’s gaze cast down upon the table, just for a moment. There were those words again: survive, live. Feeling the ale run heavy in his blood and the despair that seemed to be chasing him surface, he looked up. Choosing to speak of his uncertainty, in hopes of comfort, he opened his lips. “Faramir says it must’ve been the tides.”

Heimir frowned at his friend’s doubtful tone, taking a swig. “Ya think it wasn't?”

Boromir shifted uncomfortably. “Unsure. I—I was unconscious. I don't remember anything until I was on the shore.”

“The sand told ya nothin then?” Stinar laughed out, clearly making jest.

Though, in the midst of Boromir's contemplative silence, a subtle shift in the atmosphere enveloped the group. Their collective intuition picked up on this unease, hinting at the darkness that followed their friend.

It was Iwar that spoke in a hushed whisper first. “Ye saw one of em,’ didn’t ya?”

All eyes drifted, unsure, to the old man.

“What do you mean?” Boromir questioned, his tone wavering.

A distant expression clouded the man's eyes, as if he had lost a part of his very soul to the depths of the ocean. “They wear the bones of our fallen kin. All strung up upon their necks like jewelry. We are spoils for them—spoils for them to take and do as they please.”

Stinar’s smile slowly dripped from his face. “Uh, what, uh, who?”

Iwar looked at Boromir, his green eyes bright and vibrant with the remembrance of fear. “The women of the sea,” he hissed.

At this, Heimir snorted and took a drink from his cup. “Women of the sea? Now look who’s had too many pints!”

Though, the tension only intensified, spreading outward like ripples on water, as Boromir averted his gaze.

“Boromir, tell em’ that he’s crazy! There be none of these sea women!” Heimir persisted, anxiety now stirring through his bones.

However, the silence lingered. It was strong and still—oppressive even. It magnified the odors of the stale ale, tavern piss, and sticky sweat that clung to the unwashed bodies that frequented such a joint.

“S-she sang to me,” Boromir whispered, for the second time that day.

Heimir and Stinar froze, their pints stiff and unmoving before their lips.

Iwar's weathered hand clamped tightly around the Captain of the Minas Tirith Guard's arm, his grip desperate and tinged with panic. “Did ye see it? The jewelry of bone? The slimy tail as hard as stone? They will sing to lure ye into their trap. Then they will devour ye in their nests of coral! Ye saw one of em,’ didn’t yer?”

Boromir's brows knitted together in disbelief. It seemed utterly preposterous, a mere fabrication spun from the ramblings of an old, intoxicated mind. There couldn't possibly be sea-dwelling women hunting them down. It was a nonsensical tale. With a dismissive gesture, he reached for his cup of ale, freeing his arm from the old man's grasp. "I have no idea what you're talking about. There was only a woman—a human woman."

Heimir grinned, laughing loudly and obnoxiously, as he slapped the Captain of the Guard's shoulder. “AYE! No sea tits to lure ya away from us! LET’S DRINK!”

…..

(Y/N) form twisted and turned as she moved with the current. She easily slipped above the corals and the reefs, through the sand dunes and the seagrass meadows, beyond the underwater canyons and the abyssal trenches. As she moved further, her iridescent scales—green, blue, purple, pink, orange—shimmered in the sunlight that had made it through the thick water, casting a mesmerizing display of colors. With each flick of her tail, she effortlessly propelled herself forward, closer to the realm of the merfolk.

As she came across one of the ship graveyards, she could not resist slipping through the ruins. Her keen eyes scanned her surroundings, curious and watchful, as she navigated the underwater cemetery. While she swam, her gaze drifted over all the little trinkets and forgotten treasures that the humans were forced to leave behind. Things she knew and things she did not. Books, maps, chests, and clothes—all scattered and heavy at the bottom of the sea. All forgotten. All forbidden.

As she came upon one of the men’s skeletons her brows pulled together and her hand reached for her necklace. The soft whispers of the sea echoed, as if it was trying to convince her to do what she desired. She knew she shouldn't. She knew she shouldn't make something for a human. It was a custom of the sea folk—not something to be shared with the land-dwellers. However, an insistent voice within the watery depths urged her on. (Y/N) cast a cautious glance in both directions, torn between her instincts and the weight of tradition. Succumbing to the persistent salty murmurings in her ear, she yielded to temptation. Seizing hold of one of the bones—the femur—she forcefully dislodged it from its resting place.

(Y/N) had initially intended to return directly to her father's castle, concealed beneath the shifting vallying dunes. However, something else tugged at her mind. If she were to proceed, she needed to acquire knowledge. With a sharp twist of her tail, she pushed herself back towards the ship that held the maps and artifacts. Her delicate hands sifted through each item, seeking the one she sought. Eventually, she stumbled upon a relatively intact parchment, its ink only slightly drifting. It contained a comprehensive depiction of the land, with all the locations meticulously scrawled. Every river and pond was carefully marked, and the paths upon the land were intricately detailed. It held the very information she needed.

With the map firmly grasped in one hand and the bone held carefully in the other, (Y/N) swam swiftly back home. It didn't take long for her to locate a secluded crevice where she could settle herself. There, she devoted hours upon hours to examine the parchment depicting the lands of the surface dwellers, tracing her finger along the various routes and pathways. When she exhausted such things, her attention turned to the femur that she had securely stowed in her bag. With quick movements, she continued to rummage through her satchel until her fingers found the familiar shape of a knife. (Y/N) then embarked on her task, delicately scraping the blade against the bone's surface, etching the carving she had planned.

It was only when her sister Anahita's voice reached her ears that (Y/N) finally lifted her gaze from her endeavors. “(Y/N)! There you are! Father has been oh so worried!”

Nerida echoed her sentiments. “Where have you been?!”

Amidst their inquiries, a mischievous gasp escaped from Una's lips, her tone playful, “By the shipwrecks, I see!”

‘The shipwrecks? What is your purpose there? You know the sharks like to linger,” Anahita persisted.

Slightly flustered by their sudden appearance and interrogation, (Y/N) swiftly concealed the bone, which was slowly taking the form of a whale, behind her tail. "What? No! Certainly not!" she responded, attempting to dismiss any notion of her activities near the shipwrecks.

Una swam towards her, giggling, before she snatched the femur from under her sister’s tale. “A bone from the human graves. Someone is in love!!!!!” she sang out.

“Shut up, Una! No, I am not!” (Y/N) retorted, her voice tinged with embarrassment and denial.

Plucking the half finished craving from Una, Nerdia joined in the teasing. “OoOo! A whale! Compassion. Care. Benevolence. Given to the protectors of the weak.”

Anahita grinned. “So who is it? Someone in the Sea’s Royal Guard?”

Una gasped. “Perhaps, Tamesis?! Oh, or Kai! Kai was always sweet on you!”

With an assertive glare, (Y/N) snatched the makeshift whale back into her possession. “It is not Tamesis or Kai!”

“Oh, so there is someone!”

An instant coral color flushed (Y/N)'s cheeks, her embarrassment evident. "Eat a pufferfish" she exclaimed, her angry words accompanied by the playful giggles of her sisters.

As the hours slipped away, (Y/N) put the finishing touches on her bone carving and made the necessary preparations for her secret expedition. She gathered the essential supplies: the map, her knife, a handful of oysters, and, of course, the delicately crafted whale.

As dusk settled and the sun's rays no longer reached the depths of the merfolk's domain, (Y/N) set out on her journey. Her sisters slumbered peacefully, unaware of her departure, while the guards remained oblivious to the existence of the hidden entrance she had been using for years. With determined swishes of her fins, she swam swiftly through the sea, her heart pulsating with anticipation. Eventually, she came upon the beach where she had left Boromir. Breaking the surface—a forbidden action that now lost the fear attached to it—she was not surprised to find the sand absent of his presence. He was likely up with the other people of the land, doing land-people things.

(Y/N) swiveled her head and contorted her graceful form until she located the mouth of the Anduin River. It would serve as her conduit to the grand city, her navigation, her concealment. It would lead her to the place where she would find him. She recalled how the men from the shipwreck had addressed him with the title of ‘sir.’ He had to be important. The important ones were always addressed as ‘sir’ and they always lived in the big cities.

The mermaid inhaled sharply, reconsidering her mission. This would be it. Once she did this, there was no taking it back. It was the moment of no return. She bit her lip. Consequences be damned. Fuck the forbidden.

So, (Y/N) gracefully glided through the currents. Her silky fins steered her through the Anduin, the gentle ebb and flow of the river guiding her way. As she swam, the distant echoes of voices reached her ears, growing louder with each passing moment. They were voices filled with excitement and joy, resonating with laughter, cheers, and animated conversations. Curiosity danced in her eyes as she neared the surface, her head emerging from the water like a whale coming up for air. With her gaze fixed on the scene before her, she observed intently, taking in the lively spectacle unfolding beyond the riverbank.

The first thing she noticed, after the sounds of life that had traveled through the water, were the smells. Thousands of different scents drifted through the air—ones that she could not identify other than the instinctual fragrances of smoke and flavor: food, she guessed. Spices and sweets filtered through her nostrils, captivating her attention. She wondered what they tasted like. The next thing that piqued her interest was the colors and action. It appeared that she had surfaced next to a social market, a sort of eatery, or a…something. Men sat upon benches drinking, eating, and speaking. There seemed to be more so inside the building, but some flowed out, stumbling and dizzy. The sloshing of the liquid in their cups appeared to be the culprit as they moved with sloppy ease. Inebriated. They were inebriated. The merfolk could get like that if they ate too much Sarpa Salpa—the dreamfish of the sea bream, they called it. Though how the men fumbled was a bit different to how the merfolk did. The humans had legs…not tails, after all.

(Y/N) with wide eyes and parted lips could not stop seeing it all—a simple little tavern, yet it was bursting with passion and life. By Ulmo! It was beautifully, terrifyingly, strangely exciting.

Though that excitement turned into a nervous thrill. A fluttering sensation rose from the depths of her stomach, coursed through her heart, and finally settled like a bubble in her throat. It was a strange wave of emotions, a mismatched concoction of hope and uncertainty, as a figure emerged from the establishment before her. In that moment, disbelief clouded her thoughts. No, it couldn't be. The eagerness she felt at the possibility of finding him oh so easily was restrained by a nagging doubt, a flicker of skepticism whispered in the corners of her mind. Could it truly be him? Could this chance meeting be the end of her quest? Though, that waving dark sandy hair that ran across his forehead and the stubble beard that matched did not lie. She had carried that man through the rapids and held his face in her palms. It indeed was him—Boromir.

(Y/N) was quick to duck behind a large rock, peering beside it with those cautious and curious eyes of her. She watched as he moved to look out up the river, seemingly contemplating his thoughts. His face was stern and still, almost emotionless. But his eyes—they betrayed him. They pooled with uncertainty and confusion, a lingering level of sadness hiding underneath a lack of understanding. He seemed….lonely.

(Y/N)’s fingers gripped at the rock as she leaned forward with fascination; however, she wasn't paying much mind to her hold, for it slipped and her hand fell into the water with a splash.

Guided by instinct, Boromir’s head snapped in her direction.

She was quick to duck behind the rock, her sleek skin and iridescent scales melding against the cool surface of the stone, ensuring her presence remained hidden.

“Is someone out there?” his voice called.

(Y/N) held her breath, but he made no move to search further. Instead, she heard his footsteps retreating.

She scoped out his motions quietly, following his form with her chasing eyes. She had just found him. She didn't want to lose sight of him—not when she didn't know where to find him again! Having only a second to make a decision, (Y/N) dunked under the water. Her eyesight angled upwards as she swam deep in the river alongside him. He paused, every one and a while, glancing at the stream, and everytime he did, the mermaid would push herself deeper and deeper into the depths.

It was a short endeavor. A fifteen minute swim—though it would have been faster if she wasn't going at such a slow pace to match Boromir’s strides—before he went where she could not follow: The Minas Tirith Castle. He parted from the way of the river and began the ascending path towards the brilliant white castle. (Y/N) had been correct in her assumption: he was indeed someone of importance. As he disappeared from sight, she surfaced above the waterline, her gaze fixed on the spot where he had vanished. She would see him again. She had to. (Y/N) turned her attention to her surroundings, taking in the scenery for her return. The water stretched ahead, extending towards the north, but another path curved around the castle. Driven by curiosity, she followed that bend, gracefully swimming amidst the swaying seagrass, startling small fish with her playful movements in the late hour. Before long, she reached an opening where the river flowed into a steady pond.

The mermaid's grin widened as she glided through the water, relishing the caress of the cool night air against her skin. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the towering castle that loomed above her. Its grandeur and intricacy surpassed anything she had ever seen in her underwater kingdom. It boasted multiple tiers, labyrinthine pathways, countless rooms, and majestic balconies. It was a sight to behold, captivating her with its magnificence. However, her gaze abruptly froze, and an audible gasp escaped her lips.

Standing there, on one of the balconies, was Boromir.

By Ulmo—her luck was getting ridiculous now.

His bare torso shimmered with a gentle sheen under the soft moonlight, accentuating the sculpted contours of his obviously strong body. Leaning casually against the sturdy balcony railing, his arms extended, showcasing his muscled biceps. Though, a hint of vulnerability bleed through his physical appearance, manifesting as a pensive expression etched with longing and uncertainty.

If only he cast his gaze downward, he would have seen a face that reflected that same yearning.

…..

(Y/N)’s tail swished as she ducked into the dining area of her father’s palace. As expected, she found she was not the sole presence in the room. Instead, she was greeted by the disapproving gazes of her six sisters. Their eyes bore a mixture of reproach and inquiry, silently questioning her tardiness. Though Una didn't hold that silence long.

“Where have you been?”

(Y/N) blew bubbles from her nose, trying to mask the lie with a coy reply. “Just a morning swim.”

“Ah” Nerida commented. “A morning swim.”

“Yes,” (Y/N) persisted, maintaining her charade. "The coral was absolutely enchanting in the morning light. You should experience it sometime—if only you possessed the skill to rise early.”

“Oy!” she snapped back, clearly irritated by her sister's teasing.

However, just as the sisters' playful banter was to escalate, their father gracefully entered the room. His presence commanded immediate attention. Warm greetings were exchanged, and the atmosphere shifted to one of familial harmony. It was during one of these conversations that the shipwreck, that had occurred only days prior, was brought up. Here, (Y/N)’s gaze snapped up.

"Why do you think they keep getting on ships if they keep getting caught in storms?" Rana questioned, her voice filled with genuine curiosity. "You would think they would learn from their mistakes, wouldn't they?"

Anahita nodded in agreement, her expression contemplative. "They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results."

Mareena chimed in, her tone tinged with a hint of bitterness. "They are quite disgusting, aren't they? Killing us for sport, and yet they willingly put themselves in harm's way for the same reasons."

However, (Y/N) decided to offer a different perspective, breaking the momentary silence that followed. "Well, actually," she began, her voice confident yet cautious. "They use ships to trade supplies with other land-dwellers."

All eyes shifted to (Y/N) with suspicion.

“Isn't that right, father?’ she quickly tacked on.

The tension in the room immediately dissipated as their father nodded in agreement. "Yes, that is true. They have established numerous trade routes, and ships are their means of transportation. It's a very different way of life compared to ours, and unfortunately, it has also led to numerous conflicts and wars between them. The desire for variety and resources has come at a great cost. They traded it for death.”

“How–how do you know all this father?” (Y/N) questioned timidly. “You say it as if you have spent time with them.”

The older merman let out a weary sigh, placing his shell filled with food down on the table. "I have," he admitted, his gaze filled with distant memories.

Instantly, the room fell into a stunned silence as all eyes fixated on their father, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.

“I have walked among them before and it was my greatest mistake.”

“You-you what?” Seria gapped.

“Among them?” Una blurted.

“But why would you want to do such a thing?!” Anahita inquired.

Their father's gaze turned solemn as he recounted his past. "Long before any of you were born, during the War of the Riptide, my father sent me to infiltrate the land-dwellers' realm. I lived among them, observing their ways, gathering their secrets. But it was a treacherous undertaking that nearly cost me my life.” He paused, tacking on an additional mumbling sentence: “Those eel fuckers."

A heavy silence enveloped the room, the weight of their father's revelation sinking in. Only the sound of their hearts pounding in their chests broke the stillness, each of them grappling with the newfound knowledge of their father's past—even more dangerous than they were led to believe.

“H–how did you walk among them, father? How did you get legs?” (Y/N) probed, though she knew she shouldn't have.

Their father's gaze turned dark and filled with years of pent-up anger and regret as he locked eyes with her. For a moment, she feared he wouldn't reveal the answer. However, he finally spoke, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "Some of us possess a rare gift. When our bodies are completely dry, void of any water upon our skin or tails, we have the ability to transform into a legged form."

Instantly, gasps and chatter sounded.

“My daughters–” he addressed, though they did not listen. “QUIET!!!”

Startled, the mermaid sisters fell silent, their wide-eyed gazes fixed on their father.

“It is a very rare gift—one that is almost never seen—and only passed by blood if the gods wish to curse you with it. It is the most dangerous gift to have. One drop of water on your skin when you have legs has your tail growing back in seconds. And then you are killed by those humans that bore witness.”

Shock dripped from the daughters of the king of the sea.

"But fear not," their father reassured them, his voice softening. "None of you possess this gift. I tested each of you when you were born."

Expressions of worry, relief, and confusion danced across their faces, but (Y/N) couldn't help but notice a peculiar look in their father's eyes—a gaze that lingered strangely upon her.

……

The following day brimmed with a mix of excitement and trepidation as (Y/N) patiently awaited Boromir's arrival at the entrance of Minas Tirith. Rising before the sun, she positioned herself by the riverside, her heart fluttering with anticipation.

To her surprise, Boromir emerged on a horse, his form clad steel. Silver plates of armor adorned his muscular frame, providing a formidable shield for his vital organs. His attire was decorated further with weapons forged from the finest metals, poised and ready to be unsheathed at the slightest hint of danger. She knew he was important.

Though, this newfound knowledge began to stir dread into her soul. Boromir was a soldier—not a sailor. He trained in the art of warfare and killing. If he had been born centuries earlier, he might have been among those who waged war against her kind. He could have one of the hunters who pursued her father. One of those…eel fuckers…as he had put it. Yet, (Y/N) reassured herself that Boromir was different. He valued life. He couldn't be like his ancestors.

(Y/N) followed him, along the river (as much as she could) as the hours stretched on. She watched as he navigated the city as if he knew every turn and every crevice. She observed as he conversed with the people, each one eager to speak to him. She perceived as he stood guard at the entrance of the city, until the sun had set and his shift was taken over by another. And she peered up at him as he ended his nights upon his balcony—only once hearing him speak to another, a brother she guessed, of a lingering feeling of being watched.

For three days, she partook in his routine.

For three days, she made it her own.

And, for three days, she learned all she could about him.

Yes, he was a soldier, but not just any soldier. He was the Captain of the Minas Tirith Guard. He was the son of the Steward, who was ruling in place of a king, for in these times of uncertainty, Boromir stepped forward to help his father protect and care for the city he held so dear. He bore the weight of leadership and responsibility, serving as a pillar of strength and guidance for his people. He was a good man—doing just as much work as the men he commanded.

It wasn't until the end of the third day, however, that Boromir deviated from his routine. Much to (Y/N)’s surprise, instead of going up the path towards the castle, he deviated to follow the river that went along the bend of the white palace wall.

(Y/N) swam deep below the surface beside him, slipping into the center of the pool as he went to the edge.

The Captain of the Guard sat down upon the sandy bank and began to untie his boots. The night was warmer than it had been, for winter had ended and spring was just beginning to break. So, she wasn't surprised, when he rolled up the bottoms of his trousers and stuck his feet in.

(Y/N)’s heart was pounding and her blood ran quickly, for she had never been so close to him since she held his unconscious, drowning form.

It was forbidden.

She watched for a while, as his face and body seemed to droop. The weight of his responsibilities and the burdens of his past seemed to bear down on him. The façade of strength and cheer that he wore for the world gradually faded away, revealing the vulnerability and weariness that lay beneath. Though it wasn't until a tear ran down his cheek that she truly began to worry. Was it the lingering aftermath of the shipwreck that haunted him? Did it have more of a permanent effect on him? It seemed as though the shadow of that dreadful event lingered deep within. She had urged him to embrace life—to survive. But this sadness…was it preventing him so?

Cautiously, she dug in her bag and pulled out the bone carving of the whale. Now was her chance. Maybe she could offer some comfort? Though, she knew she couldn't swim up and hand it to him, for he couldn't know that she was there—not yet, not now. She wouldn't risk her people being known to the land-folk. She wouldn’t endanger them. Her father would surely be furious at her if she did. Besides, if she were to rise now, she would give Boromir such a fright.

Therefore, taking a rock from the bottom of the pond, she positioned herself as close as she dared to Boromir. She ensured that she remained hidden beneath the water's surface, maintaining the delicate balance between proximity and secrecy. She then put her plan into action. She tossed the stone through the water, sending it up with a subtle splash, diverting Boromir's attention to the ripples created in its wake. As quick as a shark—if not quicker—(Y/N) flicked her tail hard. She rose close to the surface and lobbed the whale beside the man before plummeting down into the depths.

When Boromir’s head turned back, he noticed the little craving.

(Y/N) peered up as she watched his confused expression.

His brows pulled together and his lips parted. Cautiously, he picked it up. It fit in his palm quite nicely. Not too big, not too small. His fingers twisted around its delicate form with ease. He examined it, running the tip of his index finger along the length of the piece and his thumb brushing over the flippers. “Where did you come from?” he whispered with a smile.

Boromir stayed at the pond for nearly an hour, (Y/N) staying with him. His fingers aimlessly fiddling with the whale as he gazed up at the stars, taking time to breath—to live. And when he turned to leave, he took the whale with him.

…..

As the next two weeks passed on, (Y/N) adopted Boromir’s routine as a part of her own. Though not every day she could do as such, for her father and sisters began to notice her absence. So, in order to avoid their suspicion, there were stretches of time where she did not get to swim up to the Anduin River. Instead, she spent her hours wandering around her father’s palace, helping with mer-duties and daydreaming of the Captain of Gondor.

However, the days where she gilded upon the waters in Minas Tirith were the most exciting. Now that the weather was warm, the city truly came to life. Markets opened daily where food, drink, cloth, and trinkets were sold. If (Y/N) was lucky, one of such tents would open right beside the river. When no one was looking, she would reach a hand from the water and grab a thing or two. She had gotten to try some very interesting foods; however, she figured they would taste much better if she didn't plunge them into the salty river the second she got her hands on them. Alas, that was the cost of avoiding detection—a price she was willing to pay. (Y/N) also was able to snatch various little objects, but most of the time she didn't know what they were. She found herself wishing that she had received the gift that her father had—the gift of transformation to a legged form. She wanted to be where the land-folk were—where Boromir was.

The captain had begun to stay out later, going to the tavern with his friends here and there. On those nights, he would disappear inside, for hours, and (Y/N) would wait in the river for him to return—in whatever state he would be in. Some nights he would have smiles plastered across his face as he giddily stumbled home. Other nights it would be a solemn expression, a tear escaping here and there, as he swayed like the gentle tide. But the worst nights? Those were the ones that ended in screams from the balcony above the little pool. Nightmares now plagued Boromir’s mind, waking him up and coating him in fear—and sweat. The only relief would be the cold night’s air and the barely audible sound of (Y/N) voice. (Y/N) always knew when those nights had arrived, for they were the ones when his brother, Faramir, had to come to the tavern and get him. It was those nights when Boromir’s body folded and slumped against his brother’s, for Faramir would drape the captain’s arm over his shoulder and drag him back to the Minas Tirith castle. It was those nights when the man, that appeared so strong, would speak in sentences just as broken as he was. It was those nights when he spoke of the shipwreck, of the darkness, of the piece of his soul that went missing in the Black Sea. And just once—he whispered to his brother of her. The woman who saved him from the depths. Those nights—those hurt the most. Yet, despite all this, he carried the whale carving with him everywhere he went—on a string upon his neck.

But, now that the weather was warmer, Boromir came to the pond almost every night that he wasn’t at the tavern…and the nights at the tavern lessened. Here, he would contemplate the sadness and separation he seemed to now have, but it appeared that he had a sort of comfort by the little lake. This comfort may or may not have been another gift from (Y/N). When the captain would stick his feet into the water, the mermaid would hum to heal his heart. The vibrations, subtle they were, would filter through the lake and soak into his skin. As he was not immersed, he could not hear the beautiful sounds, but he would at least feel some of the rejuvenating property it held. It was something he had felt before upon the shore and something he continued to feel when the nightmares drove him to the balcony.

Today had proven to be an unusually scorching and grueling day for Boromir. The relentless sun beat down upon him, intensifying the already restless atmosphere among the people. Amidst the sweltering heat, he found himself engaged in a relentless pursuit of a thief who had attempted to snatch a coin pouch from the frail hands of an elderly woman. Luckily for the Captain, a little puddle of water mysteriously slithered out in-front of the thief, causing him to slip and allowing Boromir to arrest him.

Given that that activity, and more, took its toll upon the man of duty, Boromir found himself in the shelter of the tavern with the comfort of his friends. However, that appeared to not be enough, for that night Boromir left the tavern and wandered to the pond—(Y/N) slithering in the depths of the Anduin by his side.

Under the water on the lake, (Y/N) floated in the soft currant, her eyes closed and her humming drifting through the ripples. She was content and was hoping to bring some of that serenity to the man that was to put his feet in the pool. This, of course, explained why she was so startled when his entire body dove into the water. With eyes as wide as the full moon, (Y/N) twisted her form to stare in fear and alarm at the man that stripped to nothing but his undergarments and sunk only six feet across from her. But true terror did not hit her until Boromir’s eyes opened.

When those bright blue eyes met hers with just as much horror, if not more, he instantly scrambled backwards—her doing the same.

Maybe if they both had stopped to see just how scared the other was, they would have realized that they were not in danger; but instinct had taken over as they desperately tried to get away from each other.

Luckily enough, it appeared that they had not been alone. A large hand shot down from the surface and gripped upon Boromir’s arm. In seconds, he was pulled up and out of the water—gasping and fumbling upon the bank.

“What the hell, Boromir?!” the voice of Faramir sounded.

The Captain scrambled upon the sand and muddied land, backing away from the water frantically. “T-there w-was–down there, the water, Eru, d-down there—s-something. Mermaid.”

“Boromir, are you drunk?!” he snapped. “By the Valar—you are! Again?!”

“F-Faramir, there was-was a woman down there,” the captain murmured, struggling to stand.

His brother sighed in dismay as he grasped onto Boromir’s arm once more and helped him steady. “You have been having too many conversations with Iwar…and too many drinks.” He pulled upon the captain again. “Let’s get you in bed before you decide to go for another drunken swim.”

With that, Faramir helped dress his brother—just enough to get past the guards without embarrassing the intoxicated captain—and guided him home, trying to ignore the blubbering of the anxious mess he led.

(Y/N) stayed still at the bottom of the pond, shock baring her fins from any movement.

Well, damn. Fuck the Forbidden. It really bit her in the tail.

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haljathefangirlcat · 6 months ago

Note

What's your ideal age range for the Volsung-Nibelung-Dietrich cycle characters? In the Scandinavian sources, Brynhild claims to have been adopted by Agnar and Aud at 12 to be their mascot valkyrie (which is what got her in hot water with Odin) and was put to sleep for any number of years, with sources differing on if her old retainer Heimir was her foster father or brother-in-law. Sigurd himself claims to be barely a man, that is, the legal adult age of 16, when Regin packs him off to slay Fafnir. Altogether it seems the two of them are rather young (16-19 physically?) and Gudrun is also in their age group. Later on Gothorm is too young to swear brotherhood with Sigurd and is thus used to kill him, making him younger than Sigurd and younger than 16 when they met.

In the Continental materials, Giselher is also called young, but there's no mention of Gernot and by extension Giselher being under 16 when they meet Siegfried. Gunther seems a fair bit older than them, being the first born and succeeding to the throne (as a sub-king, presumably, in versions where Gibich is still alive) shortly before Walther's escape from Etzel. However, he doesn't seem to have had a wife in either Continental or Scandinavian versions before his mother suggests Brynhild, which might indicate he's still fairly young. Historically he was active during 411-436, which gives him a 20+ year reign.

Hagen's age definitely has the greatest variation across sources. In the Nibelungenlied proper he's much older than the Nibelung siblings, but in the Walther stories he doesn't seem that much older than Walther, Hildegund, and Gunther, and the first two might be preteens at oldest. And of course in the Scandinavian materials, he's definitely younger than Gunther, being one of the Nibelung brothers. Classically, he's brother #2, slotting between Gunnar and Gothorm, with his father being Andvari/Alberich/Aldrian the elf. Wagner makes him presumably the youngest sibling. (Of course there's also the possibility that Grimhild/Ute just brought him along when she married Gibich, which would make him the oldest sibling. And also explain why Gibich would just pawn him off to Etzel.) Dankwart is also in the older adult range, but if Hagen was illegitimate, he could just have had a different mother, because who knows how long elves live, except it being very long. Hagen's unnamed sister (Gullrond?) would have to be much older to give Hagen two nephews, one of which is an adult during the Nibelungenlied.

Dietrich's age is also funky. He's presumably the same age as Wudga and Heime, his two closest companions until the exile. They don't seem to be too much older than Siegfried, Gunther, and Kriemhild. Dietrich gets tutored by Hildebrand when he's seven, acquires Hildigrim and Nagelring at fifteen, and has his Virginal/Wunderer adventure (the plots are so similar I suspect them to be the same story) at sixteen. He goes into exile sometime between the Rosengarten tournament and Kriemhild's marriage to Etzel. By then he's definitely a fair bit older than the young adults Alphart, Wolfhart, and Dietlieb, but Hildebrand is just ready to welcome the birth of Hadubrand. Historically, the Burgundian Nibelungs died in 436, the Visigothic Dietrich died in 451, Attila died in 454, and if Dietrich was also Theodoric the Great, he would've lived into 526. Then again, his family is known for ridiculously long lifespans, with the stories from his cycle claiming his father, grandfather, and uncle all lived into at least their 100s.

Hildebrand, Ilsan, Eckart, and Regin are all consistently portrayed as old guys. So is Sigmund in the Scandinavian material, where he actually featured prominently. Sigurd's two Volsung brothers are presumably dead during the main adventures, because Brynhild and Gudrun mention Hamund and Haki, his nephews via Hamund, usurping the Swedish throne and feuding with the pirate King Sigar. Helgi died in the prime of his life, while Hamund never appears on screen (but the movie adaptation of Hagbard and Signy mentions he was killed by Sigar a few years before, when his sons were children).

Etzel is definitely older than Walther, Hagen, and Dietrich, but strangely, there's no particular mention of him being old. Then again, there's no mention of Gibich and Ute being old in the Rosengarten story either. Nor is there any mention of how much Hjordis and Prince Alf might have aged in the Volsung Saga. In the Scandinavian stuff, Atli's sister Oddrun gets sneaky with Gunnar, but that version doesn't include Etzel's past with Walther, so who knows how old either of the Hun siblings are.

That's a great rundown of all the different traditions, and you make some great points.

As for me, I don't have really have age headcanons for anyone, going more for The Vibes and the "okay, what do I need for this concept to work?", but at the same time, age is one of those things where I tend to compartmentalize pretty heavily, for both practical reasons (I'm pretty sure I'd have a harder time than you keeping track of everything going on and gathering it all up into something coherent!) and thematic ones. (Simply put: different things work better for me, or have a stronger hold on me, in different contexts because I feel I can make more out of them on a narrative level.)

So, here's how things (generally) go in my head:

Norse sources: I tend to see Sigurd as rather young, because as you mentioned, he describes himself as such around the time he's sent off to kill Fafnir. I also tend to see his first adventures, from finding Grani to falling for Sigrdrifa/Brynhild and meeting Gjuki's children, as happening in rather quick succession, sort of a whirlwind of violence and drama and revenge and romance... so, yeah, still a teen (older teen at most) when he ends up meeting married to Gudrun. I imagine Gjuki's children to be all pretty close in age (except maybe Gothorm, a fair bit younger than the rest, and Gullrond, who reads sort of like a wise oldest sister to me, tho she doesn't feature a lot in my headcanons) and in the same age range as Sigurd, but I don't otherwise have a fixed birth order for in my head besides Gunnar being the oldest.

Brynhild is... complicated. You've got the enchanted sleep, and the question of how long it lasted and how fast or slow she aged, physically and mentally, in it. You've got all her wisdom and knowledge that, to me, makes her read a little older than Siegfried in her brief stint as his teacher, but then again, also the fact that she used to be a Valkyrie rather than just a mortal woman, so all that might be more supernatural knowledge and wisdom than anything else. And then, you have her foster father, Heimer (who's also her brother-in-law through her sister Bekkhild), and her brother Atli, and ofc Agnar. The timeline can get kind of messy, if you try to make it all fit in, because there's just so much stuff. The one thing I always stick by is Atli being considerably older than her (by a decade or more) and them not being particularly close, due to the "Atli didn't give much of a damn about getting compensation for her death, it was just a pretext to get the gold" interpretation, which is the one I tend to favor.

Nibelungenlied/Waltharius/continental sources: Here, I tend to see everyone as a bit older then their Norse counterparts. Siegfried, after all, has already conquered something like twelve kingdoms and gained his fair share of fame through distant lands by the time he comes to Worms -- and while dragon-blood-enhanced strength must certainly come in handy with all that, all in all, it must still have taken him some time. Still, I do seem him as kind of younger than you'd expect with his curriculum. A little older than yet still a good fit for Kriemhild, a maiden who's definitely able to fall in love and fall hard yet doesn't seem to have ever felt that kind of feeling for anyone before meeting him, to the point she used to see the whole thing as something foreign and that she could totally just choose to avoid.

My birth order for her and her brothers is generally Gunther > Gernot > Kriemhild > Giselher. With the eternal "youth" Giselher, who gets stuck with that title even in later parts of the poems being kind of the baby of the family. Not literally, ofc, but in the sense that, even if the poem counts him as one of the three kings of Burgundy and protectors of Kriemhild, it's his brothers who handle most of the harder work even while kind of "mentoring" him on kingship through the rather hands-on method of having him rule alongside them. Anyway, I see this whole set of siblings as pretty close in age, too, just to avoid overcomplicating my life, but with a couple of years separating Gunther & Gernot and Kriemhild & Giselher, something that also influences their dynamics as siblings.

When it comes to Hagen, I'm very influenced by the Waltharius, where he's presumably the same age as Walther and Hildegund and somewhat older than Gunther. I still don't see him as that much older than his kings, tho, as I interpret Gunther being too young to be sent away as a hostage to the Huns as him really being very young. Think Hagen being in his early teens and Gunther still being a child at the time. I tend to assume something like an at least five years difference between them, and then Gunther ascending to the throne a bit younger than he should probably be due to Gibich's very sudden and premature death, with Ute being his counselor (or trying to be, at least -- Wasgenstein wasn't exactly the most brilliant idea and I do think she opposed it but also that in the end it was still his choice) for the first few years and then him naming Gernot (and finally Giselher) as his co-kings as soon as possible due to feeling the pressure of being the only ruler as soon as he got started on the job. (Which, in my head, also contributes to him only setting his eyes on a bride rather late, despite the court muttering a bit about it at times... too much stuff on his mind already, and for a good while, too.)

Dankwart is an interesting case, as in the latter half of the poem, he claims to have also been just a youth when Siegfried was murdered. Granted, I've seen interpretations dismissing that info as a mere messed-up timeline or as Dankwart just lying through his teeth, due to his role in the court of Worms, but I personally find more interesting/funnier to take it as face value. The idea of him being about as cunning as his older brother Hagen and proving himself as an asset to the kingdom from an early age (perhaps in part to live up to Hagen himself and his deeds) yet playing the "I am/was only a regular youth" card when it suits him is higly entertaining to me. As for their sister, the mother of Patravid and/or Ortwin, I see her as the oldest of the trio, and definitely already out of the house by the time Aldrian volunteers Hagen as a substitute hostage.

(I'm not very fond of the "Hagen as Gunther's uncle/family friend so dear he might as well be a blood-related uncle" thing, tbh. Does it have some backing? Yeah. Do I see it in the way the characters interact? Not really, and that's what matters the most to me.)

Etzel/Attila was already a considerable threat for the Burgundians at the beginning of the Waltharius, and married, too. And yet, apparently still childless... unless his children with Helche, who iirc get killed by Witege at some point, have already died by then. (But that does involve Dietrich, after all, and... er, I'm talking about him in a moment, let's leave it at that for now.) So, he's a bit of a question mark to me. Tho I like to think he and his wife ended up treating Hagen, Walther, and Hildegung almost like their children, whatever void in their life they're trying to fill by doing that... but ofc, that was a whole mess in it's own way, when everyone was perfectly aware that a broken treaty could spell death for any of those three. (Hi and welcome to a new episode of: Waltharius Manu Fortis Absolutely Obliterates Halja's Feels, I suppose.) I do see his later marriage to Kriemhild as a kind of May-December romance. Or, well, "romance."

Dietrich is... Dietrich. If Brynhild's complicated and Etzel a question mark, he is a headache. I'll admit I've never even tried to build a timeline for him that could possibly make sense in my head. Stephan Grundy has a bit of a running joke about him looking like he never gets old/no one being able to figure out his age for sure, and, tbh, I totally get him. Drag him.

Bonus Wagner's Ring Cycle: I'm pretty sure Gunther mentions being the firstborn... tho I've only ever read the libretti/subtitles to the operas in Italian and English, so for all I know, he might as well be just saying that he has the right of primogeniture, as the one legitimate male son. Still, I see Gutrune as the middle child and Hagen as the youngest. This is another canon that skews very young in my head, with Siegfried, the Gibichungs, Wotan's eternally-maidenly Valkyries, as well as Siegmund and Sieglinde in Die Walkure, all being some subset of Troubled Teen Who Needs Therapy (As Well As Better Parents), Not This Shit. Based on the implied timeline in Die Walkure, I think of Hagen as just a little older (a few months to a year, no more) than Siegfired. I love to joke about the former being a cynical goth/emo teen (Hagen's Night Watch scene and its endless -- if objectively kind of justified -- bitching, my beloved) and the latter being your typical meathead teen jock. I also joke about Gutrune being the stereotypical middle child with no self-esteem and Gunther being the young adult who should probably be at least a little more mature and responsible than everyone else, given his age, but is really just a mess on every level, but alas, I do that mostly just in my head, because sometimes I get the impression it's mostly just me seeing (or being interested in seeing) them this way.

#ask #fate-magical-girls #norse mythology #volsunga saga #nibelungenlied #ring cycle

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