#Stewards Department

[directactionforhope]

"Starting this month [June 2024], thousands of young people will begin doing climate-related work around the West as part of a new service-based federal jobs program, the American Climate Corps, or ACC. The jobs they do will vary, from wildland firefighters and “lawn busters” to urban farm fellows and traditional ecological knowledge stewards. Some will work on food security or energy conservation in cities, while others will tackle invasive species and stream restoration on public land. 

The Climate Corps was modeled on Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps, with the goal of eventually creating tens of thousands of jobs while simultaneously addressing the impacts of climate change. 

Applications were released on Earth Day, and Maggie Thomas, President Joe Biden’s special assistant on climate, told High Country News that the program’s website has already had hundreds of thousands of views. Since its launch, nearly 250 jobs across the West have been posted, accounting for more than half of all the listed ACC positions. 

“Obviously, the West is facing tremendous impacts of climate change,” Thomas said. “It’s changing faster than many other parts of the country. If you look at wildfire, if you look at extreme heat, there are so many impacts. I think that there’s a huge role for the American Climate Corps to be tackling those crises.”  

Most of the current positions are staffed through state or nonprofit entities, such as the Montana Conservation Corps or Great Basin Institute, many of which work in partnership with federal agencies that manage public lands across the West. In New Mexico, for example, members of Conservation Legacy’s Ecological Monitoring Crew will help the Bureau of Land Management collect soil and vegetation data. In Oregon, young people will join the U.S. Department of Agriculture, working in firefighting, fuel reduction and timber management in national forests. 

New jobs are being added regularly. Deadlines for summer positions have largely passed, but new postings for hundreds more positions are due later this year or on a rolling basis, such as the Working Lands Program, which is focused on “climate-smart agriculture.”  ...

On the ACC website, applicants can sort jobs by state, work environment and focus area, such as “Indigenous knowledge reclamation” or “food waste reduction.” Job descriptions include an hourly pay equivalent — some corps jobs pay weekly or term-based stipends instead of an hourly wage — and benefits. The site is fairly user-friendly, in part owing to suggestions made by the young people who participated in the ACC listening sessions earlier this year...

The sessions helped determine other priorities as well, Thomas said, including creating good-paying jobs that could lead to long-term careers, as well as alignment with the president’s Justice40 initiative, which mandates that at least 40% of federal climate funds must go to marginalized communities that are disproportionately impacted by climate change and pollution. 

High Country News found that 30% of jobs listed across the West have explicit justice and equity language, from affordable housing in low-income communities to Indigenous knowledge and cultural reclamation for Native youth...

While the administration aims for all positions to pay at least $15 an hour, the lowest-paid position in the West is currently listed at $11 an hour. Benefits also vary widely, though most include an education benefit, and, in some cases, health care, child care and housing. 

All corps members will have access to pre-apprenticeship curriculum through the North America’s Building Trades Union. Matthew Mayers, director of the Green Workers Alliance, called this an important step for young people who want to pursue union jobs in renewable energy. Some members will also be eligible for the federal pathways program, which was recently expanded to increase opportunities for permanent positions in the federal government...

 “To think that there will be young people in every community across the country working on climate solutions and really being equipped with the tools they need to succeed in the workforce of the future,” Thomas said, “to me, that is going to be an incredible thing to see.”"

-via High Country News, June 6, 2024

--

Note: You can browse Climate Corps job postings here, on the Climate Corps website. There are currently 314 jobs posted at time of writing!

Also, it says the goal is to pay at least $15 an hour for all jobs (not 100% meeting that goal rn), but lots of postings pay higher than that, including some over $20/hour!!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

may I ask how maids would have been hired (if you needed a job for the royal family) back in the day?

Writing Notes: The Royal Household

The Medieval Royal Household

Very early in English history the royal household can be seen falling into 3 main divisions:

the chapel with its staff of clerks,

the hall where the daily life of the household was passed, and

the chamber where the king could retire for sleeping and privacy and where his clothes, jewels, and muniments were stored.

A similar threefold division can be seen in all the royal households of Europe and in the households of great magnates in every land.

The King’s Hall. Was under the care of 2 officers of equal rank:

the seneschal (steward) and

the master butler,

Their two parallel departments provided food and drink through a series of officers carefully graded as to pay and allowances down to the man who counted the loaves and the slaughterers who had no pay but “customary food” only.

After the hall came the chamber under the master chamberlain, but beside him stood

the treasurer, each of these officers receiving the same pay and allowances as the seneschal and master butler. Below them were less well-paid chamberlains:

the man who looked after the king’s bed with a man and a packhorse for its transport,

the king’s tailor, and

his bath attendant.

The appearance here of the treasurer—as the head of the new financial department, the exchequer—shows that in origin the treasury was regarded as a household department. This does not mean that the treasure always traveled with the king. At Winchester a strong place had long been established for the receipt and custody of the king’s treasure, but it was staffed by household officers and was essentially a department of the household.

The Constitutio concludes with the 2 departments which between them cared for:

the safety, peace, order, and comfort of the household and

for the king’s sport.

Ladies-in-Waiting

Lady-in-Waiting - a woman of noble birth who serves a female monarch as a member of the royal household (in European history).

Any noble woman performing personal service for a queen is often referred to as a lady-in-waiting, although exact titles differ depending on a woman’s particular office or marital status, as well as the language being used.

Similar posts exist outside Europe, perhaps most notably in Asia.

The office of lady-in-waiting originated during the Middle Ages as a consequence of the growth and proliferation of queenly households.

Queens who spent extended periods separate from the king needed to maintain a discrete household of servants and retainers.

Some of these servants were required to assist the queen with:

dressing,

personal hygiene,

and other intimate tasks

and thus needed to be female.

How Ladies-in-Waiting were Selected

Ladies-in-waiting have traditionally been chosen from noble and aristocratic families, and were selected based on:

their social standing,

education, and

suitability for the role.

Initially, such posts were held by paid servants.

However, this changed amid the growing medieval association between a temporal monarch and the sanction of divinity.

This belief meant that only those of elevated status should engage in physical contact and close relationships with a monarch.

Thus, ladies-in-waiting became women of noble birth.

In addition, they were required to be married.

The office of maid-of-honour also emerged during this time, and it was held by unmarried women.

The composition of the group of ladies-in-waiting attending to the queen varied based on politics and individual monarchs, including both the queen and the king. Records show that some queens had more than 100 ladies-in-waiting, but most had significantly smaller households.

Duties of Ladies-in-Waiting

The duties of ladies-in-waiting varied across Europe but were generally similar in the medieval and early modern periods.

Ladies-in-waiting performed intimate duties such as putting on and removing the queen’s clothing and bathing her.

They were expected to put her needs above those of their own husbands and children.

They spent most of the day with the queen and provided her with companionship and entertainment in her private chambers. To that end many ladies-in-waiting could sing, play musical instruments, and dance.

In addition, they maintained a prominent role in the court’s public life, attending to the queen and participating in such events as ambassadorial receptions and masques. For this reason, preparation to become a lady-in-waiting included gaining proficiency in several languages.

Ladies-in-waiting were universally expected to maintain high moral standards, avoiding scandal and often staying disengaged from politics.

In the past, typical responsibilities included:

providing companionship,

assisting with bathing and dressing,

managing the wardrobe and jewelry,

helping to navigate social situations,

writing correspondence,

overseeing servants, and

running errands.

However, the political influence of ladies-in-waiting in European courts is well documented.

It was sometimes the subject of gossip and ridicule, for smearing the reputation of a lady-in-waiting was an effective political tool against a monarch.

Such was the case of Catherine de’ Medici’s female household, many of whom were accused of using seduction for political gain in 16th-century France.

Exercising political power in the medieval and early modern patronage systems of royal courts was in fact a key element of the lives of ladies-in-waiting and often the reason that they sought such offices.

A lady-in-waiting had direct access to the queen, who wielded varying degrees of influence over the king and his court.

This allowed ladies-in-waiting to advance the petitions and career interests of their families and others.

Many ladies-in-waiting received no official compensation for their work and were understood to have taken the office solely to gain social and political capital.

In turn, many queens required their ladies-in-waiting to pass along intelligence about their families and members of the court.

Ladies-in-waiting were particularly powerful in the courts of female monarchs who ruled independently, as they had direct access to and influence with the highest power in the land.

Other Rules

While there were many rules and expectations for royal ladies-in-waiting, here are a few of their more surprising responsibilities.

They were expected to dedicate their lives to their mistress

They slept in the queen’s bedchamber. Historically, a lady-in-waiting had many duties and was expected to fulfill her responsibilities around the clock, even while her mistress was sleeping. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for one or more court ladies to share a sleeping space with a royal woman.

They kept their mistress entertained. It wasn’t all work and no play for royal companions. In their free time, ladies-in-waiting enjoyed a variety of hobbies, including reading and embroidery.

They had to navigate catching the eye of the king. Being a queen’s lady-in-waiting often meant learning how to diplomatically, and discreetly, deal with a king. Sometimes, the relationship between a court lady and the king became scandalously intimate.

They traveled, and moved, with their mistress. Along with attending their mistresses in their royal households, ladies-in-waiting also traveled alongside them as chaperones and companions. If their mistress moved to a new country for marriage or education, they often went with her.

They had to do the queen’s bidding or risk banishment. History is filled with stories of court ladies paying the price for their illicit activities, with punishments ranging from banishment to imprisonment to execution.

In Britain

In Britain, ladies-in-waiting are titled noblewomen who serve not only the queen, but also high-ranking women in the royal household.

Although they do not live at Buckingham Palace, they sometimes stay there or in royal apartments in London should their duties require it.

They are close, often childhood friends of the monarch, and come from titled families whose lineages stretch back alongside royalty.

They act as personal assistants to the queen, assisting in day-to-day activities such as running errands, delivering messages and organising correspondence, as well as attending to personal matters, and accompanying her on royal tours and visits.

Different Titles. A lady-in-waiting attending to the queen is usually called:

Lady of the Bedchamber and they are ranked between

First Lady of the Bedchamber and the

Women of the Bedchamber, each carrying out various duties.

The Mistress of the Robes is almost always a duchess and the senior woman in the royal household. She is responsible for the regent’s clothes and jewellery, arranging the rota of attendance of the ladies-in-waiting and other duties at state ceremonies.

As a Character Trope

Lady-in-Waiting - a personal assistant to a queen, princess, or noblewoman at court.

She is often of noble birth herself but is usually from a lower social rank than the woman she is attending to.

Her duties can vary greatly, as can her relationship with her mistress.

A lady-in-waiting will often:

serve her food,

help her get dressed, and

prepare her for bed, while also

accompanying her during courtly activities like dancing lessons or horse riding.

Depending on how much the mistress trusts her lady-in-waiting, she could be her confidante:

pass on secret messages for her, or

spy on other members of the court.

Ladies-in-waiting can be either viewed as friends by the mistress or as simple tools to use however she sees fit.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: Writing References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

I assumed you were referring to ladies-in-waiting rather than just maids/servants within the royal household, who were usually not in direct contact with the monarchs. In which case, their selection/hiring was not as complex as that of ladies-in-waiting. Hope this helps with your writing!

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - November 1-7

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles on Patreon!

1. Climate Initiatives Fare Well Across the Country Despite National Political Climate

“[California voters approved] a $10 billion bond measure to boost climate resilience across [the] state[…. Hawai’i] voters cast their ballots in favor of establishing the [climate] resiliency fund, with money for the project coming from existing property tax revenue.“

2. ‘You have to disguise your human form’: how sea eagles are being returned to Severn estuary after 150 years

“[… To avoid imprinting,] the handlers will wear long robes and feed the young eagles chopped rabbit and other meat with bird hand-puppets. […] Williams hopes that restoring eagles to the top of the food chain in the estuary will create a more balanced, thriving ecosystem.”

3. 10 states voted on pro-abortion referendums. 7 of them passed

“New York voters overwhelmingly approved the Equal Rights Amendment, adding [… among other characteristics] gender expression, pregnancy, and pregnancy outcomes to anti-discrimination laws. […] In deep-red Missouri and Montana, voters also enshrined abortions protections in their state constitutions.”

4. Giant rats could soon fight illegal wildlife trade by sniffing out elephant tusk and rhino horn

“��Our study shows that we can train African giant pouched rats to detect illegally trafficked wildlife, even when it has been concealed among other substances[.…] They can easily access tight spaces like cargo in packed shipping containers or be lifted up high to screen the ventilation systems of sealed containers,” Szott explained.”

5. Sarah McBride wins Delaware U.S. House seat, becoming the first out trans member of Congress

“McBride spearheaded Delaware’s legislation to ban the “gay and trans panic” defense as a state senator [… and] helped to pass paid family and medical leave, gun safety measures, and protections for reproductive rights.”

6. Critically endangered Sumatran elephant calf born in Indonesia

“Indonesian officials hailed the births and said they showed conservation efforts were essential to prevent the protected species from extinction. […] Sumatran elephants are on the brink of extinction with only about 2,400-2,800 left in the world, according to the World Wide Fund for Nature.”

7. Sin City is Going Green

“[Hotels there] have conserved 16 billion gallons of water since 2007, thanks to […] replacing grass with desert-friendly landscaping, installing water-efficient taps across all properties, and reusing water at aquariums and in the Bellagio Fountain.”

8. Gray squirrel control: Study shows promise for effective contraceptive delivery system

“[… T]he feeders have a very high level of species-specificity. […] The bait and monitoring system developed and tested in the study demonstrated that […] “spring was the only season tested where female squirrels were more likely to visit bait feeders than males. Spring coincides with a peak in squirrel breeding and is therefore a good time to deliver a contraceptive."”

9. Returning Grazing Land to Native Forests Would Yield Big Climate Benefits

“[… S]trategically regrowing forests on land where cattle currently graze […] while intensifying production elsewhere could drastically cut greenhouse gas emissions, with little hit to global protein production, a new study shows.”

10. Interior Department Strengthens Conservation of American Bison Through New Agreement with Canada and Mexico

“Approximately 31,000 bison are currently being stewarded by the United States, Canada and Mexico with the goal of conserving the species and their role in the function of native grassland systems, as well as their place in Indigenous culture.”

October 22-28 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[fairy-lights-and-blobs]

I have someone at like a story idea where Danny is like Princess Yue from Avatar last Airbender

Danny is the physical body for the ancient of space sometimes they just form in the infinite realms and get a physical body along with it and sometimes I just get an essence and have to wait till a body comes along to actually gain consciousness

Danny is that body but the idea is the Justice League is trying to make peace with the infinite realms and the council of ancients have decided let's do a deal we give you a the high Prince of the infinite rounds he stays with you for a month and if he comes back with good news of you humans we will not go to war with you

And the Justice League trying to keep peace agree they were not expecting to see a white hair teenager wearing a heavy layer traditional Komodo with a crown that has mini planets circling around his head to go along with the crown

And Frozen bits of Lazarus water floating around him to add to the exquisite that the boy carries himself with

Danny besides to base his personality off of Dora and princess Yue so no one can connect normal human Danny Fenton to High Prince Phantom Of The Infinite Realms Young Ancient Of Space

Also I just have to crack site of Danny looking at the Lazarus pits that the bats have in the cave because he's staying with them first and going it's a bit Rusty but I can work with it

Proceeding to use the Lazarus pits to make him a pair of pajamas or Danny acting like he doesn't know anything that much about the human world and it's just going along with most things

Danny Phantom acting like a Proper Prince from ancient times it doesn't understand modern teenage things just a mess with Justice League

The Justice League trying their best to appease to a teenager well also trying to stop the US government from starting a war that they will definitely not win

Oh boy, you had a real big brain time with this one :)

The Justice League had been tasked with temporary guardianship over Prince Phantom, Heir to the Throne of All, Steward of Stars.

Adored by the consciousness of the very Realm he will eventually rule over, it would fall upon Earth's best heroes to keep him safe for one entire month, and not a second less.

In exchange, loyal Halloween, also know as Fright Knight, and the King's armies wouldn't take action against Earth as a whole for the actions of one group falsely calling themselves government agents. "Let the Justice League actually deliver said Justice" had been the Prince's comment during a meeting of the Ancients. Before the Ancient Space had been through the cycle of rebirth this last time, there had been no heroes to protect the Living. Only their many divided leaders.

As Danny Fenton, they had caught whispers of the Bat on the rise, of a little Bird to follow after. Of a human, blessed by Hermes who always arrived on time. Of many, many more to follow, taking up arms to fight for Earth and her people, in defense of Justice. As Phantom, newborn half-ghost, and rising Ancient of Space, they heard of many departed souls that sang praises of the heroes, who forgave them for not making it in time, who were happy to have met their favorite before the embrace of Thanatos took them.

If this "Justice League" truly stood for Justice as they claimed, then Phantom would take a chance and trust them.

A week after the accord had been signed by the three leading members of the Justice League, Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman, gathered in a meeting room to welcome the arriving Prince and his Council.

The first sign was the way the temperature dropped, followed by the sygils painted on the wall by Constantine and Zatanna lighting up toxic green. Bleeding inwards in a lazy spiral, the glowing light swirled into a spinning rift between dimensions, out of which walked Firght Knight himself, settling to the side of the portal, and standing at attention, ready for the rest of the Council to appear.

As the light from the portal became a pale, icy blue, a hand in a white, claw-tipped glove appeared from the portal, the hand's owner following after it, while the loyal Knight moved to bring his elbow up, so Prince Phantom could grab it and let himself be led out of the portal. The fact that the Prince's Fright Knight rested his free hand against his side, instead of the pommel of his sword, was a good indicator that they expected Phantom to be welcomed and safe here. They would do their best to ensure their trust was not unfounded.

Upon first glance, as the ghost of the hour floated out of the portal, the most attention would be paid to the Crown that sat on the teenage-looking ghost's head, all iridescent metal with little miniature planets orbiting each spike.

The Prince looked around the room, evaluating each of the three League members present, almost silent, if not for the way his long,almost elfin ears twitched, making the chains attached to them jingle pleasantly, little galaxies hanging from the metal and swirling lazily. A quietly howling star filled the silence, until Phantom turned to chirp at the portal, calling in the rest of the Council to step forth.

Not all of the Ancients gathered, this time. For the handoff, only those that Phantom named as family would be present. Frostbite, Pandora, Lady Dorathea and Clockwork.

Frostbite, the Yeti and Pandora, Guardian of Hope, the main caretakers, as his parents. Clockwork, one Brother of Space, now Mentor and Grandfather. Dorathea, Cousin and confidante, who insisted that Danny arrive in the best fashion to be found in his Lair. And through all his past turns of the cycle of rebirth, Danny had accumulated fashions uncountable, for his Fraid to enjoy.

Today, Dora had insisted to dress him up in a black kimono, specifically the one that faded from black, to dark blue into pale icy blue. Snowflakes slowly fell all across the length of the cloth, turning a formal piece of attire into a moving art show, as snow fell in lazy patterns with each step Danny took.

"Batman. Superman. Wonder Woman. Thank you for your kind offer of hospitality while I remain in this Realm." A furry hand on his shoulder led Phantom to sit in the closest chair, thumb nudging gently against a freckled cheek in silent support as the Yeti almost glowed with pride for his boy.

"It is nice to see you well, Prince Phantom." Wonder Woman took the lead, as was the usual when discussions between the three main Justice League heroes involved the more divine or supernatural aspects of the world. "We have some ideas for who will host you for the duration of your time here, and were hoping you might give your opinion."

The plan was for, at least initially, to have Batman host their guest. Both Clark and Diana knew the Dark Knight of Gotham would be a better fit for a Prince's stay.

Clark, with his irregular schedule as a reporter and his sons, and Diana with her work as a museum curator, were both too busy to host him. Bruce, on the other hand, would have the space needed, the free schedule needed to care for a teenage royal, and, most importantly, other teenagers already in his care, to help the current youngest of the Ancients acclimate to the modern Era, and specifically the Gotham lifestyle.

One signed contract later, and Danny floated in front of the Zeta tubes, feeling the rumble of working machinery, the humming of electricity which Danny knew deep in his bones and Core, would always recognize what killed him in this life while keeping his face as neutral as possible.

Right now, Danny was just Prince Phantom, Heir to the Throne and Rising Ancient of Space. Fenton could take a break from his crazy parents and their fixation on ghosts, and Jazz didnt need to spend her entire day worrying about him and smothering him in affection.

Highly advanced machinery was an interest because it was new, not because he wants to take it apart and see what makes it tick.

Thus, misdirection in place, Danny's Core studied the signals coming from the portal frame, and the rift just beyond, waiting to open.

"Your Highness, are you ready to go?" Ah, that would be Batman, standing at his side and watching him. He sounded...soft. The ghosts of Gotham always spoke of how soft Batman was towards children and, Ancient or not, right now Danny was, for all intents and purposes, a teenager.

A dead teenager, and that was bound to tug at the Bat's heart.

So, with a big smile, and big, curious eyes, Danny turned to face the Dark Knight and curtsied just as Dora had taught him to.

"I am indeed ready. I wonder what kind of home Gotham's favorite Knight lives in!"

"Before we leave, I should tell you, there will be others there. My children are a chaotic bunch, but they will be curious about you."

"Of course, no Bat is truly complete without his colony. You speak of them with pride. I will trust your judgement. So long as no one asks me how I died, or anything too personal, I won't take offense to being questioned by your children."

Stepping through the now active Zeta Tube set all of Danny's ectoplasmic nerves on end for a second, a slight feeling of too much settling in his bones at the difference between this and the portal that had brought him to the Watchtower.

Stepping out of the Zeta, Danny shook the pins and needles from his hands, blinked at the lighting change, and stepped into...a dark cave, full of very advanced tech that his inner Fenton pitched to get their hands on, and several small fluffy bats chittering above, watching the newcomer with judgemental eyes for a few seconds. Chirping a greeting at the gathering of eyes settled their agitation.

Clearly, good manners worked with Bats of all kinds.

"This way, Prince Phantom." Distracted by the Bats above, Danny had missed Batman ducking into a changing room and walking out as Bruce Wayne, Beloved Prince of Gotham, and all around Himbo Dad.

Mimicking Fright Knight previously, Bruce held his own arm up so Danny could hold onto it as he was guided to an elevator out of the Cave. He even pretended to stumble just slightly over the step out of the platform, looking around at the actually quite cozy but also really big office the elevator doors opened into.

"I thought people didn't live in castles anymore? Is the Knight of Gotham the exception?"

The eye roll and fond sigh had Danny cheering internally. The man DOES have a sense of humor! Not a fruit loop, after all!

Maybe this will be a fun little vacation.

Maybe, just maybe, Danny can hope that the GIW problem will be resolved, and he won't have to go to war against the Living...

Perched in the rafters above and spying on her dad and the pretty boy they'll be hosting, Cassandra Wayne almost stumbles at the sheer force of the sudden Hope-Glad-please don't be a dream that blankets the entire Wayne manor.

[pollkien]

EDRAHIL PROPAGANDA:

I really thought he’d have some godawful picture like some of the other side characters but actually that is a really nice drawing

He’ll pour you wine and look so adorable about it

Chief of the Elves that departed Nargothrond with Finrod

My Silm PDF was convinced he did not exist for 20 seconds. Here is his single mention in the book: “There were ten that stood by him; and the chief of them, who was named Edrahil, stooping lifted the crown and asked that it be given to a steward until Felagund’s return. ‘For you remain my king, and theirs,’ he said, ‘whatever betide.’”

Very loyal and we love that in a guy!

Died horribly to a werewolf in Sauron’s dungeon

This is probably yet another coughing baby vs hydrogen bomb contest. Poor Edrahil. Here’s an analysis someone wrote about him on SWG because I feel bad for having nothing else to say (also it was linked on TG so fair game IMO)

MAEGLIN PROPAGANDA:

Cursed by his own dad. So sad. So wet. So pathetic

Presumably also took Eöl’s cursed sword? I’m pretty sure he did. Maeglin has a cursed sword.

“the eyes of [Maeglin] were more piercing than his own, and his thought could read the secrets of hearts beyond the mist of words.” okay weirdo

Resembled in face and form the Noldor, but was similar to his cursed dad in mood and mind <3 he learned how to brood at a young age I’m sure

“His words were few save in matters that touched him near, and then his voice had a power to move those that heard him and to overthrow those that withstood him. He was tall and black-haired; his eyes were dark, yet bright and keen as the eyes of the Noldor, and his skin was white.” He is so cute

Did I mention he’s cursed

Dude had such an awful childhood I mean his dad literally didn’t name him for 12 years. And then when he wanted to visit his relatives his dad threatened to tie him up and throw him in a basement. My god

#1 Tuor and Eärendil hater

Something something cycle of violence

Grew great among the Gondolindrim! Loved my all! They love a brooding guy!

“Wise in counsel was Maeglin and wary, and yet hardy and valiant at need. And that was seen in after days: for when in the dread year of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad Turgon opened his leaguer and marched forth to the help of Fingon in the north, Maeglin would not remain in Gondolin as regent of the King, but went to the war and fought beside Turgon, and proved fell and fearless in battle.” He is like 100 years old man what the hell

The dark seed of evil <33333

Bounced three times as he died

[wachinyeya]

Bridges and Tunnels in Colorado Are Helping Animals Commute

The state has emerged as a leader in building wildlife crossings, which can save animals, money and human lives.

Article originally from the the NYT, archived at archive.today. Published March 25, 2025

Wildlife crossings are growing in popularity across the country, and in recent years, Colorado has emerged as a leader. Since 2015, it has built 28 new large game crossing structures, according to the state Transportation Department.

The state is rich in wildlife, and many of its species travel from higher elevations in the summer to lower ones in the winter, oftentimes crossing highways at great peril. In 2022, the General Assembly passed a law creating a cash fund for the department to use for animal crossings. Colorado has also evaluated its highways to create a priority list for future projects.

Wildlife crossings, when combined with long stretches of fencing to funnel animals to the right location, have been found to reduce vehicle collisions with large animals by more than 80 percent.

They are expensive, but research has shown they can save money when installed on stretches of highway with at least an average of three collisions between motorists and deer per mile per year. For collisions with elk and moose, which are bigger and therefore cause more damage to vehicles and people, that threshold goes down to less than one collision per mile per year.

--

Wildlife crossings transcend political divisions, said Patricia Cramer, an ecologist who consults with states on wildlife crossings, including the project on Route 160. They are popular among Republicans and Democrats. Of the two states she sees as national leaders, Wyoming is red and Colorado is blue.

For the Southern Ute, the crossings fit in with the cultural importance of being stewards of the land, said Andrew Gallegos, a member of the Tribal Council.

“This is one way to give back,” Mr. Gallegos said. “To help preserve life.”

[saywhat-politics]

The Trump administration late Saturday ordered the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, an independent government agency designed to protect consumers from corporate fraud and scams, to halt much of its work, amid an ongoing overhaul of the federal bureaucracy.

In an email to CFPB staff Saturday, Russ Vought — the newly confirmed director of the Office of Management and Budget and acting head of the CFPB — directed employees not to issue any proposed or formal rules, stop pending investigations and not open new investigations, halt all stakeholder engagements and abstain from issuing public communications, among other things. Vought wrote in the email, obtained by CBS News, that he was making the directive "as a faithful steward of the Bureau's resources" and committed to implementing Mr. Trump's policies.

[speaknow-sw]

THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : kissing, deaths, injuries, stitching, descriptions of battle, stabbing, fluff.

A/N : 7.1k words damn I can’t get enough of these two and it’s only chapter 5 💀. Anyway y’all are thirsty asf for this fic so here’s chapter 5 that I sprinkled with some ✨DRAMA✨ to sent y’all into orbit. MAMA IS FEEDING YOU TODAY !!!

꧁ Chapter 5 : The Enemy Hides in Lies ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The dawn breaks soft on battered lands,

A fleeting peace in trembling hands.

Yet love, like spring, begins to grow,

A fragile bloom through frost and woe.

The great hall was a theater of shadows, the flickering torchlight casting distorted shapes along the walls as nobles gathered around the grand oak table. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and wine, but beneath the surface, an invisible current of tension rippled through the room. Anakin stood at the head of the table, his posture commanding, his eyes sharp. Every face he looked upon was a puzzle to be solved—a potential piece in a game of betrayal he was only beginning to decipher.

Count Aulbry was the first to speak, as Anakin expected. The man always seized the moment, his voice a blend of false concern and barely veiled condescension. "My lord, your victories on the northern front are, of course, commendable. Few could have led our armies with such skill against Wallace and his men."

There was a pause, artfully calculated.

"But it does leave me wondering… Has our focus on the Scots left the kingdom vulnerable to other threats? A prolonged absence of leadership often invites… instability."

Anakin’s expression remained stony, though his grip tightened ever so slightly on the armrest of his chair. "Instability arises when men forget where their loyalties lie, Count," he said, his voice low but cutting. "Is there something specific you fear, or are these merely idle musings?"

Aulbry smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Idle musings, perhaps. One cannot help but notice certain… tensions in the southern provinces. Grain shipments have been delayed, and a few towns have reported unrest. A minor matter, I’m sure, but in times of peace, even minor matters deserve attention."

The mention of the grain shipments was not new to Anakin—he had already received reports from his stewards—but hearing it from Aulbry made the matter feel calculated, as if the Count was laying a trap with his words. Anakin’s gaze swept the room, noting the subtle shifts in posture among the other nobles. Whispers had begun to circulate in court—whispers that spoke of dissatisfaction, of plots brewing in the shadows.

"Minor matters, indeed," Anakin replied, his voice measured. "Rest assured, I have already taken steps to address them. The people will not starve under my watch."

"And yet," Aulbry pressed, "it is curious that such disruptions would occur now, so soon after your triumphant return. It almost seems as if—"

"Almost seems as if what, Count?" Anakin interrupted, his tone cold and final.

Aulbry hesitated, his smile faltering for the briefest moment. "Only that perhaps certain… elements may be testing the limits of this fragile peace. We must all remain vigilant, my lord. Especially you."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Anakin held Aulbry’s gaze, his silence more oppressive than any retort. When he finally spoke, his words were deliberate. "Vigilance is a duty I take seriously, Count. Perhaps you should do the same."

Aulbry bowed his head slightly, but Anakin saw the flicker of frustration in his eyes. The Count was testing boundaries, pushing at the edges of loyalty and decorum. And he was not alone.

The meeting concluded with the scrape of chairs and murmured pleasantries as the nobles filtered out. Anakin remained seated, his eyes following each man and woman as they departed. Only Aulbry lingered, his steps slow and deliberate as he approached the head of the table.

"My lord," the Count said, his tone dripping with false sincerity. "I hope you do not take my concerns as criticism. I only wish to see the kingdom prosper under your leadership."

"Prosperity does not grow from doubt, Count," Anakin replied, standing to his full height. "If you truly wish to see the kingdom flourish, you might begin by trusting the men who fight to protect it."

Aulbry’s lips twitched into a tight smile. "Wise words, my lord. I shall take them to heart."

Anakin watched as the Count left, the tension in the room finally breaking with his departure. But the unease in Anakin’s chest did not fade.

Later that night, Anakin stood on the battlements, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. Below, the village was a patchwork of flickering lights, its quiet hum a stark contrast to the silent storm raging in his mind. He could feel it—an undercurrent of unrest threading its way through the kingdom, subtle but insistent. The signs were everywhere: delays in supplies, vague reports of unrest, the growing boldness of men like Aulbry.

War had taught him to trust his instincts, and they were screaming now. He did not yet have proof, but he knew—knew—that something was amiss.

The crown weighed heavier on him with each passing day. He had fought for peace, had bled for it, but peace was proving to be a battlefield of its own. The enemy was not an army but a shadow, shifting and elusive. And shadows, he knew, could only be banished by light.

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, its familiar weight grounding him. He would find the truth, and when he did, there would be no room for mercy. For now, he would play their game, but he would play to win.

The castle felt colder tonight, the stone walls seeming to echo every hesitant footstep you took. A fire crackled in the hearth of your chambers, but its warmth did little to ease the chill that had settled deep within you. You sat at your desk, a blank sheet of parchment before you, the quill in your hand trembling as you contemplated what you were about to do.

How much could you tell him? How much should you tell him?

The betrayal weighed heavily on your chest, a burden you could no longer ignore. Your father’s plans had become clearer with each passing day, his letters to Count Aulbry a chilling reminder that you were nothing more than a pawn in a game of power. And yet, to expose him would mean condemning your family—your blood.

But Anakin...

Anakin, with his unyielding strength and sharp mind, had become more than just a reluctant husband. He was your partner, your protector, your anchor in a world that seemed to shift beneath your feet. The thought of betraying him, even through silence, filled you with a guilt so fierce it was almost unbearable.

You dipped the quill into the ink and began to write, the words flowing out in a code you hoped he would understand.

"Beware the hand that offers peace but hides a dagger. Trust not the smile that does not reach the eyes. The enemy within wears the guise of a friend."

You hesitated, then folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with wax. The message was cryptic enough to avoid suspicion should it fall into the wrong hands, but you prayed Anakin’s sharp mind would unravel its meaning. 

The castle’s long corridors seemed quieter than ever that morning, the weight of your secrets pressing down on every step you took. You carried a tray of tea in your hands, the porcelain rattling faintly against the silver as your fingers trembled.

Anakin had returned just days ago, his presence both a comfort and a torment. He was closer now than ever before, yet the chasm between your love and the truths you withheld felt insurmountable. Every glance, every touch, every whispered word only deepened the ache inside you.

You paused outside his study, steadying yourself before entering. The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, revealing him hunched over the table, his broad shoulders tense as he studied the maps and reports before him. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden highlights in his dark hair.

When he looked up, the weariness in his expression softened instantly, replaced by something warmer. Something reserved for you.

“You shouldn’t carry such things yourself,” he said, standing quickly to meet you. His voice was firm, but the faint curve of a smile betrayed his gratitude.

“And yet I wished to,” you replied with a small smile of your own.

You crossed the room to set the tray on the table, your movements deliberate, though your heart raced with the anticipation of what you were about to do. As you placed the tea before him, your fingers brushed his—just a fleeting touch, but one that sent warmth spiraling through you.

“You spoil me,” he said, his tone quiet but tinged with humor.

“You deserve spoiling,” you replied, your words light but sincere.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, and you could feel the weight of his attention. Your breath hitched as you stepped back, sliding the folded note beneath one of the maps. Your hand hovered for a moment, but then you turned, ready to leave before your courage faltered.

But Anakin’s hand caught yours, his grip firm yet tender, halting you in your tracks.

“Stay,” he said, his voice low, but with a quiet insistence that left no room for refusal.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding, allowing him to guide you to a seat beside him. The distance between you closed, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the world beyond the study’s walls forgotten.

For a time, there was only silence between you, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. You could feel his presence beside you, solid and grounding, yet there was an unspoken tension in the air—a weight neither of you could name.

Finally, he broke the quiet.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as though confessing a forbidden truth. “More than I realized I could.”

The words struck something deep within you, and you turned to face him fully, searching his face for any trace of doubt. There was none—only sincerity, tinged with a vulnerability you had rarely seen in him.

“I missed you too,” you admitted, your voice trembling. It was the truth, but it felt inadequate to capture the depth of your longing.

Anakin reached out then, his hand brushing against your cheek, his touch achingly gentle. The callouses on his fingers spoke of battles and hardships, yet his touch was softer than anything you had ever known. You leaned into his hand, your eyes fluttering closed as you allowed yourself a moment of reprieve.

When his lips met yours, it was slow, almost hesitant, as though testing the fragile bond that had formed between you. The kiss deepened, carrying with it an unspoken promise—a vow neither of you could yet put into words.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“There’s so much I don’t say,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “But you have to know—”

“I do,” you interrupted, placing a hand on his chest. Beneath your palm, you felt the steady beat of his heart—a reminder of his strength, his humanity. “I know.”

For a long moment, the two of you simply sat there, the world outside the study forgotten. You wanted to tell him everything, to unburden yourself of the secrets that threatened to consume you. But fear held you back—fear of what your revelations might do to the fragile trust you had built.

Later, as he returned to his work, his attention fell on the maps and reports scattered across the table. His sharp eyes caught the folded parchment tucked beneath the edges of the papers, and his brow furrowed as he reached for it.

From the doorway, you watched as he unfolded the note, his gaze scanning the words you had written. His expression darkened slightly, his fingers tightening around the parchment.

He looked up then, his eyes meeting yours across the room. There was no accusation in his gaze, only a quiet question—a plea for understanding.

You offered him a faint smile before slipping away, your heart heavy with the weight of what you had done. You prayed he would understand the warning you had left for him.

And you prayed, too, that the love you had begun to share would be strong enough to weather the storms that lay ahead.

The midday sun cast golden light through the stained-glass windows of your chamber as you sat by the desk, attempting to focus on a new canvas. But the brush in your hand felt heavier than usual, and the colors blurred together, your thoughts elsewhere.

Anakin had left at dawn for a hunt, his absence stretching like a shadow over the castle. You found yourself restless, unsettled by a creeping sense of unease that had lingered since his departure.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted your thoughts. One of the castle’s attendants entered, carrying a folded piece of parchment sealed with no crest. The lack of identification immediately caught your attention.

“This arrived for you, my lady,” the attendant said, bowing as they set the letter on your desk.

“Who delivered it?” you asked, but the attendant only shook their head.

“It was left with the guards at the gate, my lady. No messenger lingered.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the parchment, the faint scent of ash and wax clinging to it. Unfolding the letter, you read the hurried scrawl within:

“Beware the serpent that coils close to the lion. Tonight, blades will be drawn in shadows, and blood will stain the throne. Protect him, or all will be lost.”

Your breath caught. The words were cryptic yet chillingly clear—a warning of betrayal, danger aimed at Anakin, and treachery from someone within the castle walls.

The sound of boots echoed in the corridor outside, and you quickly folded the letter, tucking it beneath the edge of your desk. A moment later, Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped into the room.

He had returned to the castle only days before, bringing with him reports of the Scots' retreat. His presence had initially been a comfort, his calm demeanor reassuring amid the chaos of court politics. But as Anakin’s trusted right-hand man, his arrival had also coincided with a strange tension.

“My lady,” Obi-Wan said, inclining his head. “I trust the day finds you well?”

“Well enough,” you replied, though your voice betrayed the unease tightening your chest.

He stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Anakin will return soon, I presume?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “He should be back before nightfall.”

“And yet, you seem troubled,” Obi-Wan observed, his tone casual but sharp. “Is there something amiss?”

You hesitated, your mind racing. Could Obi-Wan be the serpent the letter warned of? Or was this paranoia taking root, fed by the growing web of deceit surrounding you?

“I have much on my mind,” you said carefully. “The court’s whispers, the growing unrest. Surely you’ve noticed it too.”

Obi-Wan’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his voice lowering. “The court is always restless. But if there is something specific troubling you, you need only say the word. Anakin would want me to protect you in his absence.”

The sincerity in his voice sent a pang of guilt through you, but the memory of the letter’s warning gnawed at your resolve.

“I’ll manage,” you said, your tone firmer. “Thank you, Sir Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan hesitated for a moment, as though weighing your words, before nodding and stepping back. “As you wish, my lady. But do not hesitate to summon me if you need anything.”

With that, he left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

You had just resolved to wait for Anakin’s return when a knock at the door startled you. It was one of the chambermaids, her face pale and her hands wringing nervously.

“My lady,” she said, “I thought you should know... Sir Kenobi and Count Aulbry were seen riding out together just now. They seemed... urgent.”

The words sent a chill through you. “Did they say where they were going?”

The maid shook her head. “No, my lady. But they rode toward the northern woods.”

Toward the royal hunting grounds.

Panic gripped you. Anakin had ridden there with the king this morning, and now his supposed ally and his most vocal opponent had followed, shrouded in secrecy.

You clenched your hands into fists, your mind racing. The letter’s warning, Obi-Wan’s strange behavior, Aulbry’s open hostility—it all aligned too perfectly. If they meant to harm Anakin, you couldn’t sit idly by.

The stable smelled of hay and cold earth as you approached, your breath visible in the crisp air. The stable master startled at the sight of you, his eyes wide with alarm as you strode toward the nearest horse.

“My lady, what are you—”

“Prepare her,” you interrupted, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you. “The mare, now.”

He hesitated, hands trembling as he fumbled with the tack. “It isn’t safe, my lady. You can’t ride alone.”

“Safe?” The word cracked from your lips, harsh and bitter. “Safe is a word I can no longer afford. Saddle her, or I’ll do it myself.”

His protests faltered as he moved quickly, his fear of disobedience outweighing his confusion. The mare was readied within minutes, her dark eyes reflecting your own urgency.

Your skirts snagged as you mounted, but you paid it no mind, gripping the reins and spurring the horse forward before the stable master could voice another word.

The wind sliced through you as the mare thundered over the frost-covered earth. Each hoofbeat echoed like the drum of war, steady and relentless, driving you closer to the woods. The trees loomed ahead, their bare branches clawing at the sky, and with them came the weight of your growing dread.

Anakin. His name was a heartbeat in your mind, a mantra that propelled you forward. You could see him in your mind’s eye—strong, resolute, his brow furrowed in thought as he stood apart from the world, carrying its burdens alone.

Would he believe you?

The question clawed at you as you rode, your fingers trembling against the reins. Would he see your desperation as weakness? Would he blame you for suspecting Obi-Wan, the man who had fought beside him in countless battles?

Or worse—what if you were wrong?

The thought was unbearable, but the image of the letter was sharper still. Its words were a call to action, and inaction felt like betrayal.

You pushed the mare harder, her breaths coming in sharp bursts as you entered the woods. The hunting party’s distant voices reached your ears, their tones hushed but unmistakable.

“Almost there,” you whispered, your words carried away by the wind.

The mare slowed as you approached the clearing, and you dismounted swiftly, your boots crunching against the frosted ground. The shadows of men and horses flickered through the trees, their forms half-obscured by the fading light.

You hesitated, your pulse quickening as you moved closer, the forest around you suddenly heavy with silence.

The words from the letter echoed in your mind, louder than ever. “Blades will be drawn in shadows...”

You glanced over your shoulder at the mare, now tethered to a low-hanging branch, and took a deep breath. The weight of what you had to do pressed against your chest like armor.

Somewhere in this forest, Anakin was unaware of the knife poised at his back. And you would move heaven and earth to ensure it never reached him.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The foe you see is not the hand,

That strikes unseen, or makes its stand.

Deceit is woven through their guise,

The truest battle hides in lies.

The early morning fog clung to the trees like a damp veil, shrouding the forest in an eerie stillness. Anakin’s boots sank into the earth with each step of his horse, the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves resonating beneath the thick canopy. His mind wasn’t on the hunt, not really. He had ridden out on the king’s orders, ostensibly to track game through the thick woods, but every instinct in his body told him something was wrong. A nagging feeling of unease gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.

The cold air cut through his cloak, yet the discomfort of the chill was nothing compared to the unease stirring deep within him. He had tried to ignore it—after all, he had faced far worse than a simple hunting expedition. But it was there, a persistent presence, an itch under the skin that he couldn’t shake.

"Stay alert, Anakin," he muttered to himself, his breath misting in the cold morning air. His instincts had never been wrong before.

Suddenly, there was a rustling in the underbrush. Anakin’s hand immediately went to the hilt of his sword, his gaze scanning the surroundings. The forest was quiet again, unnervingly so. He heard the faintest snap of a twig, too far to his left to be a deer. His eyes narrowed, and his breath held as he dismounted silently, glancing at the trees above for any sign of movement.

The shadows were his enemies now. He couldn’t risk being ambushed.

He was barely aware of the first movement—a swift motion to his right, a shadow crossing his line of vision—before he heard the unmistakable sound of steel scraping against leather. A flash of cold metal, a blur of movement, and then—nothing.

It all happened so fast. He had learned long ago that the most dangerous threats were often the ones you couldn’t see until it was too late.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the blur of a figure darting toward him, and without hesitation, Anakin spun around, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. A man lunged at him from the trees, the assassin’s blade aimed at his side, but Anakin deflected it with a practiced swing, their swords clashing with a ringing sound that reverberated through the dense woods.

But then, as if from every direction, more figures emerged—six, no, eight men surrounding him. They were silent, fast, moving with the precision of a well-coordinated attack. His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline surging as the battle instincts kicked in. Anakin’s eyes scanned the men, calculating, assessing, his hand moving as if it had a life of its own. His sword met the blade of another attacker, their weapons locked in a deadly struggle.

The noise of the fight was deafening—the clash of steel, the grunts of exertion, the sharp cries of men falling as they tried to overcome him. But there was something different about this attack. The men didn’t move like mercenaries; they moved with the fluidity of soldiers trained in the art of war, and they seemed to have been waiting for him. The very ground beneath him seemed to tremble with their numbers.

His breath came ragged, his eyes darting between enemies, trying to predict the next move. He didn’t have much time. The trees provided little cover, and every swing of his sword was an invitation for another blow. He gritted his teeth and blocked another strike, parrying to the side before slashing his blade through the chest of one man. His breath was heavy now, the sweat dripping down his brow despite the cold.

But then the realization hit him, cold as ice.

They weren’t after the hunt.

They were after him.

The words echoed in his mind, but he didn’t have time to process them. A sword sliced across his chest, just missing his vital organs. He staggered back, breath stolen for a moment, his blood staining his tunic. The rush of pain barely registered as his instincts kicked in, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as he batted another attack aside.

One man dropped to the ground with a grunt, but that didn’t matter. There were still too many, and they were closing in, pushing him toward the dense underbrush. A few were already injured, but not enough to halt their assault.

The moon hung high in the sky, barely visible through the dense canopy of trees as the darkness swallowed Anakin whole. He had been fighting for hours now—bloodied, exhausted, but resolute. The twelve men who had attacked him had already taken down several of his own, and the forest felt like a battleground in hell. The night air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke. The forest echoed with the sound of sword clashing, of desperate men shouting orders.

But it was still quiet. Too quiet.

Anakin felt the familiar presence of danger creeping closer, but it wasn’t just the attackers that gnawed at him. His heart was pounding in his chest as he thought of you. His thoughts were filled with the images of your face, your soft voice calling his name, and he feared for you. He had never been afraid in a fight, not in all the battles he had seen—but this was different. He feared for your safety.

Where are you?

He couldn’t shake the thought. He tried to push it away, tried to concentrate on the men surrounding him, but it wasn’t easy. His body was aching, blood flowing freely from the multiple cuts across his torso. He had barely managed to keep the attackers at bay, and now, with each passing second, they grew closer. They had surrounded him.

With a burst of adrenaline, Anakin swung his sword again, cutting through another man, but his vision was starting to blur. His grip on his sword was weakening, but he could feel his determination growing stronger. I must survive, for her.

That’s when he heard it.

The sound of hooves, distant at first, but growing louder, faster. The unmistakable sound of a rider galloping in the woods.

No, not you. His heart raced even faster. He could feel your presence getting closer, but he had no way of stopping you.

He couldn’t keep fighting and get to you in time. But you were so close now, he couldn’t wait.

Meanwhile, you had galloped through the woods, panic clawing at your chest with every thundering beat of the horse’s hooves beneath you. You could hear the faint echoes of battle in the distance—the clash of swords, the guttural cries of men. Your blood ran cold. You urged the horse onward, desperate to reach him, to stop whatever this madness was before it consumed him.

The woods were a maze of shadow and mist. You couldn’t see through the trees, couldn’t hear over the thundering of the horse’s hooves beneath you. It felt like you were racing against time, but what was worse was the gnawing, suffocating fear in your chest.

Please, Anakin, please be safe.

As the sounds of the battle grew louder, you felt your heartbeat in your throat. You could hear the shouts of soldiers. Then, without warning, a shadow leapt out from the trees.

Before you could react, a man grabbed your reins, yanking your horse’s head sharply to the side. He lunged at you, sword raised high.

Your heart froze. You reached up instinctively, fingers fumbling for the tiny dagger you had tucked in your hair for moments like this. The cold metal of the dagger was a comfort in your hand, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the situation. The man’s face was twisted in anger as he raised the sword, preparing to strike.

Fear clawed at you, but you refused to let it control you. You slashed the dagger across the man’s arm, but he hardly flinched. The blow wasn’t enough to stop him, and the sword came down at you again, too fast for you to dodge.

But before the blade could reach you, a roar split the air.

“DON’T TOUCH MY WIFE!” Anakin’s voice thundered through the trees, furious and primal.

You barely had time to register his words before his form appeared in front of you, bloodied and furious. His sword cut through the air in a flash, knocking the would-be attacker aside with a force that left no room for mercy.

You didn’t have time to breathe, didn’t have time to think. Anakin’s eyes were locked on you, fierce and protective, but his face was pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest was covered in blood, and yet his gaze never left you.

He turned back to face the remaining attackers, his anger and pain mingling in a way that made your heart ache. You reached out, desperate to touch him, but as your hand brushed against his, he pushed you back.

“I said stay back!” His voice was hoarse, but filled with a raw, desperate need to protect you. “It’s not over.”

You watched helplessly as Anakin stepped forward, meeting the four men who had remained hidden in the shadows. Each strike was met with a new burst of agony, a struggle against the men who relentlessly attacked him. His movements were slower now, each swing of his sword weaker than the last. But even as his body betrayed him, his will never faltered.

The battle felt like it went on for an eternity, each second stretched thin by the raw tension and fear that swelled inside of you. You couldn’t watch any longer. It felt like you were suffocating under the weight of the moment. But even then, you saw him—he was still fighting.

And then, the final blow came.

One of the men drew his bow and released an arrow with deadly accuracy. You saw it happen in slow motion. The arrow soared through the air, and for a brief, horrified second, you knew what was about to happen.

It struck Anakin in the chest.

The sound that escaped his mouth was one of pure agony as the arrow buried deep into his lung. He staggered back, his sword faltering in his hand as he fought for balance.

“No!” you cried, rushing toward him despite the danger. But as you approached, you saw him fall to his knees, blood pouring from the wound. His face was pale, his lips already tinged with the blue of a wound too deep to ignore.

But even then, he didn’t give in.

“Anakin…” you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands shook as you pressed against his chest, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.

He looked up at you, eyes filled with pain but a fierce determination still burning behind them.

“I’m not dying,” he whispered between labored breaths, the words strained and weak. “I won’t leave you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you tore at the hem of your dress, ripping it to pieces to use as a makeshift bandage. Your hands were trembling, but you pressed the fabric to his chest, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“I won’t let you die,” you said through clenched teeth, your voice trembling.

He took your hand then, squeezing it gently despite the agony that wracked his body.

“You’re all that matters,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll live… because of you.”

His words, though weak, fueled your resolve. You kept applying pressure to his chest, watching as his color slowly returned, watching as he breathed deeply again, fighting the weariness in his limbs.

It was then that he finally stirred, groaning as he attempted to rise. He pushed himself to his feet with your help, his body shaking with the effort. Despite the pain, despite everything, he managed to stand tall.

“We need to get back to the king,” he said, his voice hoarse but filled with purpose. His gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, you could see nothing but the depth of his devotion in his eyes.

The two of you walked—no, staggered—back toward the camp, where the king’s men were gathered in stunned silence. As Anakin limped toward the center of the camp, still holding your hand, he confronted Count Aulbry. The nobleman, who had been so sly and quiet up until now, stood with a calm demeanor, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt.

Anakin’s voice rang out, cutting through the air like steel.

“Did you think you could hide your treachery?” he demanded. “Did you think this would break me? You were wrong.”

Count Aulbry’s face remained impassive, but his jaw tightened as he denied any involvement. Yet the doubt lingered in his eyes, a dangerous sign that made Anakin even more resolute.

“I will uncover the truth,” Anakin declared, blood still soaking his chest as he glared at Aulbry with unyielding determination.

The confrontation had only just begun, and Anakin was more resolved than ever to expose the traitor for what he truly was.

The dim glow of the campfire flickered through the canvas of the tent, casting soft shadows that danced against the fabric walls. You sat next to Anakin, the firelight tracing the contours of his tired face, his features drawn with pain yet softened by the intimate stillness that surrounded you both. His chest heaved with each breath, though you could see the slow but steady recovery beginning as you gently unwound the bandage around his chest.

His wound, though grave, had been patched up. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain in his eyes lingered. You had tried to banish the worst of it by offering whatever comfort you could, but you knew that a part of him—one that he would never fully reveal—was still at war within.

"You’re relentless," you whispered softly, carefully peeling back the fabric of his shirt. “These arrows... They always manage to find your most vital points.”

Anakin looked down at the wound, his gaze thoughtful but distant. He gave a half-hearted chuckle, though it was edged with a touch of bitterness. "It's almost as if they know where to strike, isn't it?" His voice was rough, with a quiet humor trying to mask the ache that still lingered in him. His hand gripped the edge of the cot, and you could see the tension in his posture, a mixture of exhaustion and frustration.

“Or maybe it’s that you’re too quick to put yourself in harm’s way," you said with a teasing smile, the movement of your hands steady and sure as you replaced his bloodied bandage with fresh linen.

He chuckled softly, but his expression grew more serious as he leaned back against the pillows, his gaze never leaving yours. There was a weight to the silence that hung between you now, a heaviness that pulled at the edges of his soul. And you could feel it too—the depth of everything unspoken, the fragile trust between you now intertwined with something far deeper.

“You know, I’ve always thought I could protect myself,” Anakin began, his voice quiet, the words coming with a painful honesty that you hadn’t heard from him before. “But now… Now, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been so focused on fighting everyone else that I’ve missed something closer to home.”

Your hands stilled as you finished tying off the bandage. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. He looked vulnerable, even though he would never fully allow anyone to see it. The man who had always been a soldier, a leader, was now confiding in you—not just as a lover but as someone he trusted more than anyone else.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice soft, inviting him to share the heavy burden he was carrying.

His lips pressed together for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was with the weight of his suspicions, the quiet recognition that something was wrong—something much bigger than the battle they had fought.

“I think Count Aulbry... I think he’s behind all of this. I can feel it. Something about him doesn’t sit right with me.” His voice was low, almost hesitant, as though sharing this part of himself made him more vulnerable than any of the cuts that marred his skin.

Your heart ached for him. You could see the conflict in his eyes—the sharp intelligence that had always served him so well in battle was now clouded with doubt. It wasn’t just the wound that pained him. It was the fear that he was no longer in control, no longer able to protect those he loved, especially you.

“Anakin,” you whispered, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You don’t always have to carry the weight alone.”

He looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours as if looking for something—something that he needed but wasn’t sure how to ask for. His lips parted, but before he could speak, the silence between you was filled with the quiet rustle of the forest, the distant cry of a bird in the dark, the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

“I’ve seen too many men lose themselves,” Anakin began, his voice distant. “Too many battles where it wasn’t the enemy I was fighting—it was what I had to give up to win.” He hesitated, as if weighing the significance of his words, before adding, “I’m beginning to wonder if the price of victory is too high.”

His words hung in the air between you like an unspoken truth, an ache that neither of you could escape. You knew what he meant. You understood the weight of his soul, the endless struggle of a man who had given everything—too much—and still couldn’t find peace.

“The price... is never too high,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. You leaned closer, your fingers brushing against his as you steadied his hand. “As long as we face it together.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving yours. It was as though, in that moment, he finally allowed himself to breathe, to let the walls around him fall just a little. His eyes softened, a rawness there that hadn’t been present before, and it struck you like a physical blow. The tenderness in him, buried beneath so many layers of strength and duty, was finally being revealed.

Without a word, his hand slid to your cheek, the touch tender and intimate. The contact was slow, deliberate, as if he were memorizing the feel of your skin against his. He leaned in, and for a moment, you were suspended in the space between you, where the world seemed to hold its breath.

And in that moment, with the weight of the world hanging over them, the kiss came—gentle at first, as if testing the waters, as if seeking permission to finally release all that had been held in for so long. His lips brushed against yours, soft and tentative, the tenderness of it shocking in its simplicity. But that kiss was enough to set your heart on fire.

You responded without hesitation, pulling him closer, letting your lips meet his with a desperate kind of sweetness, as if you were both trying to breathe life back into one another. His hand slid to the back of your neck, gently urging you closer, the firelight dancing across his face as you kissed him deeply.

The world around you fell away as his warmth enveloped you. His lips were insistent, demanding now, as if every kiss was a promise, every touch a vow that he would never let go of you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as if to reassure yourself that this moment, this love, was real.

You broke away for a moment, both of you breathless, gazing at each other with an intensity that made your heart ache. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as the world outside ceased to matter.

“I never wanted to pull you into this,” Anakin murmured, his voice hoarse, a quiet confession. “This war... it’s not something I can protect you from. Although, I would fight in a dozen wars to shield you, my rose. In a dozen liftetimes… if I ever fail to protect you…I… I could not live with it. If you fall I fall, I swear it on my honor, on my blood and on the gods.”

You smiled softly, running your hand through his hair, feeling the dampness of sweat and blood still clinging to his skin. “You don’t have to protect me, Anakin,” you whispered, your voice thick with a tenderness that threatened to break you. “We protect each other. That’s what this is.”

His eyes searched yours, his lips parting as if to speak, but he hesitated. Instead, he pulled you closer, holding you tight against him, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. It was as though the world had stopped moving, leaving only the two of you in this space—this fragile, intimate moment where everything else faded into the background.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest. “You deserve everything, Anakin. Everything I can give.”

And in that moment, something shifted between you both. It wasn’t just love—it was trust. A promise that no matter how dark the days ahead might get, you would face them together. There was no fear, no hesitation now. Just the two of you, bound in this shared understanding.

You kissed him again, this time with the weight of everything you both held. The world outside could burn, and it wouldn’t matter. All that mattered was this—this connection, this bond that neither of you could name, but both of you knew would endure.

As you pulled away, Anakin’s eyes softened, a small but meaningful smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll face whatever comes, for you.” he whispered, his voice steady, yet filled with a quiet certainty.

And with that promise, you knew that no matter what storm might come, you would stand together, unwavering, your love a flame that could never be extinguished.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

In the silence, my heart stopped to bleed,

For her breath was the air that I’d need.

If she fell, the world would cease its song,

For in her death, my life would be gone.

[deadpresidents]

Formal Presidential Proclamation Announcing the Death of President Carter

December 29, 2024

By the President of the United States of America A Proclamation

To the People of the United States:

It is my solemn duty to announce officially the death of James Earl Carter, Jr., the thirty-ninth President of the United States, on December 29, 2024.

President Carter was a man of character, courage, and compassion, whose lifetime of service defined him as one of the most influential statesmen in our history. He embodied the very best of America: A humble servant of God and the people. A heroic champion of global peace and human rights, and an honorable leader whose moral clarity and hopeful vision lifted our Nation and changed our world.

The son of a farmer and a nurse, President Carter's remarkable career in public service began in 1943 as a cadet at the United States Naval Academy. He later served in both the Atlantic and Pacific fleets before becoming a decorated lieutenant and being selected to join the elite nuclear submarine program.

After his father died, he shifted from active duty to the Navy Reserve and returned home to Plains, Georgia, to help manage his family's peanut farm. He worked hard stewarding the land while leading his community as a church deacon, Sunday school teacher, and board member of a hospital and library. His deep faith inspired a passion for public service that led him to be elected State Senator, Georgia's 76th Governor, and ultimately President of the United States.

As President, he understood that Government must be as good as its people -- and his faith in the people was boundless just as his belief in America was limitless and his hope for our common future was perennial.

With President Carter's leadership, the modern Department of Education and the Department of Energy were created. He championed conservation, and his commitment to a more just world was at the heart of his foreign policy, leading on nuclear nonproliferation, signing the Panama Canal treaties, and mediating the historic 1978 Camp David Accords. His partnership with Vice President Walter Mondale is one that future administrations strived to achieve.

Following his Presidency, President Carter advanced an agenda that elevated the least among us. Guided by an unwavering belief in the power of human goodness and the God given dignity of every human being, he worked tirelessly around the globe to broker peace; eradicate disease; house the homeless; and protect human rights, freedom, and democracy.

Through his extraordinary moral leadership, President Carter lived a noble life full of meaning and purpose. And as a trusted spiritual leader, he shepherded people through seasons of pain and joy, inspiring them through the power of his example and healing them through the power of his guidance.

As we mourn the loss of President Carter, we hold the memory of his beloved Rosalynn, his wife of over 77 years, close in our hearts. Exemplifying hope, warmth, and service, she and her husband inspired the Nation. The love Rosalynn and President Carter shared is the definition of partnership, and their devotion to public service is the definition of patriotism.

May President Carter's memory continue to be a light pointing us forward. May we continue to be guided by his spirit in our Nation and in our world.

Now, Therefore, I, Joseph R. Biden Jr., President of the United States of America, by the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, in honor and tribute to the memory of President James Earl Carter, Jr., and as an expression of public sorrow, do hereby direct that the flag of the United States be displayed at half-staff at the White House and on all public buildings and grounds, at all military posts and naval stations, and on all naval vessels of the Federal Government in the District of Columbia and throughout the United States and its Territories and possessions for a period of 30 days from the day of his death. I also direct that, for the same length of time, the representatives of the United States in foreign countries shall make similar arrangements for the display of the flag at half staff over their embassies, legations, consular offices, and other facilities abroad, including all military facilities and naval vessels and stations.

I hereby order that suitable honors be rendered by units of the Armed Forces under orders of the Secretary of Defense.

I do further appoint January 9, 2025, as a National Day of Mourning throughout the United States. I call on the American people to assemble on that day in their respective places of worship, there to pay homage to the memory of President James Earl Carter, Jr. I invite the people of the world who share our grief to join us in this solemn observance.

In Witness Whereof, I have hereunto set my hand this twenty-ninth day of December, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-four, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and forty-ninth.

JOSEPH R. BIDEN JR.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Pairing: Elrond x Fem. Reader (second person POV)

Themes: Soft | Smut

Warnings: Kissing | Penetrative sex | Public sex | Sex in an unusual location | Cream pie

Word count: 1.7k words

Summary: Elrond goes in search of his companion, and is greeted with a ball of snow instead.

Rating: 🔥🔥| Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

Divider by @estrelinha-s

Snow lay thick on the ground by the time Elrond and his warriors returned from the borders of Rivendell.

“Lindir!” He called out to his steward after he dismounted and gave over the reins of his horse to another elf. “Where has y/n gone off to this morning?”

Lindir, after having seen his lord and his men some distance away, left for the courtyard to wait for them. He bowed and offered Elrond a traditional welcome and said, “Lady y/n left for the woods just beyond the guest lodgings not long ago. You may find her by the pond, I think.”

“My thanks.” Elrond turned over his sword and gloves to Lindir and walked down the same paths you did. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so. His boots left little to no imprint on the snow, and the brazing winter air itself was invigorating. It carried with it the faint redolence of spruce and fir and pine. He sighed in contentment and turned to take a glimpse of his home. All of Rivendell looked different, like an enchanted keep in a wintery land.

“Melleth?” He cried and looked around. Of snow-covered trees and bushes, there were aplenty, but you were nowhere to be seen. “Where are you?”

Nothing but the wind answered him. “Melleth?” He shouted again. “What mischief are you up to now?”

A white ball flying in a perfect arc and exploding in a spray of snow and ice after hitting him on the back was all the answer he needed. Elrond smiled, and dusted the snow off of his cloak. Then another ball flew in from the same direction and hit him on the head with a soft thud. He turned to face the direction it came from, and crouched just as a third projectile came hurtling toward him.

Orcs are not the only things determined to test my patience. Elrond sighed, then smiled to himself and made his way down another path, resolute to catch you in the act.

There was nothing to be heard after that. No calls for you, no shouts, and no commands for you to show yourself. Elrond made no sound as he moved, and that put you on edge. He could be anywhere, and you would not know of his presence until he was right before you.

A hushed silence fell over the little copse you concealed yourself in. There were no animals moving about in the brush; they were sleeping in their little dens and caves for the whole of the winter. A bird sang, but there was no other sound beyond its sweet singing. Minutes passed, and still there was no sign of Elrond.

Where is he? You thought to yourself. Had Elrond returned to the main house and the Hall of Fire? Had he ridden out with his warriors again? Or was he out there, somewhere, biding his time until you revealed yourself?

Time drifted by as if in a dream. It grew colder and a little darker. And Elrond was nowhere to be seen. Thinking that he had returned to the halls, you left your hiding place behind an old oak tree and departed for home.

“And where do you think you are going?”

“Elrond!” You squealed, startled. Elrond had been right beside your little hiding place the entire time, waiting for you to appear. The smile that flashed across his face was smug and self-satisfied. “How did you know I was here?”

He tapped the side of his nose with his finger and said, “It was your fragrance that gave you away, meleth.”

You sniffed at your wrists and your hair. There was no scent to be found on your skin or your dress. “But I am wearing no perfume,” you said in protest.

“Twas not a perfume I smelled,” he smiled again. “It was the scent of you that gave you away.”

You flushed and looked away. Elrond laughed softly. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Truly. I quite like the way you smell. Although,” he went on to add, “I do think it is highly unbecoming for the Lady of Imladris to throw balls of snow at unsuspecting elves.”

“Perhaps,” you muttered. Then you turned to face him, your eyes bright with curiosity. “You said you liked the way I smell. What else do you like about me?”

It was Elrond’s turn to flush, and not from embarrassment. “I see,” he commented. “You wish to know more about what I find desirable in you. Let me think. I quite enjoy your ability to find pleasure even in the simplest of things.”

“Such as throwing balls of snow at you?”

“Do not test me on that, melleth.”

“My pardons.”

He grinned, and walked toward you. “I also love seeing you like this: your cheeks all flushed from the cold, your hair all in a beautiful tangle, and this cloak is quite fetching on you. A pity it conceals so much. Or have I simply been away for too long, and anything appears alluring to me now?”

“Elrond!” You gasped in disbelief. Pale blue eyes lit up in amusement.

“I jest, melleth,” he said, coming even closer. “You are ravishing as always. Now, where was I?”

“You were speaking of my cloak,” you told him. Heat slowly bloomed in your cheeks when he reached out and undid the clasps of your cloak. “And how it concealed too much.”

“Indeed.” Skillful fingers unfastened each clasp one by one. The shock of cold air dancing over exposed skin left you tingling. Elrond delighted in this, for he had been away for far too long. He had missed watching such sensations flow through your body, and he found himself yearning to savor all of it again, here and now, even though the two of you were in the woods, and not within the privacy of your shared chambers.

“I relish watching you tremble beneath me,” he began, and drew your cloak away. “How you shiver when I run the flat of my hand over your belly. And your hair… I love how it flows around my fingers when I loosen your braids.”

He reached back and slowly loosened one braid, and another, and another. Your hair soon fell around your shoulders. Elrond was not done. His hand did indeed glide up your waist and onto your belly. It made you feel warm and feverish. You shuddered beneath him when that same hand pushed you back—back until he had you caged between him and the bark of a tree.

“We are out in the open,” you pointed out to him. “Someone could come upon us.”

“They will not,” Elrond assured you. “And we need not tarry needlessly. I have missed you, melleth. Let me have a taste of you, at least.”

He dipped his head and kissed the shell of your ear and the expanse of your throat. His arms slipped around your waist when yours twined around his neck.

“Just a taste?” Your blood was already roaring in your ears. Elrond lifted his gaze. His eyes were clouded with lust. “Or more than that?”

“More than that,” he echoed, “if possible. And like I said, we need not tarry needlessly.”

“I never took you for one who loves quickly,” you remarked. “But I do not mind this being the first instance you do so.”

His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Wonderful. Close your eyes, melleth. I will see to the rest.”

Elrond did indeed tend to it all, and so much more besides. His kisses drowned out your sighs and the soft moans that followed in their wake. He slipped an arm beneath your thighs and lifted you up, growling in your ear when he felt your legs wrap tight around his hips. He nearly crushed you to his armor when he kissed and kissed and kissed, and yet you barely felt the steel press against silk and bone and flesh. All your thoughts were consumed by him, by the strength in his arms and his back, and by the hot and sinful mouth that hammered away at any sense of restraint you had. 

“Elrond,” you sighed. Your hand slipped over his chest and down his belly, and beneath the silks underneath his armor. It was a trial, loosening the thin strips of cloth around his breeches, but you managed all the same. When you reached in and took him to hand, he nipped your throat.

“I see you are more than keen on me loving you quickly.” There was a sharp rip. Elrond removed his hand just long enough to move it between your thighs and tear at your small clothes. He touched you briefly, groaning against your neck when he found you already wet.

Elrond’s touch was as electrifying as his kisses. However, he did not continue with his ministrations for long. Another hunger rose to claim him, one that demanded to be satisfied. Elrond pressed his lips against yours, moaning in triumph when you guided his erection into the soft and welcomed grip of your body.

“I love this as well,” he gasped. “How you make me feel when you take me inside of you. Am I going too fast?”

“Given that we are exposed,” you countered and tightened your grip against his waist, his broad shoulders. “I would say you are not going fast enough.”

Elrond did not need to be told anything else. He set a tortuous pace, his armor now nearly cutting into your dress, while you clung to him like a burr. The discomfort of it all soon gave way to a bliss that slowly grew in your belly and spread until you saw nothing but a brilliant golden light flashing behind your eyes. Elrond shook when you sobbed against his shoulder and cried out his name. It was enough to unravel him, and with one last grunt, he spilled his seed inside of you.

Neither of you moved, even when an icy wind swept around the trees. Elrond continued to kiss you, this time with soft, quick kisses around your brow.

“We best return,” he said slowly, and more than a little reluctantly. He was shaking. His body was still caught in the aftermath of his release. “Lest Lindir or someone else comes in search of me. And the next time you wish to start a snowball fight, warn me first. I will be ready for you then.”

tags: @victoria-styles

[what-even-is-thiss]

I think in Skyrim people do know when you’re a killer. The law just works in such a way that it’s hard to convict people of a crime without a direct witness. Forensic investigation basically doesn’t exist. The guard clearly isn’t properly trained in detective work.

I say this for two reasons. One, when you secretly kill a friendly npc their family members know. They often have special lines the next time you talk to them, indicating that they hate you. Some npcs will also tell you that you have the look of a killer.

The other reason is that infamous quest blood on the ice. The second you do a teeny bit of investigating, the steward and town guard just believe you on flimsy evidence and the real serial killer doesn’t get caught until you directly witness him committing a murder red handed.

It’s clear that town guards mostly function as private armies and an attempt to intimidate people away from crime rather than an effective police force. So they’ve got something in common with real world police I guess but at least real world police have forensic departments.

It’s also established that various criminal groups have plants in the local militias/town guards. They’re easily bribed if you’re in the thieves guild, the skooma dealers in riften have plants, and if you finish the dark brotherhood questline some of the guards will start telling you “hail sithis”. They aren’t overly discrete about it either.

So basically Skyrim town guards are somehow even worse than real world police and everyone knows it. They’re basically just local armies shoehorned into also being law enforcement and that’s why everyone knows that you killed that random guy in Solitude but you still get to walk around as a free Dragonborn. Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

[darkmaga-returns]

DOJ explained in a press release that the Medicare Advantage Program beneficiaries may choose to enroll in plans offered by private insurance companies, and many of those beneficiaries rely on brokers to help them choose the best plan to meet their needs.

“Rather than acting as unbiased stewards, the defendant brokers allegedly directed Medicare beneficiaries to the plans offered by insurers that paid brokers the most in kickbacks, regardless of the suitability of the MA plans for the beneficiaries,” the DOJ stated in its press release. “According to the complaint, the broker organizations incentivized their employees and agents to sell plans based on the insurers’ kickbacks, set up teams of insurance agents who could sell only those plans, and at times refused to sell MA plans of insurers who did not pay sufficient kickbacks.”

DOJ also alleged that Humana and Aetna conspired with the brokers to discriminate against beneficiaries with disabilities deemed to be less profitable by allegedly threatening to withhold the kickbacks to the brokers.

“Health care companies that attempt to profit from kickbacks will be held accountable,” said Deputy Assistant Attorney General Michael Granston of the Justice Department’s Civil Division.  “We are committed to rooting out illegal practices by Medicare Advantage insurers and insurance brokers that undermine the interests of federal health care programs and the patients they serve.”

The lawsuit was originally filed under whistleblower provisions under the False Claims Act, which permits the United States to intervene and take over the action.

“The alleged efforts to drive beneficiaries away specifically because their disabilities might make them less profitable to health insurance companies are even more unconscionable,” said U.S. Attorney Leah B. Foley for the District of Massachusetts. “Profit and greed over beneficiary interest is something we will continue to investigate and prosecute aggressively. This office will continue to take decisive action to protect the rights of Medicare beneficiaries and vulnerable Americans.”

According to the complaint, violations of the False Claims Act carry mandatory civil penalties per claim, and three times the amount of the government’s damages sustained due to the defendant’s actions.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this press release from the Center for Biological Diversity:

The Center for Biological Diversity has filed a Freedom of Information Act request that aims to reveal more about the sea life-saving work impeded by Trump’s mass firings at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

The filing with NOAA seeks job descriptions and workplans of those fired by Elon Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency. NOAA’s rapid loss of experts is crippling the agency’s ability to protect marine species such as critically endangered whales, sharks, sea turtles and corals.

“The incredible ocean animals that Americans adore are in serious danger as Musk plays power games with hard-working marine scientists,” said Miyoko Sakashita, oceans director at the Center. “Unbelievably, they fired an orca-saving employee of the year, and the public deserves to know what other animals, marine sanctuaries and conservation programs are paying the price for DOGE’s cuts. Getting rid of the experts carrying out important conservation work has devastating and unlawful consequences for both wildlife and people.”

The sweeping DOGE cuts are already hampering agencies’ mandates, though many of the precise harms are unknown.

According to news reports and social media posts, DOGE has fired at least 700 NOAA employees and previously gave buyouts to around 170. Among the many fired experts are the orca-saving employee of the year and the director of an ocean acidification program, both in Washington, a fisheries management specialist assessing salmon stocks in Alaska, a scallop fishery observer in Massachusetts, a meteorologist at the NOAA National Weather Service’s Boston office, an aviating “hurricane hunter” in Florida, and scientists and science communicators around the country.

The agency is also reportedly disbanding two committees related to marine protection: the Marine and Coastal Area-based Management Advisory Committee and the Marine Fisheries Advisory Committee.

NOAA Fisheries is responsible for safeguarding and stewarding the marine species and protected areas off the coasts of the United States. It has jurisdiction over 165 endangered and threatened species, including blue whales, Oceanic whitetip sharks, Chinook salmon, green sea turtles and several species of corals.

[thissying]

The FIA has finalised its structure for the running of Formula 1 races this year with a new deputy race director. Rui Marques took over as race director towards the end of last season, when he was drafted in as a replacement for Niels Wittich, who departed on the eve of the Las Vegas Grand Prix. The Portuguese presided over the final three F1 races of the year and The Race can reveal that he will continue to oversee the running of events for the 2025 campaign. He'll be joined permanently by new deputy race director, the FIA F1’s sporting manager Claire Dubbelman, who has been with the governing body since 2017. She previously held a championship manager role – where she helped oversee a total of 26 series including F2 and F3 - and also assisted in the deputy race director role before. Dubbelman (below) is a product of the FIA’s High Performance Programme (HPP) for Officials, which is being ramped up as part of an effort by the governing body to deliver the talented race directors and stewards of the future.

[ass-deep-in-demons]

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + the Rohan Squad

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

Rating: T+

Chapter Length: 13k+

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

✦ Chapter 3 ✦

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

[AO3] [masterpost]

[previous chapter]

Firienholt, Rohan, 9th of Cermië 3018 TA

Boromir decided to part with his escort after breakfast. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Swear it," Denethor had demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To Dunharrow,” said Eomer.

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

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

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

Eomer scowled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eomer laughed at the horse’s antics. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eomer only shook his head, resigned.

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

“Who comes here?” the doorward asked solemnly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lady smiled privately, at that.

“I have my ways,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Welcome," said Theodred.

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

Theodred released him and frowned, regarding Boromir earnestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They finished the repast and then raised their tankards.

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

At that, Boromir grew wistful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boromir sighed.

"Eomer advised against it," he admitted.

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

Theodred beckoned him and they passed onto another stall.

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

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

As if reading his mind, Theodred spoke further.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theoden sighed and his shoulders rounded.

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

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

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

Boromir almost choked on his own tongue, hearing that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aye?"

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

=======

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

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

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

[pollkien]

EDRAHIL PROPAGANDA:

I really thought he’d have some godawful picture like some of the other side characters but actually that is a really nice drawing

He’ll pour you wine and look so adorable about it

Chief of the Elves that departed Nargothrond with Finrod

My Silm PDF was convinced he did not exist for 20 seconds. Here is his single mention in the book: “There were ten that stood by him; and the chief of them, who was named Edrahil, stooping lifted the crown and asked that it be given to a steward until Felagund’s return. ‘For you remain my king, and theirs,’ he said, ‘whatever betide.’”

Very loyal and we love that in a guy!

Died horribly to a werewolf in Sauron’s dungeon

Also since he has like no character other than Loyal you can craft him however you want like playdoh

This is probably yet another coughing baby vs hydrogen bomb contest. Poor Edrahil. Here’s an analysis someone wrote about him on SWG because I feel bad for having nothing else to say (also it was linked on TG so fair game IMO)

OSSË PROPAGANDA:

Ocean man…

He was evil for like 3 seconds.

And then his wife guy energy brought him back to no longer being evil. This is the power of loving your wife

Círdan’s buddy

Also loved the Teleri :)

“the delight in violence has never wholly departed from him, and at times he will rage in his wilfulness without any command from Ulmo his lord. Therefore those who dwell by the sea or go up in ships may love him, but they do not trust him” he just loves to be chaotic and have fun. They wouldn’t understand

Lord of the waves!

Also loved the shores of Middle-earth daueuwhrjahizhcjenf

“After the Valar pronounced the Doom of the Noldor, Ossë helped guard the shores of Beleriand to keep the ships of the Noldor from reaching Valinor. His storms had a part in wrecking all the ships that they sent, and only one Elf from among their crews survived, by the will of Ulmo: Voronwë” jesus fuck man

Raised the island of Númenor/Elenna from the sea