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system-to-the-madness · 19 days ago

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The Dark is Banned - Boromir x Reader

Pairing: Boromir x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: fluff Word Count: 1 583 Summary: Boromir find you as you’re waiting for the sunrise A/N: Last part of the 2024 winter solstice event! As this posts the sun is rising for me, and tomorrow night won’t be quite as long as tonight was.

Your fingers were growing numb in the cold winter night. For hours you had attempted to fall asleep, but when sleep had kept evading you, you had eventually gotten up, slipped into the warmest coat and boots your wardrobe had offered, and walked out into the night. Now you stood with your arms propped on the wall of Minas Tirith, looking eastwards. Maybe it was your eyes getting used to the seemingly never-ending dark, but you thought to see the sky beginning to brighten over the peaks of the mountains in the far.

"Are you out of your mind? You'll freeze to death." A familiar voice tore you out of your thoughts, and a moment later a heavy coat got thrown over your shoulders. It was made of warm fur and was long enough to reach the ground.

Turning to the man at your side, you admired as Boromir's almost auburn hair fell in soft locks down to his shoulders, and his grey eyes met yours in the twilight of the slowly fading night.

"What are you doing up at such an early hour," he asked, his brows slightly furrowed as he took in your form, dressed now in two coats, hair bound in a way that made it more than obvious that you had not expected company.

"I tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come," you answered honestly. "And so night turned into what might almost be called morning and the idea of watching the sun rise after the longest night of the year, over the mountains that refused to allow us a sunrise for so many years… it seemed appealing. But what are you doing up?"

"Much the same," Boromir answered, "only that I decided to stand out here at the walls because about an hour ago a figure clawed in what might be a thin autumn coat at best, crossed the yard, and the concern we might find them frozen to an icicle in the morning drove me out of my chambers." He sent you a knowing look, which finally made you realise you had been looking at him the whole time, and quickly you directed your eyes eastward again. "But tell me, was there anything specific, that would not let you find sleep?"

For a moment you hesitated with your answer, wondering if it really were appropriate to reveal the truth to the Steward of the City, but then you decided you would rather be judged for the truth than accepted with a lie.

"It was thoughts of you that kept me up," you admitted, feeling Boromir shift at your side, but you kept your eyes on the mountain range in the distance. "I was wondering what you were doing this time last year. And how much deeper the darkness of the winter had felt then."

Boromir stayed silent at the confession, but his eyes were still on you, so you continued.

"It felt as if the darkness of that day kept lingering all through the year, and only this morning we have the chance to see a new sun rise that will chase away whatever remains of Mordor's shadow on Gondor."

"The nights have felt unusually dark, even in summer," Boromir admitted.

"Maybe because there are no clouds on the horizon anymore diffusing the light of the fire mountain," you suggested. "But Minas Tirith's very own darkness seemed to have been more bound to your fate than anything else."

At your side Boromir shifted again, this time fully turning to you.

"What do you mean," he asked, clear confusion in his voice.

"Not even the day the black army attacked was as dark as the day you were brought back into the city, more dead than alive."

Both of you shivered at the same time, still haunted by the memories of Boromir's lifeless body being brought back by a Ranger, who had found the gravely wounded son of Denethor on a patrol. Although you supposed you remembered the day better, since Boromir had been passed out.

"But I came back," Boromir tried to lighten the mood, making you snap around to him.

"You have no idea how quiet the city turned when the Ranger brought you inside these walls," you accused. "You had not to bear witness to how they lifted your lifeless body from that horse, how your blood dripped to the white tiles of the citadel! We were not sure if you were dead or alive, and the healers were too busy to give us any update on how you were faring for days! Some people even claimed you would have been better off if you had died, as to spare you the pain of your wounds."

"Well, I for my part am rather glad I am alive and can be here with you now, in the morning that will drive out the last of the dark." Boromir's voice was strong and sure of his words, making you furrow your brows, sensing his words had more meaning than he had spoken.

"What are you saying? One sunrise to make up for the months of pain from infected wounds and broken bones?"

"What I am saying is that while you may have agonized over my wellbeing while I was away, I have done the same with you in mind. I may not have made the whole way back from Amon Hen on my own, but the distance I covered was with but one thought in mind and that was to see you again even if just for one last time."

Your heart beat faster than you would have liked at Boromir's casual confession as his own gaze was now directed to the east where the horizon turned orange and pink in anticipation of the rising sun.

"Imagine my surprise when I woke, and found you by my bedside," he chuckled. "For a moment I thought I had died and dreamt up the most perfect fantasy. And then you called the nurse, which was how I knew I still had to be alive because certainly death would have allowed me more time with you alone."

"That's how you knew you were still alive," you asked with a disbelieving laugh, "because I called for a nurse?"

"Laugh at me all you want," Boromir pouted playfully. "I am after all just like any man in love: a fool."

You froze. Had you heard that right? His words before had already been far more plain than was usually acceptable between a Steward and a person of your own standing, and had anyone overheard the conversation, you would have had your hands full with fighting rumours of a secret courtship between the Lord Boromir and you. But now with his words as plain as the white walls of Minas Tirith in the night, there was hardly any denying it anymore, and it both scared and excited you in equal parts.

"My Lord Boromir…"

"Have you not noticed it already," he asked, fully turning towards you, and gently taking your cold hands from the wall and between his warm ones. "Not a day can pass by without me searching for your presence simply because my life feels unbearably bleak without you in it. And when this night is over, there might light chase the dark out of the city but the new shadow of your rejection may fall over my heart. But that is a shadow I'm willing to accept for the chance that there might be no rejection of my declaration of care for you. Because if anything, my worry about you drove me out of my rooms when I saw you walking alone in the night, and fear held me back for almost an hour, standing in the shadow of the citadel, coat in hand just glad that I got to see you. But I declare my heart to you, as I should have done years ago, since first the light of your presence fell upon it. Of course, if you don't feel the same way - and I will have an honest answer, no idle flattering - then I shall never speak of the matter again, neither to you nor anyone else, and no harm or disadvantage shall come to you by my hand."

"Why do you always assume rejection," you answer incredulously. "For all this time I thought my affection was plain, but your concern seems to prove me wrong. Boromir," you stepped a little closer, the long coat, doubtlessly one of his own, heavy on your shoulders. "There is not just light on the horizon from a quickly rising sun, but also in my heart from hearing your words, telling me my affection is returned."

"It is," Boromir said, but it sounded more like a question. His eyes shone bright in the twilight and suddenly warm orange lit up the side of his face. Even in the cold winter air you felt the heat of the first of the sun's beams on your skin.

A smile pulled at Boromir's lips as he took in your face, displaying nothing but the honest truth he had not even dared hoping for.

"And thus the night ends," you spoke, stepping again closer to him, letting the presence of his body warm your own.

"And the dark is banned from Minas Tirith and my heart," Boromir added before he took your chin with his hand and tilted your head for a kiss while the sun rose over the mountains in the east.

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

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An Unexpected Catch: Boromir x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical violence

Word Count: 3.1k

Chapter Two

While investigating an attack on a Gondorian settlement, Boromir finds himself run through with a sword and tossed into a nearby river. When death seems dangerously near, Boromir’s body washes up to shore, tangled in a fishing net. A young woman living alone finds Boromir and brings him home to care for him. As Boromir physically heals, he finds that his heart is also missing something important.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // an unexpected catch masterlist

Boromir

The rains that come in the Night bring early morning mist and low clouds.

Upon his horse, Boromir observes the hazy horizon. The tall grass around his horse’s legs is dew-kissed and wet, darkening the horse’s coat until it appears black. The mist clings to his armor, creating a slick covering on the metal. When Boromir returns to Minas Tirith, the royal blacksmith will need to inspect it, cleaning it properly to avoid potential rust.

“Captain!” Brennan, one of the men that is accompanying Boromir trots forward, pulling up beside him. “The scout has not reported in.”

Boromir briefly glances at him before returning to scan the horizon. Even with the low clouds and mist, he can see enough.

Something dark stirs in these lands—awakening with malicious intent. It is palpable like the way butter sits salty and thick on the tongue when not evenly spread. It is heavy in the air and lungs, a vice around throats and hearts. It is a battering ram. It is everywhere.

Faramir is in Osgiliath.

The city conquered. Retaken. Conquered again. Mostly in sections, but it’s continuous. Unending. A brutal task that Boromir is only fighting because his father wants it so.

All who lived there are gone, moved to Minas Tirith. Boromir doesn’t know when it’ll be safe to return.

It might never be.

The orcs grow bold. A shadow is at their backs, spurring their forward momentum and bloodlust. As if they are sucking the darkness into themselves, they are relentless, fueling themselves on whatever drives them ever onward.

“What was the original report?” asks Boromir.

“Raids, sir,” answers Brennan. “Corsairs along the river. Mercenaries from the East. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” counters Boromir. “What other beings move along the Anduin?”

Brennan shakes his head. “Report didn’t say. Only that the Corsairs come and go. They advance and retreat in equal measure.”

“No pattern?”

“None that’s been revealed.”

Boromir nods, but there is no comfort. Acting on little information is a risk, and they are few in number.

“We will forge ahead,” replies Boromir. “Slowly. Keep to the trees. Avoid open ground.”

Boromir does not intend to engage. This is to gain information to relay back to Minas Tirith, to figure out a path forward.

The party is only ten in number on horseback. Boromir gathers the reins, and they depart, descending from the large hill they look out on to draw up next to the tree line. On the other side is the Anduin. It’s far enough that they cannot see it but close enough that Boromir swears he can hear the water.

They follow the tree line for several leagues. The day does not lighten. The skies remain grey and gloomy.

Boromir raises his fist, and the group halts.

He narrows his gaze, unsure of what he’s seeing.

“Do any of you see what I see, or do my eyes deceive me?”

“Looks like smoke,” replies Brennan.

“Or dark clouds,” adds Alden, scratching at his beard.

Boromir frowns. “Is there anything in that direction.”

“Likely a settlement,” answers Brennan. “Or a small village. Might not be on any maps expect local ones.”

Turning toward his men, Boromir keeps his tone even. “We will approach from the forest. Move slowly. Stay alert.”

Turning their steeds toward the forest, they enter one by one, trudging slowly through the undergrowth. The canopy swallows them up like a leviathan. Around them are large trees, and Boromir feels small—as if everything is tight and cramped.

To move through the trees, the group has to split, forming two lines.

At the edge of the tree line, Boromir brings everyone to a halt.

There is a town. A small settlement of a couple dozen buildings. To the left is the Anduin. The dock there is empty expect for a few fishing boats.

Some of the buildings still smolder. The rest are just blackened carcasses.

Boromir sees no bodies. Orcs would leave plenty behind. They rarely—if ever—take prisoners. Corsairs certainly kill but they tend to withhold their blades for profit. Living souls mean income. They can exchange hostages for coin, or take them to faraway places to sell them. Everything is a profit for them.

But there may still be bodies. Boromir just can’t see them.

It is he that takes the first step out of the trees. The others follow behind at the same pace, their hands on their weapons as they enter the settlement.

It is incredibly quiet. Hardly any noise. No birds or buzzing of insects. Only the occasional crackle of singed wood falling in on itself.

Moving like ghosts amongst a graveyard, they find themselves at the center of it all, and still, there are no bodies. Only blackened buildings.

“Captain,” murmurs Brennan. “Look.”

Boromir follows Brennan’s outstretched arm in the direction he indicates. There he finds a partially collapsed building. The door is open, hanging on its hinges, ready to fall off at the slightest gust of wind. Draped across the threshold is a pale arm, hand pressed into the earth as if the person tried to claw their way to freedom.

As a group, they approach, but it is Boromir who dismounts first. Brennan and Alden follow his lead while the others remain where they are. Cautiously, they examine the door and pale arm. Boromir leans in, only to find more the arm and who it is connected to.

It’s a woman.

Brennan kneels beside her, fingers pressed to the inside of her wrist before checking her neck.

Without speaking, Brennan turns in Boromir’s direction and shakes his head.

She’s gone. There is nothing that can be done.

Boromir nods his head, indicating that they should enter. He takes the lead, Brennan at his heels as Alden lingers back a bit near the door. They step around overturned furniture and over fallen beams.

“Touch nothing,” whispers Boromir.

It’s a small space, and reveals little. Bending at the knees, Boromir leans in to examine scorch marks along the floor that look like claw marks.

Behind him—distantly—there is a soft whoosh of air like a change in the wind.

A brief shout—quickly cut off.

Brennan and Alden draw their blades and charge toward the door.

“Wait!” says Boromir but they’re gone.

More shouting. The ringing of metal striking metal.

He sidesteps a beam and comes up short.

“Come out! We know you’re in there!”

Beyond the door are Corsairs. Not a handful. No. There are at least five of them to every one of Boromir’s men. But there aren’t many of his men left.

Most are down.

Boromir can only see about five of them on the ground in front of the house. He doesn’t see the others, but with how calm and unbothered the Corsairs are, they’re likely gone.

“Come out! Last chance. Won’t be lenient if we have to come in there.”

Muttering under his breath, Boromir exits, sword raised high, ready to swing.

The Corsair at the front of the group laughs. His black hair is thick and slightly tangled in a knot at the back of his head.

“Put your sword down. No use fighting.”

Boromir does not relent. He does not lower his weapon.

“A soldier of Gondor does not bow down to those poised to do evil.”

The Corsairs blinks, and then bursts out laughing again. He points, hand gesturing vaguely toward Boromir. “Armor is shiny. Fetch a pretty price.” He tilts his head to the side. “Bring it to me.”

Boromir is alone. Utterly alone.

Five Corsairs descend on him, and Boromir swings, hacking through two and ducking a third blow. This is easy. This is nothing. All the training is now natural, and Boromir is only an extension of his blade.

Until he isn’t.

Until there are far too many to fend off.

He lifts to swing again, but there is resistance in the swing. A pinch that becomes a sting and then bright, blinding pain.

Boromir glances down.

Impaled.

The Corsair holding the sword that sticks from his side grins wickedly before yanking it out.

Red comes with. Surprisingly dark.

The world spins. Boromir lands on his knees, and then all he sees above him is the grey sky.

“Take the armor. Then toss them all in the river.”

Reader

“I know. I know. Quit chiming. Giving me a headache.”

The bell does not cease. It continues to ring—loud and sharp in the small room.

That is its one job. It’s singular purpose. Your father designed it to be so.

The string that connects to the bell runs along a small tube in the ground which leads out to the fishing nets by the dock. Whenever the weight shifts past a certain amount, the bell will ring, indicating that it’s ready to be checked.

Depending on weight, the bell will give a soft chime or a loud one.

Right now, it’s loud. Angry.

And your father isn't here. He's been called away to serve in Gondor's navy. It's just you keeping it together.

When it was just the two of you, the amount of work didn’t seem so bad, but now that it’s just you, checking the nets consistently simply isn’t possible. It takes up too much time in your day, and hauling them up is a two-person job.

But with the bell ringing like it is, you’re going to have to check, even if you know it’ll take up far too much time.

Pushing your hair back and out of your face, you put on a fresh dress for the day. It’s simple. Meant to get dirty from garden work and wet from checking the nets. Grabbing your apron off the back of a chair, you tie it around your waist, exiting into the garden.

Opening the coop first to allow the chickens out, you then pop your head into the small barn.

“Hello, Daisy,” you coo, rubbing the cow’s side. She replies with a soft croon of contentment.

The two pigs snort in your direction but remain where they are. The sheep attempt to stick their heads through the wood slats to reach you.

“Behave,” you scold, pushing Tulip’s head back into the pen. “You’ll get stuck again and I’m not spending my day removing the boards to free you.”

Tulip baas a sharp reply.

Even in the barn you can still hear the bell from inside the house.

It’s misty out. A bit chilly.

The animals need space. They need to walk around and graze, but with the weather like it is, they might prefer to stay inside. Lightly chewing on the inside of your cheek, you decide to open the pens.

“Have at it,” you mutter, knowing you might regret this later when you try to round everyone up.

Following the stone path to the river, you gaze out across the landscape. There are dark clouds in the distance. At first, you think them storm clouds, but they appear far too dark for that.

Everything is odd now. There are whispers. Rumors of a spreading darkness.

But you are completely isolated. You are near no villages or settlements for a league or two at least. Whatever you have heard, it’s from passing travelers on the roads to said villages. When your father was called up, he didn’t know until he took a trip to town. They sent no one to fetch him, and the summons had come months ago.

“Strange,” you murmur, frowning at the dark spot in the sky.

Heading for the lever to raise the fishing nets, you sigh heavily, not wanting to do this at all. This is the part you hate the most. It takes an extreme amount of upper body strength, which is why it is a two-person endeavor.

Without your father to help you, you have to put your full weight behind each downward push.

Wrapping your fingers around the handle of the lever, you go up on your toes, and then allow your body to naturally fall downward, using your weight to crank it.

Everything moves. Turns. Creaks loudly.

You repeat the process until you’re sweating and the coolness of the air no longer kisses your skin with a chill.

Eventually the net begins to rise. Sticks and twigs and dead leaves appear. Not unusual, but there is typically movement in the water at this point. The fish don’t want to be dragged to the surface. They will flop about, the water around them churning with their wiggling bodies.

But there is nothing.

Not—no.

Not fish. Something…else.

Pausing, you step closer to the edge. Falling to your knees, you reach down into the water and push leaves and sticks out the way to get a better lock.

“Uinen’s tears!” you exclaim, jumping back.

It’s a man.

There is a man in your net.

Frantically, you reach out. Using the water’s natural buoyancy, you turn the man over. He is pale, and twisted in the twigs, hair a dark fan around him.

There are no fish. Just him.

With an urgency you didn't possess before, you go back to the lever, heaving yourself against it over and over again until your feel the wood biting into your skin. Once the net is high enough, you unclasp the lock, pushing forward, the net swinging toward you as it comes to hover over the dock.

You reengage the lock, and then the net settles, expanding outward to rest against the wood, opening wide to reveal everything inside.

The man tumbles out. Unresponsive.

Falling to your knees next to him, you push his wet hair of his face. Fingers pressing to his throat, you pray that you will find live beneath them.

There is nothing. Only silence. Not even a flutter.

As you reach up to remove twigs and leaves from his hair, there is a soft brush of breath against the inside of your wrist. Pausing, you bring your hand back, hovering your palm above his mouth.

Waiting.

Nothing.

And then—

It comes again. Soft, but there.

He is alive. This stranger is alive.

With both hands pressed to his chest, you shove down, over and over again. His body convulses, and you dart backward, turning him on his side and he purges brackish water from his lungs.

Coughing, the stranger groans, and you rub his back in an attempt to soothe him. He leans forward a bit, one hand pressed into the wet wood beneath him, cheek firmly squished against the dock.

He’s wearing nothing but plain pants and a tunic. He does not wear boots. Not even socks. From what you can tell, there is nothing that identifies him as belonging to any one person or place.

A stranger in your net.

An unexpected catch.

The stranger takes in big gulps of air, eyes still closed. His hand shakes slightly before he pushes himself onto his back. That is when his eyelids start to open, and you lean over him.

You don’t dare touch him.

“Do I behold an angel?”

You blink, stunned. “A—what?”

Eyelids fluttering, the stranger slips back into unconsciousness.

“Wake up,” you plead, grasping the sides of his face, checking for awareness. “Please.”

His breathing is even, but he’s out again.

Releasing the sides of his face, you survey the rest of him. His clothes are completely soaked, clinging to his skin. They reveal a muscled body beneath. But that isn’t all. On the stranger’s left side, there is a large dark spot in the fabric, and a small tear.

Slowly, you pull it up.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

The wound in his stomach is red and swollen. It’s bad, but might not yet be fatal. You’ve seen far worse. Helped heal worse. A wound like this will take time though.

While part of you wants to understand who this man is, it’s far from the most important thing.

“How am I to carry you?” you ask, as if he can answer.

If he were conscious, the stranger could help. But the man is out cold, and no matter how you try to rouse him, he won’t wake.

You don't want to drag him but you can't carry him.

“Oh, Uinen. Help me.”

Not that you expect an answer. You have to do this on your own.

Leaving the stranger on the dock, you rush back to the house. Grabbing a sturdy blanket, you head for the barn, bridling the horse, and attaching the contraption your father built for towing large objects.

Returning to the stranger, you do your best to push him onto the blanket. You half yank, half roll him onto the blanket before tying everything up.

“All right, Bessie. Forward now. Slowly. That’s it. Good girl.”

Bessie begins her ascent up the path. With the incline and oddly placed stones, she takes it slow, and you stay behind her, taking care to protect the stranger’s head. The process is slow, and takes up precious time, but Bessie makes it to the top.

From there, you guide her as close to the door as possible. Pushing the door wide, you return and detaching the makeshift sling. Bessie is too big to fit into the house, and this is the part where you have to drag the stranger into the house.

At least the blasted bell isn’t ringing anymore.

Your bed is too small. Choosing your father’s, you change course, dragging the stranger into your father’s bedroom.

You bring the stranger to a rest next to the bed. Taking a deep breath, you hook your arms underneath his armpits, and attempt to lift.

You fall right on your butt.

“Angel,” murmurs the stranger.

Leaning to the side, you gently cup his cheek. The stranger’s eyes are slightly open, awareness returning.

“I can’t lift you on my own,” you murmur, unsure if he’ll understand.

But he does.

The stranger nods. He’s a little out of it, but he assists in draping his arm over your shoulders, shifting his weight as you lift his upper half off the ground.

Groaning, you manage to get him partially onto the bed. Grabbing his feet next, you lift his legs, and then he’s in.

The stranger sighs, then winces, eyelids closing yet again.

His clothes will need to be removed and changed. Skin will need to be cleansed and any wounds checked over. The one in his side will likely need to be stitched closed. You’ll need blankets. A fire to keep him warm.

Already, he shivers.

Are there people looking for him? People searching? Or is he utterly alone? No family to speak of.

Lightly, your fingers brush the edge of his hairline. His hair is starting to dry. Small patches have turned auburn. It’s a lovely color.

“Whoever you are,” you murmur. “Wherever you come from. I’ll make sure you return.”

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baccarry · 10 days ago

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The Scarlet Ribbon

Summary: Boromir, heir of Gondor, journeys to a small village on the borders of Rohan, where the winter silence hides a warmth he hasn't felt in a long time. What draws him to this snowy corner? A humble goods shop, or a girl with a scarlet ribbon in her hands, who becomes something far greater to him? The mysteries of the Yule festival, the game of "snow shadows," and moments that change destinies—all await in this tale of seeking a bond stronger than duty and the winter's chill. Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (crossover) Pairing: Boromir x Reader Rating: G Note: While writing this text, I fully embraced the Christmas vibe, and the story seemed to come together on its own. Let it become a cozy episode for a winter evening. Yes, I know I’m a little late for Catholic Christmas, but better late than never, right? All parts are written and will be published weekly. Sorry, but English is not my native language, so if you notice any mistakes, please correct them. I would also appreciate beta reading services. 4152 Words.

***

Boromir was heading north, toward the border of Rohan and Gondor. Officially, his journey was motivated by the need to inspect the condition of the border posts and ensure that caravans passing through these lands encountered no delays. Yet, for months now, he had been finding new excuses to return to this small village nestled among the hills.

The road was winding and coated in slushy snow, marked only by the rare passage of carts and horses’ hooves. The further north he traveled, the colder the air became, biting at his face and hands. A light frost clung to his chainmail and traveling cloak, but he paid it no mind. His thoughts were occupied elsewhere—on the village where Torken's shop stood.

This shop seemed ordinary enough, like many others in Gondor or Rohan: shelves stocked with fabrics, furs, dried herbs, and other goods. Yet, for him, it had become something more. It wasn’t the wares that had imprinted on his memory but the person behind the counter. Over the past months, he had devised countless reasons to visit again and again: to inspect the quality of fabrics for the garrison or to purchase rare furs, supposedly needed in Gondor. And, of course, to see you.

Each time he entered the shop, he found himself freezing momentarily when his gaze met yours. Your smile, bright and simple as it was, filled him with a warmth he seldom felt during his arduous campaigns. If your father happened to be away and you were the one assisting customers, Boromir always found a reason to linger just a little longer, watching the deftness of your hands, and perhaps, accidentally brushing against your fingers as you handed him a pouch tied with a silver cord.

Now, as he approached the village, he felt a familiar mix of anticipation and joy. The closer he drew, the more pronounced was the sense that this snow-covered corner of Rohan held something special for him. Here, there were no marble arches or broad streets like in Minas Tirith, but there was something more genuine: a simplicity and comfort he hadn’t known in a long time.

The village appeared as a tiny oasis amid the white hills. Wooden houses with thatched roofs were lightly dusted with snow. The streets were quiet, with only a few figures moving between the buildings, cloaked against the chill. Thin tendrils of smoke curled up from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning wood, and faint glimmers of light shone from some of the windows.

Torken's shop stood at the corner of the central square, as unassuming as ever. Its entrance was shielded by a rough fabric to block the wind, and wooden crates filled with straw and furs surrounded the doorway. Everything here was simple, yet somehow this simplicity drew him more powerfully than the grandeur of Gondor.

He pulled on the reins, halting his horse. For a few moments, he simply sat there, letting the cold sting his face. His gaze swept slowly over the village. Everything looked different from Gondor. The houses were modest but inviting, their thatched roofs now blanketed with soft snow. Though the streets were deserted, they felt lived-in: faint boot prints marked some doorsteps, left just moments ago. On one window hung a small wooden sun-shaped amulet adorned with snowy rowan branches. Outside another house, overturned barrels were draped with fur coverings, as if someone had recently set them out to air.

His attention was drawn to the evergreen wreaths adorning several doors. Some were simple, made of branches and pinecones, while others were more elaborate, with ribbons or berries. It was a detail unfamiliar to his eyes: in Minas Tirith, ordinary homes were rarely decorated, save for special occasions. Yet here, it seemed natural, a part of life imbued with warmth and care.

His gaze stopped on the shop. The door creaked slightly as it opened, and a figure slipped inside. Boromir leaned forward, trying to discern who it was. Moments later, the figure reappeared: it was you, standing in the doorway with a wreath in your hands. The wreath was neatly woven from fir branches and adorned with small pinecones, though it looked rather austere.

He watched as you lifted something, realizing it was a ribbon. Bright red, vivid like a drop of blood on the snow. You began to skillfully weave it into the wreath. Your movements were quick yet precise. Knot by knot, you wrapped the branches, unfazed by the sharp needles occasionally catching on your fingers. Your concentration was so complete that it seemed the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

You murmured something under your breath as you adjusted the ribbon, and Boromir noticed your glance briefly flicker toward the doorway. Perhaps you were thinking of your father’s recent remark: “The wreath is fine, but it’s too somber. A festival calls for brightness. Here, take this.” He had handed you the ribbon—a rarity in such a place, but surprisingly beautiful.

You worked with such focus that you hadn’t noticed him yet. And he, feeling that he was overstepping all bounds of propriety, continued to watch, unable to tear his eyes away.

The impropriety, of course, wasn’t in the act of observing you. It was in the fact that he, heir of Gondor, had once again found an excuse to be here. That he lingered too long on the sight of your hands, and that questions crept into his thoughts: “Who are you to me? Why do you command my attention every time I’m here?”

Boromir finally dismounted. He knew he shouldn’t. Perhaps even his mere presence at your door could be misconstrued. But something in your absorbed movements compelled him to draw nearer, so quietly that even the snow beneath his boots seemed complicit.

He stopped a few steps away, but you still hadn’t noticed him, so engrossed were you in your task. He thought he heard you softly humming to yourself, checking how the ribbon lay.

A sudden gust of wind rose, swirling snowflakes from the roof and spinning them around you, as if inviting you to dance. Your hair was slightly tousled, and you instinctively tucked a loose strand behind your ear, never breaking your focus on the wreath. In that moment, the sun broke through the heavy clouds, and the red ribbon in your hands blazed like living fire against the cold snow.

And then you saw him. Your fingers froze, still clutching the wreath, and your eyes widened in surprise. The red ribbon you had been weaving slipped from your fingers, swaying gently in the air as if hesitating.

“My lord,” you said softly, your voice trembling. Your hands, sticky with resin and covered in tiny scratches from the fir needles, trembled slightly before you quickly hid them behind your back. The wreath wobbled, a reminder of your task. You hadn’t expected to see him here, amidst the quiet and simplicity that seemed to shield you from the world. “You weren’t supposed to be here…”

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the trees.

“But I am,” he said quietly. His voice was low but warm, as if this moment had been long anticipated. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your hand, tentative, as if afraid to shatter the fragility of the moment. You felt the warmth he made no effort to conceal.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his question catching you off guard.

You looked at him, allowing a light, almost shy smile to touch your lips. Your eyes sparkled with gentle surprise but not embarrassment. You didn’t falter, though something inside you beat faster than usual.

“Decorating for the Winterwood Festival,” you answered calmly, lifting the wreath slightly as if to justify your activity.

Boromir’s eyebrows rose. He tilted his head slightly, as if scrutinizing either you or the wreath—or perhaps both.

“The Winterwood Festival?” he repeated, as though hearing the name for the first time. “We don’t have such a thing in Gondor. What is it?”

You squinted slightly, as if pondering whether he truly didn’t know or simply wanted to hear your explanation. His tone was sincere, and you decided to tell him.

“It’s an old tradition of ours. We welcome winter to honor it and remind ourselves that spring will always come. We decorate our homes with fir branches to protect them and add bright colors to show winter that she’s a welcome guest—but only for a time.” You nodded toward the red ribbon. “Red symbolizes life, warmth, and joy. Without it, everything else would be too bleak.”

Boromir thoughtfully ran his fingers along a fir branch, oblivious as a few needles fell onto the snow. His gaze was fixed on your hands still holding the wreath. He couldn’t understand why this simple ritual stirred such a strange mix of warm longing and curiosity within him. The ribbon in your hands seemed to be a connection between your world and something unattainable for him. He wanted to ask more, to hear just a few more words from your lips, but at that moment, your father’s voice rang out from the shop:

“Well, how much longer? How long does it take to weave a ribbon into a wreath?! Night’s coming, and we’ve got plenty to do!”

You flinched as if snapped out of a trance. Quickly tying off the end of the ribbon, you grabbed the wreath and tossed it over your shoulder.

“Come to the lake at midnight,” you said without meeting his gaze, then disappeared into the shop, leaving him alone.

The day in the village was lively. Festivities began as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Villagers spilled into the streets despite the snow and cold. The village came alive: children played in the snow, laughing loudly, while adults bustled around the fires, setting up large cauldrons with steaming drinks. The air was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, smoke, and herbs.

By evening, large bonfires were lit in the central square. People gathered around to sing old songs, leap over flames, and dance in circles. Every villager seemed to find their place in the celebration: some danced, others stood aside, quietly chatting, but all were swept up in the festive spirit.

Closer to midnight, things became particularly intriguing. This hour marked a special ritual, where those seeking connection could gather by the lake, hidden from prying eyes by trees and a light mist. There were no large bonfires or bright lights here—only the faint glow of lanterns and the shimmer of stars on the dark water.

It was believed to be a time for hearts searching for bonds. Girls and boys gathered by the lake to leap over small fires together, join in dances, or simply talk in the semi-shadowy light. Anonymity was part of the ritual: faces were barely discernible in the flickering firelight, voices were hushed, and time seemed to stand still. This ritual allowed those who were shy or afraid to confess their feelings to be closer, even if only briefly.

When midnight arrived, Boromir made his way to the lake. The path leading there was narrow and covered in snow, but he knew he would find you waiting. Remembering your voice, he quickened his pace, feeling the cold air fill his lungs and his heart beat faster with anticipation.

As Boromir approached the lake, he saw the dark water reflecting the glittering stars. The faint glimmer of firelight from a bonfire on the shore illuminated the trees and the faces of those already gathered. He was cautious: the celebration, filled with laughter and merriment, felt like something unusual for his austere world. Yet, drawn by your invitation, he had come.

But you found him first.

Hiding among the trees, you watched as he approached the firelight, then deftly slipped behind him, stepping so silently that even his keen ears didn’t catch your steps. When he stopped, you moved closer and gently touched his shoulder.

“By Eru Almighty!” he started, spinning around and instinctively reaching for his belt, as if grasping for a weapon. “I could have harmed you by mistake!”

You laughed softly, lifting your head slightly so he could better see your face, hidden behind a mask. Like the other girls, your mask was made of thin bark and adorned with fir branches and snow patterns. It gave you an air of mystery, and even the faint firelight didn’t allow him to see you clearly.

“It’s not so easy to scare me, my lord,” you replied, raising a hand to stop him as he reached to remove the mask. “No. Tonight, you must earn it.”

You smiled and handed him a simple men’s mask made of dark cloth. Its decoration was minimal—a few embroidered threads and a sprig of fir, to distinguish it from the women’s masks.

“Do you see the bonfire?” You pointed to the fire at the very edge of the lake, where pairs were beginning to gather.

He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly, though his gaze remained wary.

“That’s the center of the game. The girls hide among the trees at the edge,” you began to explain, slowly adjusting the ribbon on your waist. “Their goal is to escape and remain unseen for as long as possible.”

You paused to let him grasp the idea, then continued, watching his reaction:

“The boys, in turn, try to catch us—‘snow shadows.’ If you touch my ribbon—on my waist or wrist—I’ll be considered caught and must return to the bonfire with you.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, thoughtfully running a hand over his mask.

“And then? Caught—then what?”

You smirked, tilting your head slightly.

“It’s not that simple. At the bonfire, you can try to guess the girl’s name or offer to exchange gifts. Usually, these are ribbons, nuts, or small carvings.” You paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “But if you guess correctly… you can ask for anything you want.”

“Anything they want?” he repeated, a light smile in his voice, which might have seemed mocking if not for the warm gleam in his eyes.

“Anything,” you confirmed with a subtle nod, but your gaze was steady. You knew what “anything” usually implied: a quick kiss in the shadows, a granted wish, or something that pairs already close to each other might allow themselves on such an evening. “You must be careful, my lord; all our girls are swift. Don’t be fooled by their delicacy.”

You laughed, stepped back, and with a graceful wave of your hand, disappeared among the trees, leaving him standing by the fire with the mask in his hands. The wind once again swirled snowflakes, and as he watched your retreating figure, he realized this game would be more than just an amusement.

“I don’t need ‘all,’ I need one,” he said softly, almost to himself, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth curling his lips into a smile. His fingers brushed the fabric of the mask before raising it to his face. The mask fit perfectly, concealing his features and leaving only his eyes visible—attentive and now slightly cunning.

Boromir joined the group of young men standing across the fire from the girls. They laughed loudly, tossing quick remarks to each other and shifting impatiently. Some adjusted their masks, fiddled with ribbons tied to their wrists or belts, or nudged each other playfully. Boromir stood quietly among them, remaining in the shadows, and scanned their partially hidden faces.

His gaze swept across the fire and found you. You stood slightly apart, rocking lightly on your toes as if preparing to dash away. You wore a simple but warm dress of deep green, belted with a thin leather strap to which a crimson ribbon was tied. Over your shoulders was a fur cloak for protection against the cold. Your mask, adorned with snow patterns and fir branches, concealed half your face, but he would recognize you among a thousand.

You looked directly at him, and a soft, teasing smile played on your lips. That gaze was a challenge—it seemed to say he would have to earn every second spent near you. Boromir smirked to himself, feeling a spark of excitement ignite within him.

The bonfire flared brighter, as if heralding the start of the game. One of the young men shouted a signal, and the girls simultaneously darted away like a flock of birds taking flight. You were no exception, slipping gracefully into the depths of the forest. The young men followed, their loud footsteps and laughter echoing through the clearing.

Boromir didn’t rush. He waited, watching as the crowd dispersed among the trees, keeping his eyes fixed on you. You moved confidently, your crimson ribbon flashing briefly among the shadows of the trees before vanishing from view.

He followed, stepping carefully to avoid revealing himself too soon. The forest was dark, but occasional glimmers of light from the bonfire or the moon illuminated the path. The air smelled of pine and frost, and around him, he could hear footsteps, laughter, and whispers. In the distance, he noticed one of the young men catching a girl and pulling the ribbon from her wrist before the two headed back toward the fire.

But not everyone was in a hurry. Venturing deeper into the forest, Boromir suddenly spotted two figures near a tree. In the faint light, he discerned a young man and a woman. She was leaning against the trunk, and he was bent over her, cradling her face in his hands. Their lips were pressed together hungrily and passionately, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. It was a sight he rarely witnessed in Gondor, where strict morals dictated restraint and decorum. There, emotions were concealed behind polite glances and cautious gestures. But here, in the forest, this couple kissed as if every moment could be their last.

Boromir paused momentarily, turning away to grant them their privacy. Something in that scene stirred a strange feeling within him: a mix of envy and wonder. Perhaps this festival allowed people to shed the masks they wore in daily life. He wasn’t sure, but he understood one thing—tonight was different from his world. And this evening might change not only those playing “snow shadows” but him as well.

He continued onward, catching a glimpse of the crimson ribbon flitting ahead. You were still out there, and he decided he wouldn’t let himself be distracted again.

She moved like a flicker of flame among the trees, and he immediately gave chase, certain it was you. His steps were confident, his gaze focused. He was accustomed to pursuit, to tracking a target—it was part of his life. But this wasn’t a battle; it was a game, and he realized there was something special, almost sweet, about this hunt.

He quickened his pace, the distance between you closing, and soon the ribbon was within his reach. Boromir reached out and grasped the edge. The girl stopped abruptly and turned.

“Was it so easy?” she said, laughing. Her mask hid her face, but the voice was unfamiliar. It wasn’t you.

He froze, slightly bewildered, then released the ribbon without a word. The girl simply smiled and, turning, headed back toward the bonfire.

“I thought you were more attentive, my lord,” came a teasing voice suddenly behind him. He turned to see you standing by a tree, your head tilted slightly as if assessing him. In your masked eyes, mischief sparkled.

He didn’t hesitate. He took a step forward, but you immediately darted away with a grace that could rival any dancer.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?” he muttered with a smirk, starting the chase.

You wove through the trees as if the forest were your home. Your figure flitted here and there, the crimson ribbon catching his eye like a beacon. You laughed, glancing over your shoulder, and that laugh sounded like a challenge.

Boromir knew he could catch you at any moment. His height, stamina, and trained body—everything suggested he needed only to quicken his pace, take a few long strides, and you would be in his grasp. But he didn’t. He let you slip away, savoring the game. Your breathing grew faster, your laughter more breathless, yet you didn’t stop.

You hid behind a tree, peeking out and casting quick, teasing glances. He drew closer, each step louder than your light movements. You laughed again, trying to wrap yourself around the tree trunk to escape to the other side. But this time, he was closer than you thought. His hand suddenly appeared from the opposite side of the tree, deftly catching your wrist.

“Tired?” he whispered, his voice low but warm. You felt his fingers, strong and warm, tighten gently around your hand, preventing you from breaking free.

You feigned a scoff, tilting your head.

“Never, my lord.” And boldly meeting his gaze, you slipped out of his grasp, sliding down into the snow and dashing off again.

Boromir laughed, his laughter echoing among the trees. He took another step forward, his hand carefully brushing against the crimson ribbon at your waist. His fingers, strong and warm, grazed the fabric, lingering for a moment. You were breathing heavily, your unsteady rhythm mirrored in the trembling shadows cast by the moonlight on the snow.

“Do I need to guess your name?” his voice was low, with a hint of amusement, but his eyes carried a flicker of something else—curiosity, expectation.

You shook your head, barely noticeably, and licked your lips, dry from the cold and the chase.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with such confidence that it almost sounded like a challenge. “You may claim your prize.”

You stepped back slightly, and your back touched a tree. There was nowhere left to run, but you didn’t intend to. Your gaze never left his face, almost entirely hidden behind the mask. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, you raised your hands and let him approach, so close that your fingers brushed the tree’s bark behind you.

“What do you want, my lord?” you whispered, your voice quiet but full of meaning.

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze traveled slowly from your eyes to the mask you wore, then back again. With one hand, he gently lifted the edge of your mask, barely touching your skin, as if afraid to disturb this fragile moment. Your mask slipped away, and the moonlight illuminated your face.

He froze for a moment, captivated by the way the moonlight caressed your face, creating a delicate interplay of light and shadow on your cheekbones, as if outlining each feature with the precision of an artist painting the most beautiful portrait. In this silvery glow, your skin appeared almost translucent, your eyes sparkling as they reflected the starry sky. His fingers, barely grazing your chin as if to lift your face, trembled slightly. In his gaze, there was not merely admiration—there was something much deeper, more sacred than fleeting infatuation or the thrill of the chase. Something that made his heart pound faster.

He leaned closer, so near that his breath brushed your lips. The deep look in his eyes, no longer hidden by the mask, revealed a whirlwind of emotions—admiration, doubt, desire, but above all, a reverence for this moment that seemed eternal.

“I…” he began, but the words seemed caught in his throat. Everything he wanted to say couldn’t express what he felt inside. Instead, his lips parted as if to continue, but he only held your gaze.

A distant horn sounded, echoing deep and long through the forest. It signaled the end of the game, but it seemed so far away as to be irrelevant. In this moment, nothing existed but the two of you. His fingers tightened gently around your chin, still tenderly, and he hesitated for the briefest instant, as if seeking permission, before closing the remaining distance.

You felt the warmth of his lips before they touched yours. It was a light contact, almost imperceptible, like the first snowy kiss of winter’s wind. But behind this gentleness lay strength—not the force of passion, but a deep, almost instinctive recognition that this moment meant far more than just a game.

The wind rustled the branches above, lifting a few snowflakes and swirling them around you. The previously noisy and lively forest seemed to hold its breath, bearing witness to this encounter.

P.S.

I genuinely believe that the people of Gondor, with their refinement and formality, are likely more restrained and calculated in matters of "romantic pursuits." Gondor, which may draw inspiration from Byzantium, likely shares similar characteristics. Their festivals, if they exist, are probably more centered on revering the Valar and observing rituals rather than expressing "human emotions."

The Rohirrim, on the other hand, are more open and sincere in their approach to love and relationships. They honor traditions, but their lives are enriched by simple joys that they weave into their customs. Their festivals, like their entire culture, are more grounded, reflecting the joy of the seasons, fertility, or prosperity. The Rohirrim likely see love as a manifestation of strength, sincerity, and courage. Their rituals are simple yet rich in symbolism—songs, dances, and ceremonies by the fire that allow people to open up to one another, breaking down social barriers. This brings their way of life closer to nature and human emotions than that of Gondor's reserved and grandiose society.

#boromir #boromir fanfiction #boromir lives #boromir lives au #boromir x oc #boromir x reader #boromir x you #lord of the rings #lotr #lotr fanfic #christmas

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lathalea · 2 years ago

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Waiting

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

Waiting

She kept on waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so she waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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mimilind · 1 year ago

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Stranger of the Falls (Complete)

Summary: You gather healing supplies below the Falls of Rauros when a boat with a dying man drops at your feet. As you take the stranger home, you resolve to achieve the impossible: to heal him, find out who he is, and figure out why he is so determined to die.

For @scyllas-revenge

※※※

Pairing: Boromir x Reader (no specified gender)

Tumblr Links: [ 1. The Stranger ] [ 2. Lord Främling ] [ 3. Healing ] [ 4. Convalescence ] [ 5. Boromir ] [ 6. Defense ] [ 7. Free ] [ Bonus: Love (E-rated) ]

AO3 Link: Stranger of the Falls

Rating: T (apart from the bonus chapter)

Complete Word Count: 18 400

Tags: Hurt/comfort, Injury Recovery, Healing, Boromir Lives, Only One Bed, Falling in Love, Orc Attack, Kissing, Wholesome, Sex (bonus chapter).

Warnings: Injuries, Blood, Suicidal Character

#boromir #boromir x reader #boromir x oc #lotr #boromir fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr x reader #hurt/comfort #boromir lives au #lord of the rings #boromir x you #boromir lives #only one bed #bed sharing #Stranger of the Falls #mimi lind

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esta-elavaris · 1 month ago

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New HWFG is up

Not back but some people don’t realise if I don’t post a link 💜

#Boromir/sybil #HWFG #boromir x oc #Boromir fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings fanfiction

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storiesaplenty · 2 months ago

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Boromir x Faramir x Y/N

Before Boromir leaves to help the Fellowship. 😏

Our Final Hour (18+)

Boromir x f/Reader

Miscellaneous Masterlist

Main Masterlist

This has not been proofread. Please enjoy, though.

Warnings: Oral (m receiving) p in v. Unprotected sex. Cowgirl. Creampie.

Gifs & photos do not belong to me: 1st gif: @myrkvidrs

WC: 1124

Requested by @madhatterbri .

©️ storiesaplenty 2024: Do not repost or translate my work. This is the only place I post my work.

AN: MY BAD, I SKIPPED OVER FARAMIR COMPLETELY & ONLY SAW BOROMIR 😭

Summary: It is the final morning that Boromir will spend with his wife. He thinks about their time together & have one final moment together.

The two of us woke just as the sun was rising.

I pulled her closer to my chest, trying to memorize everything about her.

The way how her hair fanned out over her pillows. The way how she sighed my name in her sleep as she turned in my arms and placed her face in my chest.

I placed my face in her hair, and breathed in just her scent.

Lavender and vanilla.

Which brings me back to how I first met her.

She was a baker in Gondor, just like her parents before her.

My mother would take my brother and I to her family's bakery, and there she was, just a girl in pigtails who would be showing us all the different baked goods.

Her and I are the same age, and I knew right then and there that she and I were meant to be together, even though my father did not approve of her.

When he announced it was time for me to be married, I knew what he was trying to do.

That night, under the White Tree of Gondor, with the only witness being my brother Faramir, her and I married.

Of course my father was furious, but for once I did not care. Not when I had shining star next to my side.

"You are thinking quit hard husband." Her teasing voice brought me back this very moment.

She pulled back and looked up at me as I moved her hair from her face.

Trying once more to memorize everything about her.

I kissed her forehead, and closed my eyes.

"I am sorry if my thinking woke you up." I joked back.

"Mmm, that is okay, now want to tell me what you were thinking about?"

She asked me as she pulled away, slipping out of my arms to grab some left over ale that was left forgotten as we spent the night wrapped up in eachothers bodies.

"Just us. Meeting you for the first time when we were small children. Us getting married when father announced it was to be married."

I heard her giggle as she took recalled how furious he was.

"And yet, even with all the gold he offered me, I am still here, putting up with your stubbornness and his childlike behavior." She handed me a cup of ale as she slid back into our bed.

I drank the ale down in one gulp it seemed, placing the cup on the table next to our bed.

I pulled her atop of me, her squealing with delight at my playfulness.

"You must love my, my dear wife."

"I do Boromir, I really do." She said as she kissed my chest, working her way down my body to my cock that is hard underneath the blanket.

She flung the blanket off of me, and I shivered at the nip in the air, but my body seemed to heat up with the way how she was looking at me between my spread thighs.

Her hand grasped my cock, making me moan.

"Shh, don't want everyone to hear you, my sweet husband."

I had a retort that was cut off as she wrapped her lips around the tip of my cock and started to suck.

My hands fisted the sheets as I watched and felt her move her head up and down my cock.

Soft gasps fell from my lips as she took more and more of me into her mouth.

My hips bucked, forcing more of my cock down her throat, making her gag around my cock.

She looked up at me, tears in her eyes as she pulled her head up slowly until I fell from her mouth.

If she continued, I would surely spill in her mouth, and I did not want that.

I pulled her up by her arms, laying her across my chest.

"I need you." I all but groaned as I reached for my cock between our two bodies, as she raised her hips just enough for me to slip into her warmth.

I watched as her mouth fell open, just like it does every time I stretch her out around my length.

"Boromir." She gasped as she started to move back and forth, her nails digging into my chest, making sure to leave her own mark on me, like she has done on my heart.

◆

My name falling from her lips is all I could hear as I put her legs over my shoulders and folded her in half. My hips pounding her into our bed as I make her fall apart for me over and over again.

I slammed my mouth against hers, moaning into our kiss as her pussy clenched tight around my cock for the final time.

I could hold back any longer as I moaned loudly into the kiss as my hips stuttered before finally stopping as I filled her with my cum.

My body shook as it seemed to go on forever, my eyes closed as I savored the feeling before I had to leave.

Which the time was coming as I heard my brother at my door as I had her screaming my name as I fucked her from behind.

I collapsed on top of her, my cock softening inside of her.

"I don't want you to go." She softly said.

I rolled off of her, and looked down at her as I laid on my side.

"I know, but I must do this for not only us, but for all of Middle Earth." I gave her a gentle kiss before I got up to get ready.

◆

My family and friends stood in a line as I walked to my horse.

Faramir was standing next to her, his back straight as he looked at ahead.

I stood in front of him and leaned in. "Take care of her brother." I said to him.

He gulped and nodded his yes.

I hugged him by suprise as he wrapped his arms around me.

"I will miss you as well. Never forget that."

"I will miss you too Boromir."

When I got to her, no words needed to be said that wasn't already said between us.

I cupped her face and kissed her, hoping to convey behind that one kiss how much I love her.

"Come back to me, Boromir."

I didn't say anything as I couldn't promise her I would.

◆

As the arrows peirce through my chest, I knew I was not going to make it.

The last thought I had was of her and only her.

My last words were her name, and only her name.

My wife.

My sunshine.

My star light.

My one true love.

Who I will meet again one day.

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sotwk · 2 months ago

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treat! :3

SotWK AU Flash Headcanon (and fic spoiler):

Boromir would spend time in Minas Tirith's great library--not reading--just so he could secretly watch the girl he was falling in love with.

That girl is Aerdis, the "Reader" in my one-shot fic, "Breathe", and soon to star in my upcoming Boromir x OC series.

Without spoiling my WIP fic too much, unbeknownst to Aerdis, Boromir had noticed and admired her for a few years before he finally drummed up the resolve to court her and make his feelings known.

One of the things Boromir would occasionally do was to hang out at the top floor of the library, sit by the window with a random book, so he could have a private, unobstructed view of the city square below. In that square, as part of her daily routine, Aerdis would sit by the fountain and read her book (except she was actually reading, not fake reading), oblivious to the handsome stalker admirer pining from the library window.

Why couldn't he just approach her? Should not the Captain of Gondor be braver and more confident than that?!

Well, as Sean Bean said in the role of Odysseus from Troy: "Women have a way of complicating things." In other words, when a woman is involved, a man can easily start behaving unlike himself, as though he'd lost his senses. That's just part of being truly in love. It took Boromir a while to even grasp that "love" is what he was experiencing.

But he knew this: he wanted to see her. He HAD to see her. Even if it meant having to hang out in the most boring place in the city. Fortunately for him, Faramir immediately caught on and started to help him with the ruse, like a good wing-man.

I hope Readers can be patient and bear with me while I continue to work on getting my Boromir x Aerdis fic, "Other Paths We Might Take", off the ground! (Bonus: Boromir and Aerdis's happy ending is already mentioned in my Éomer fic, "Taken", where they are supporting characters.)

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, @sweetshire! THANKS FOR STOPPING BY!

#sotwk flash hc #sotwk answers #sotwk trick or treat #trick or treat #sotwk headcanon #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr headcanon #boromir #boromir x oc #boromir fanfiction #boromir headcanon #sotwk fic: breathe #sotwk fic: other paths we might take

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wordbunch · 2 years ago

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SFW Alphabet: Boromir

a/n: FINALLYYY I’ve been wanting to write this forever! 💛💛💛 someone requested it a while ago, not sure who, but I hope you all like it! 😊 please consider reblogging if you enjoyed, so more people can potentially see it, and do let me know your opinions! lots of love 💞 (yes he IS alive and well, now and forever)

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?) He is like, one of the most affectionate people of all time (it’s true I was there) and you absolutely adore it - Boromir makes you feel so loved every moment of every day. All the while he is respectful, of course, of your boundaries. He will want to hug you at any given moment, kiss you any chance he gets, during some public events he will always have an arm securely wrapped around your waist, as long as you’re comfortable with it.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?) I don’t know why but I don’t see him as the best friend type of person; he would either be more of a friendly acquaintance, or end up absolutely falling for you. Oopsie.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?) He loves to cuddle with you, and he’s the ultimate big spoon who just fully wraps around your body to the point where you don’t know who begins and ends where. If he’s super tired or had a bad day, he absolutely melts when you pull him half on top of you with his head on your chest or shoulder. Also, he basically radiates body heat and you never have to worry about being cold in bed.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?) Oh, he so wants to settle down with you. I see him as a person who wouldn’t even get into a relationship without having serious intentions. Boromir loves you so much and wants you by his side forever. Though, admittedly he’s terrible at cooking at cleaning because he’s a warrior, first and foremost, but he is open to learning more from you and always is more than willing to help you out.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?) Honestly I don’t even wanna think about this. Let’s just forget it. the letter E doesn’t exist for me in this alphabet and there’s that on that.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?) He’s wrapped around your pinky finger from your first kiss, and he’s very big on being committed to you. He knows how unique and wonderful you are and he consider himself lucky to be with such a person, so he’s very happy to stay 1000% faithful forever. I feel like he’d want to get married as soon as you’re up for it - when you first told him you loved him, he almost proposed to you then and there.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?) This is interesting to think about regarding Boromir - he’s fierce and strong, but he does his best to find a balance with you and not accidentally crush you when he hugs you, or falls asleep half on top of you. Emotionally, he really tries his best (he didn’t exactly grow up in the most affectionate of families), and he is actually a very emotional person underneath all that armor.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?) He loves hugs, Boromir is a hugger, confirmed! He will hug you at any opportunity, but what he likes most is to hug you from behind when you’re not expecting it and rest his head on your shoulder or on top of your head. He’s always so warm and he’s strong which results in amazing hugs all the time.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?) Pretty fast, but he had wanted to be sure he was serious about you (and he wanted to be as certain as possible that you also harbored at least some kind of feelings) before starting a relationship, so, technically… he’d loved you for some time before he said it, but a part of you was aware of it the entire time. It was in the way he looked at you and treated you, and he was always very selfless and caring when it came to you.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?) Sometimes he gets just a tiny bit jealous, if his feelings and temperament get the best of him. He trust you with his life and more, he’s just spent his fair share of time with men and he knows how a lot of them can be disrespectful, even when you swiftly reject them. Actually, he gets more worried and jealous in such situations,

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?) Initially he kisses you as if you’re made of glass, so sometimes you had to be the one to pull him in closer. If your fingers wind up in his hair, oh boy, his heart skips a beat or two. In a very gentlemanly fashion, he likes to kiss your hand in public, and in private he adores kissing you on the shoulders and collarbones. When you run up to hug him and kiss him on the cheek, he feels like he’s on top of the world.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?) Uhm, hello, absolutely amazing? Boromir grew up with a younger brother, which certainly helped. Kids love that he’s energetic, and he’s also pretty strong so he can pick them up easily, and also he has very entertaining stories. An absolute win.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?) Usually Boromir is an early riser and very disciplined, but ever since you cemented your position in his life, he looooves to sleep in with you a little bit, or just have a lazy morning. So, usually you cuddle for a bit or exchange a couple of lazy kisses to charge you for the day ahead.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?) Both of you probably have quite intense schedules most days, so you treasure calm nights together so much. Many times the two of you can be find on a balcony locked in a hug and stargazing or, if you’re feeling super lazy, you will read together - and by that I mean he’ll hold the book open between the two of you and you will actually read the same story and then talk about it.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?) He had planned on playing the tough guy for a little longer, but he didn’t really manage - something about you just made all his walls crumble and he will tell you literally anything with 100% honesty. And I feel like generally he has his heart on his sleeve most of the time.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?) With others, admittedly, he can run out of patience kind of soon, but in his eyes you’re a perfect angel and hell will freeze over sooner than he’ll be angry at you.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?) He’s in-between, he really tries to remember things, but he leads a considerably busy life with lots of responsibilities and probably a billion important information per day, so don’t get upset with him if he ends up forgetting some detail - he’s trying his best all the time.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?) When you told him you loved him back for the first time and when you accepted his marriage proposal are tied for THE favorite memory. Something about you openly choosing him time and time again just gets to him. You’re perfection personified from his perspective and he’s not always sure why exactly you chose to spend the rest of your days with him, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?) Literally one of the most protective people you’ve ever met, and you think it’s charming; he just cares so much and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if something happened to you, and he could have prevented it. Boromir respects, of course, your strength and ability to protect yourself, but sometimes he just can’t help but step in. He is absolutely FLUSTERED if you step in to protect him, usually it’s you verbally standing up for him and I swear that man doesn’t know where to LOOK in those moments.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?) As previously established, he’s busy a lot, so you usually take it upon yourself to plan some dates and activities, which he’s incredibly grateful for and he makes sure you know it. However, when it comes to gifts, he’s the undefeated king of amazing presents - he has a talent for remembering anything you point out or mention that you like, and he won’t wait for a special occasion to gift it to you. And you get flowers at least once a week!

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?) Overworking himself for sure, and taking up too many responsibilities, so you have to make sure he has proper down time every now and then. Luckily for you, he cannot say no to your pouty face and those eyes.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?) I mean, he’s an important figure in Gondor, so mostly due to that he looks after his appearance, but not to a great extent. Clean clothes, tidy beard and hair are mostly it.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?) I would even go so far to say yes. You bring so much joy, love, and affection into his life that he can’t possibly imagine ever again not having you in his life. And he loves loving you, and never wants to stop.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.) One of his favorite nicknames for you is ‘angel’. He thinks you’re absolutely heaven-sent and almost ethereal, so he finds it very fitting, and secretly enjoys it when he notices your cheeks lightly blushing.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?) This man right here despises dishonesty. Whatever is wrong, whether it’s something he did or not, he prefers to be told, loud and clear, instead of having to play guessing games. If he has a defined problem, it is much easier to look for a solution.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?) Hate to break it to you but he snores, and initially you had trouble with it and had to nudge him multiple times throughout the night, and then he feels extremely bad for waking you up. However, over time you really became desensitized to it and actually kind of miss the noise when he’s away, it’s just not the same to fall asleep in absolute silence.

✨

❤️ everything taglist + everything LOTR taglist: @lotrnonsense @starlady66 @lazymeriadoc @entishramblings @thesolarangel @silversword7000 @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @averys-place @valkyriepirate @i-killed-ramsey @emmaarenstarr

#boromir x reader #boromir fanfiction #boromir imagine #boromir headcanons #lotr fanfic #lotr x reader #lotr imagine #lotr headcanons #lord of the rings headcanons #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings x reader #boromir #lord of the rings #from my pocketses

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kylobith · 11 months ago

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Sooo I've been thinking about writing a new fic about our lord and saviour Boromir and the whole plot is already in my head, now I just have to think about one chapter and how I want it to play out. Thing is, the films portrayed one event radically differently from the books, and I don't know which line I should rather follow. On the one hand, following the books feels as if it's 'closer to the lore', but on the other hand, the films are more widely accessible and more people would recognise it as such. What do you think I should follow instead?

The difference is that in the books, Boromir and Faramir's defence of Osgiliath fails and Sauron's forces actually seize it, but in the films they portray it as a victory and a recapture (which actually happened with Denethor, not the two (hunky) sons) What it would mean for the chapter is the tone, it would not change the outcome of the chapter

#lotr poll #Boromir fanfiction #Boromir #Faramir #Denethor #Battle of Osgiliath

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gloomwitchwrites · 5 months ago

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An Unexpected Catch: A Boromir x Female Reader Romance

While investigating an attack on a Gondorian settlement, Boromir finds himself run through with a sword and tossed into a nearby river. When death seems dangerously near, Boromir’s body washes up to shore, tangled in a fishing net. A young woman living alone finds Boromir, and brings him home to care for him. As Boromir physically heals, he finds that his heart is also missing something important.

Overall Content & Warnings: hurt/comfort, mutual pining, strangers to friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, fluff, pregnancy, brief sexual content (graphic chapters will be marked with ** which indicates a Community Label)

Chapters: (ongoing)

one // two // three // four // five

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

taglist:

@glassgulls @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @foxxy-126 @km-ffluv

@firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @miaraei

@cherryofdeath @ferns-fics @ninman82 @beebeechaos @thewulf

@smileykiddie08 @berarenado @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

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frodo-cinnamonroll · 1 year ago

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Forgive Me

Plot/Summary: In an AU, Borormir survives the Uruk-hai and lives to see the Ring destroyed. He travels with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, and reunites with his brother. When Gandalf and the eagles bring Frodo and Sam back from Mount Doom, Boromir waits anxiously, seeking forgiveness for trying to take the Ring from Frodo, an act that had burned his heart and torn it in two ever since.

Paring: Boromir x the Fellowship

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: mentions of many wounds and some blood, vague mentions of battle, angst

A/N: I apologize this is so very late :( Requested by @fan-of-pretty-much-2-much, @animallover81, @mistyeyesofthemountainpeaks

This fic is based off of this work of art by @bamboocarbon-ver-2-0

—------------------------------------------------------------------

Boom!

The volcano roared and spewed lava.

Crack!

The tower split and fell into oblivion.

Rumble!

A rush of wind gusted from the dark land, signaling the end of its power.

A mix of triumphant shouts and terrified roars arose from the battlefield.

“We won!” some were shouting. “They did it!”

“Fight ‘em while you can!” said others.

“After them! Don’t let them escape!” others commanded.

And others, “Run if you want to save your filthy skins!”

Boromir stood in awe, watching the great tower of Barad-dûr fall with an ear-splitting crash. Orc-blood was splattered over his breastplate and his hair was a tangled mess, but he cared not.

“The eagles!” someone cried. “The eagles are coming!”

Boromir turned to see the majestic eagles with bronze feathers swooping low overhead. One came especially low, and Gandalf leapt up and rode high on its back. Boromir barely heard him say, “Make haste! Make haste!” as it flew swiftly in the dark land ahead.

The shouts of the army brought Boromir back to the present. The throng, led by Aragorn, chased after the fleeing swarm of orcs who were squealing and roaring wildly. Other soldiers who had been wounded stayed back and made their way to the temporary medical tent off the battlefield. Boromir went with the last traces of the army and succeeded in hunting down any remaining orcs. He stayed near the camp, awaiting Gandalf’s return. It wasn’t very long before Boromir heard the cries of eagles again. He looked up and saw the three of them descending. In the claws of one was the shape of a person, as well as the other (which Gandalf was riding on).

“Boromir!” Aragorn cried to him as he ran forward to meet the eagle nearest to him.

The eagle carrying Sam landed first, and Aragorn began carrying him back to the tents. Then the one carrying Frodo descended right above Boromir. He held out his arms and the eagle dropped the unconscious hobbit gently into them. Boromir looked at Frodo’s grimy face covered in ash, sweat, and a little blood. The halfling smelled of smoke and something else Boromir couldn’t name. His arms trembled as he followed Aragorn to the tents. He now noticed one of Frodo’s hands was covered in blood, and one of his fingers was missing. He held it close to his chest, not caring if it stained his own hand or armor. There were two empty cots available, and they lay down the hobbits in them.

Aragorn proceeded to tend to their wounds, starting with Frodo’s hand. Boromir stepped back and watched, a sickening feeling rising up in him as he saw their wounds. Sam had a faint scar of a bite mark on his shoulder and a gash on the back of his head. Other than his finger, Frodo had four other nasty scars. Aragorn told Boromir one was from a Morgul blade and one faint one was from a cave troll (but would have been much worse without the protection of mithril). The third looked almost like a burn along Frodo’s neck and Boromir guessed it had something to do with the chain that carried the Ring. The last looked odd, like a giant sting.

“It may be,” Aragorn said gravely. There was worry in his voice.

Boromir shook his head as he knelt next to the cot. “Look what they’ve gone through,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of the heartache he felt burning within him. “I should have been there.”

Aragorn remained silent for a brief moment. “You couldn’t have. You know that. I couldn’t have.”

Boromir let a few tears fall and he places his hand on Frodo’s head. The halfling moaned quietly as Aragorn dressed his remaining wounds.

“How could I have done this?” Boromir said barely above a whisper. He closed his eyes and he could see Frodo’s face of distrust and fear at the Great River. He looked at him now. This wasn’t the same hobbit. This one looked wiser and sadder.

What things he must have seen and felt. Boromir thought.

Aragorn finished cleansing Frodo’s wounds and dressing them. With Boromir’s help, he put a clean shirt on him (that was quite oversized for the halfling). He went to fetch water, leaving Boromir alone. He sat down heavily on a wooden stool near the feet of the two cots, putting his head in his hands.

***

He now stood outside in Ilthien, listening to the breeze that sighed with relief. Boromir’s heart did not agree. Yes, he was relieved that they had succeeded, but he felt weighed down. Every step on the way back from the Black Gates had made Boromir’s heart feel heavier and heavier. Over and over Boromir had tried to figure out what he was going to say to the halfling once he awoke, but his efforts were to no avail, as the scenes he had caused those months ago were flashing in his mind.

“Boromir!” It was Pippin’s voice. Hope sailed on it. “He’s awake!”

Boromir felt a stab of dread and simply nodded. “Good.”

Pippin almost ran off, but stopped when Boromir didn’t follow. “You are coming, aren’t you?”

Boromir wanted to walk away, but he followed Pippin. “Yes. Of course.”

When they arrived at Frodo’s room, there were joyous shouts from the hobbits as they ran in. Aragorn stood near the doorway, about to enter. He paused when he saw Boromir’s countenance.

“What am I going to say?” Boromir whispered in distress. “He probably hates me. The last time he saw me I tried to take it.”

“Peace,” Aragorn whispered back. “You will find he is different now. He will forgive you, if you accept it. He has forgiven others who have done much worse to him.”

Boromir was confused as to what that entailed. He followed Aragorn inside.

Boromir couldn’t read the expression on Frodo’s face when he saw him, but he was ready for whatever rebuke he would face. The hobbit said nothing. Boromir knelt, unable to hide his tears.

“My dear hobbit,” Boromir began. “I have not the words, nor the right, to ask for your forgiveness for what I did. I know not how to express the regret I have felt ever since that day. If there is anything you would have me do to show my remorse, please tell me.”

Boromir looked up. To his surprise, he saw great mercy in Frodo’s eyes. “No man, or hobbit, could have destroyed the thing alone. You have been valiant, Son of Gondor. But where you have failed, I forgive you freely, for not even I could resist. As for action, your words and heart say all that needs to be said. I need nothing else, but for you to forgive yourself. Let it be forgotten.”

Boromir cried aloud and grabbed the hobbit’s hand and kissed it once. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“We are a Fellowship,” Frodo said, looking at each of the Fellowship’s members whom he had come to love. “We are eternally bound by friendship and love.”

#lotr #lord of the rings #lotr memes #lotr fandom #lotr fanfic #boromir x frodo #frodo baggins #frodo baggins imagine #boromir lotr #lotr fanfiction #boromir fanfiction #requested

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baccarry · 4 days ago

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Winter's Promise

Summary: Boromir and a girl from Rohan continue to meet in secret against the backdrop of a harsh winter. Their encounters, filled with genuine moments and quiet conversations, bring them closer together despite the differences between their worlds.

Amid their growing relationship, Boromir faces an inner conflict: torn between his duties as Gondor’s heir and his longing to be simply a man who loves and is loved. The girl, too, understands that their love might be impossible within the rigid confines of Gondorian tradition, but her feelings and faith in him outweigh her fears.

Set in the wintry landscapes of Rohan, the story unfolds as each day brings the promise of spring—a symbol of hope and a new beginning for them both.

The tale can be enjoyed as a continuation of The Scarlet Ribbon or as a standalone story.

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: G

Dedication: This story is dedicated to @scyllas-revenge and @lilunoakes for their inspiring comments and unwavering support. Thank you for being part of this journey!

Note: Winter's Promise is the second installment in The Scarlet Ribbon series. There will be 2–3 more parts to this story, including one smut chapter (18+). To stay updated, follow the tag #The Scarlet Ribbon Update so you don’t miss any new releases!

2890 Words.

***

It was midwinter, and you went to the river to do laundry. A mundane task, but for you, it was also an excuse to leave the house, to be alone—and perhaps to meet the one whose presence you longed for so much. You wore warm, simple clothing suitable for a merchant’s daughter from a roadside village in Rohan. A long green woolen cloak lined with fur, fastened with a leather belt, covered you. Underneath, you wore a dark blue dress of sturdy fabric that didn’t hinder movement. On your feet were soft boots lined with sheepskin, and you had wrapped a thick scarf around your head to shield your hair from the wind.

You carried a wooden basin and a small sack of laundry. In your hands was also a bag containing washing tools: a brush, wooden paddles for beating out dirt, and bars of soap that your father had acquired from a passing caravan. Yet what you regretted most was leaving behind the iron pickaxe, deciding at home that the river wasn’t fully frozen over yet.

When you reached the river, you set the basin down on the snow and looked around. It was quiet here. The white shores and the still, icy surface of the river gave the place an almost magical air, but the cold seeped through your clothes, making you shiver. You sighed regretfully, realizing you’d have to explain to your father why the laundry remained unwashed. But worse, returning home earlier than planned might mean missing a chance to meet him, and that was something you could not allow.

You knelt by the shore, brushing away snow with your hands to gauge the thickness of the ice. The ice was thick, smooth, with no visible cracks. You hesitated, wondering what to do, when you heard a voice behind you:

“You won’t break through it.”

You turned abruptly and saw him. Boromir stood a short distance away, having just dismounted. His horse, dark and powerful, was tied to a nearby tree. He wore a long cloak lined with fur, barely concealing the mail beneath. At his side hung a sword in plain but sturdy scabbards, and over his shoulders was draped a light woolen mantle typical of Gondorian soldiers. His face, weathered and intent, was framed by light chestnut hair that had slipped loose from beneath his hood.

“How long have you been here?” you asked, trying to keep your composure, though your heart raced.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he removed his sword and stepped toward you. His movements were confident but unhurried, and for a moment, you thought he was coming to help. He stopped at the very edge of the shore, his gaze fixed on the ice.

“Step back,” he said curtly, raising his sword.

You took a step back, watching as he gripped the weapon with both hands, lifted it over his head, and brought it down forcefully onto the ice. The strike rang out sharply, the sound echoing off the frozen trees. The ice cracked but did not give way. He struck again, and the crack deepened.

“Enough to freeze to the bone,” he said, sheathing his sword. His voice was warm, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible smile. You caught the tone and felt your lips curve into a small smile of their own. A simple act—a sword striking ice, the crack, the resounding echo—but in it, there was a care so natural to him that you couldn’t help but notice it.

The ice was no longer an obstacle, but you knew the laundry was just an excuse. All of this—the sack of clothes, the heavy basin, the biting cold that stung your fingers—was merely a guise to meet him once again.

Your meetings became more frequent, but in your father’s shop, they had turned into an impossibility. Boromir, with his proud bearing and noble manners, immediately drew attention. Your father was a perceptive man, and it didn’t take him long to notice how the gaze of the Gondorian lord lingered on you too often. His voice softened whenever he inquired about your health, and his movements became unnaturally slow as he browsed the wares, as though searching for excuses to stay longer.

“A merchant’s daughter is no match for Gondor’s heir,” your father said one day—not with malice, but with the stern honesty that was part of his nature. Those words were sobering, but could they stop you?

You recalled that kiss, given to him on the night of the Winterwood Festival. It was a moment when everything stilled: the forest, the stars, your hearts. That kiss was a promise, spoken without words, and it remained etched in your memory.

In Rohan, where hearts were free and traditions less rigid, such moments were a natural expression of human connection. But in Gondor, where people upheld strict morals and every action, every word, was dictated by tradition, such a gesture would be audacious, especially for an heir. Boromir knew that in his homeland, such behavior was unacceptable. Even married couples refrained from public displays of affection, limiting themselves to light, almost fleeting touches of the hand.

He thought of his brother, Faramir, and his wife, Éowyn. Their union was a living example of how two cultures could merge. Éowyn, while retaining the straightforwardness and strength of her Rohirric spirit, had learned to be restrained among the Gondorian lords. Yet behind closed doors, their love was vibrant and unreserved. Boromir had seen how Faramir looked at Éowyn—with pride, warmth, and admiration. Now, he understood that he wanted the same. He wanted to look at you that way—openly, without fear, so the whole world would see that he had found his happiness.

But for now, your meetings remained a secret. You learned to love what had once seemed like hateful routine. Washing clothes by the river, carrying dried herbs from your father’s shop, sorting fabrics and furs—all these tasks had become your excuses. They allowed you to leave the house, to step into the winter wind, and perhaps, to meet him.

You always noticed how different your worlds were. His confidence, forged by the strict traditions of Gondor, and your ease, shaped by the freedom and simplicity of Rohan, created a striking contrast. Boromir seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, often becoming too serious, and it stirred in you a desire to push him toward laughter, to see his true, human side. He, in turn, sometimes looked at you with mild astonishment when you spoke your mind or made a decision without hesitation, as though all the rules he had ever known could so easily be cast aside.

"Are you really going to wash clothes here?" he asked one day, crouching by the river. His finger traced lightly across the ice, leaving a faint line before he raised his gaze to meet yours, filled with a mix of doubt and concern.

"Of course," you replied with a wide smile, adjusting your scarf. "Do they do it differently in Gondor?"

"I wouldn’t know," he admitted after a brief pause, as though surprised by the question himself. "I never gave it much thought."

He glanced at your fingers, reddened from the cold, and frowned.

"Do you need help? Your hands must be freezing."

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, surprised by his offer.

"Alright, but don’t let the laundry fall into the water."

At first, everything went well. He pulled pieces of fabric from the basin, and you showed him how to work them against the paddle. But the further you went, the more it became clear: Boromir had no experience with such tasks. His strong hands, used to gripping a sword, fumbled awkwardly as he tried to wring out the fabric. Water splashed onto his face and cloak, and one of your best shirts nearly slipped into the hole in the ice.

"Eru Almighty!" he exclaimed as the fabric slid from his grasp. He managed to catch it, but not before leaning precariously over the icy water, nearly plunging in himself.

You couldn’t suppress your laughter as you looked at his bewildered expression, droplets of water streaming down his cloak.

"What?" he asked, wiping his face with his hand. "You said this was easy."

"For me, yes," you said, still laughing. "But for you, my lord, it seems beyond your skill."

He huffed in mock annoyance but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.

"In that case, I’ll leave the washing to you."

And indeed, he didn’t offer his help again. But you noticed that he particularly enjoyed watching you work. He would sit a little ways off, as if guarding you, his gaze warm and slightly pensive, lingering on your movements.

Sometimes, though, he stepped in when he saw you struggling—pulling up a bucket of water or hauling the heavy basin. In those moments, he would speak with a quiet, barely noticeable smile:

"This isn’t washing, but at least I can help with this."

You liked it. There was something so genuine in his desire to be helpful that you began to wonder how little Gondor had offered him in terms of simple, human joys.

He still loved to watch you at work.

Even today, his eyes followed you as you bent over the basin, scrubbing the clothes with effort. Your hands, red from the cold, your cheeks lightly flushed, and a stray lock of hair slipping from beneath your scarf that you kept tucking back behind your ear—it all captivated him. To him, you seemed a part of the harsh winter landscape: determined, stubborn, and unyielding.

"In Gondor, it often snows in winter," he said, breaking the silence, and you looked up at him. He stood by his horse, running a hand along its neck. "But it rarely stays on the ground for long. And the rivers never freeze. Winter there comes quietly, like a guest who doesn’t linger."

You smiled, blowing the stray lock from your face.

"And here, winter is a mistress who sets everything in order," you said, glancing at the forest around you. "She closes the rivers, lulls the earth to sleep. Even the air is different—it smells of snow and pine, and of a cold that chills you to the bone."

Boromir chuckled, looking at you with warmth.

"But you don’t seem afraid of it," he said more softly. "You even come to the river in such cold."

You looked at him, your smile turning slightly mischievous.

"And if you didn’t come?" you teased, a playful spark in your eyes. "Do you think I’d endure these frozen fingers?"

He glanced away, visibly flustered, and turned his attention to his horse to hide it.

"But I do come," he said simply, pulling a comb from his saddlebag.

He began carefully combing the horse’s tangled mane, but the winter rides had taken their toll: the comb snagged in the knots, and the horse tossed its head in irritation. You frowned as you watched him.

"What are you doing?" you said, setting aside the laundry and wiping your damp hands on your skirt. "You’re holding a brush, not a sword! It’s hurting him."

Boromir looked up at you and smirked.

"He’s not complaining. If he could talk, he’d thank me for my care."

"He is talking. You’re just not listening," you huffed, stepping closer.

You removed your scarf and began gently untangling the mane with your fingers. The horse snorted but soon lowered its head, visibly relaxing under your touch.

"See?" you said over your shoulder without looking back. "A bit more patience, my lord, and he’d thank you."

Boromir watched you, unable to suppress a smile. Your confidence and ease in handling the task reminded him why he kept coming back to this harsh, wintry place.

"Easy, my friend," you murmured in Rohirric, softly running your hands through the tangled mane. "Your stubborn lord is used to having stablehands look after you, isn’t he? But things are different here."

You spoke quietly, almost a whisper, as if your words were meant only for the horse. It snorted and shook its head, but less sharply than before. You continued your steady, confident movements before leaning forward to place your palm on its neck, as if trying to share your warmth.

"Hey," Boromir protested, breaking out of his reverie. "I understand your language."

You glanced over your shoulder at him, smiling but saying nothing. Instead, you continued speaking to the horse, avoiding the Common Tongue:

"He’s stubborn, but he meant well. Didn’t he, friend? There, that’s better."

You extended your hand toward Boromir.

"Give me the comb."

He handed it over without a word, frowning slightly as you began untying the horse from the tree.

"Leave him," he said cautiously. "He might run off. And I still need to ride back..."

You turned to him with an easy smile and shook your head.

"A horse never leaves its master if it knows it’s well cared for. And here, my lord, he knows he’s safe."

You led the horse a step away, giving it more freedom, but you continued combing, occasionally smoothing its flanks with your hand. The horse snorted again, dipping its head toward your touch, as though accepting your care.

"Incredible," Boromir said, watching the two of you. "You’re so good with him. It’s as if he melts under your hands. Your bond with horses..."

"Has nothing to do with it," you interrupted, standing upright and returning to your basin. Your movements were brisk, as if eager to finish the washing. "He simply trusts me and 'melts under my touch,' just like his master, my lord."

You returned to your work, feeling Boromir’s gaze linger on you. He stayed by his horse, watching you, his expression a mix of admiration and unease. In your world, touch was natural—a gesture to the shoulder, the hand, the heart through warmth and action. But for him, it was something new, almost forbidden. You noticed how he increasingly sought excuses to touch you: handing you the comb, brushing a stray lock from your face, or lightly grazing your hand when helping with the heavy basin.

For you, it was natural. But each time you met his gaze in such moments, you saw something more: longing, hesitation, and sometimes gratitude, like a man learning to accept warmth for the first time.

"Are your hands cold?" he asked when you had kept them in the icy water too long.

You sighed, lifting your eyes to meet his.

"As always."

He stepped closer, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the snow. Your hands, red from the cold, trembled as he took them in his. His fingers were warm and strong as he carefully rubbed your hands before cupping them in his palms, as if protecting something fragile.

Usually, it ended there. He would warm your hands until they stopped trembling, then let go, avoiding your gaze, as though afraid to linger too long. But not today.

Today, he did something different. His lips brushed lightly against your index finger, then your middle finger, as if testing whether you could feel the warmth. He moved to the next, slow and deliberate. Each kiss was soft, barely there, but they carried something new, as though he himself was surprised by his boldness.

"And now?" he asked in a quiet, low whisper, his voice making the moment feel like it belonged only to the two of you.

You started slightly, not expecting the gesture, but you didn’t pull your hands away. Instead, you smiled faintly, meeting his eyes as warmth spread from within.

"Now it’s warm," you replied just as softly, letting the words hang in the air.

Your gazes locked. You saw the struggle in him, the attempt to reconcile the feelings that consumed him with the boundaries he had been taught to uphold. But you knew: with every touch, with every kiss, he was thawing. The polished veneer of a Númenórean lord, a familiar mask for a Gondorian heir, was beginning to fade.

You didn’t pull your hands away, letting him hold them a moment longer. You understood this wasn’t just physical contact for him—it was a step toward closeness, a moment of vulnerability he rarely allowed himself.

"My lord," you said with soft amusement, breaking the silence but keeping the tenderness intact. "Perhaps now you’ll warm them completely?"

He laughed, quietly but sincerely, and the sound warmed you as much as his hands did.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, you gathered your things. He helped you lift the basin, and together you walked back to the village, silently enjoying the winter stillness, which no longer seemed so cold.

That day became another thread binding your worlds together. Every gesture, every word—small steps, but they led you both to a place where Gondorian rules and Rohirric traditions didn’t matter. There was only the two of you, and a winter that no longer felt so harsh.

#Baccarry Update #The Scarlet Ribbon Update #boromir x oc #boromir #boromir fanfiction #boromir lives #boromir x reader #boromir lives au #boromir x you #lord of the rings #lotr #lotr fanfic #boromir imagine

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entishramblings · 1 year ago

Text

Fuck the Forbidden Pt. 2

[Boromir/F!MermaidReader]

PART 1 | PART 3 — coming soon

Fuck the Forbidden: FTF LINK MASTERLIST

A.N: my apologies for taking so much time to update: graduate school is a tornado, plus getting sick and the craziness of holidays season didn’t help. Anyways, thank you for your patience and your continuous support! I literally read all your comment in order to inspire me to write again!

Request: none

Pairing: Boromir X Fem!MermaidReader

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

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

Word Count: 5.7k — listen, yes, I STILL have a problem

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

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The following day, (Y/N) waited in the depths of the Anduin River by the entrance of the Minas Tirith castle. Sure enough, the captain, decorated in silver, came out upon his steed. Though he did not have the cheer he normally held—despite his recent struggles—he seemed….different. (Y/N) had hoped that he didn't remember what he saw under the lake. Maybe he figured he was too drunk and his mind was playing tricks on him? Maybe he would forget it all together? However, that fearful look in his eyes when he glanced at the river told her otherwise. It appeared Faramir failed to convince his brother that the mer-folk were just a myth.

Boromir deviated from his routine as well. He did not go to the market for the breakfast that he seemed to love. No, no. Instead he went out towards the edge of the city–towards the docks. And (Y/N) went with him. He passed his horse off to another and walked upon the wood, passing ship and boat, until he came upon a small fishing vessel. (Y/N) swam around it and took to the surface upon its side, far enough to not be spotted, but close enough to see and hear.

“Iwar,” Boromir called out. “You there?”

“Oi!” the old man replied, emerging from the sails. “What can I do for yer?”

“You have a moment?”

“For ye? Of course I do, lad. What is this about?” Iwar stated, squinting in the sun.

Boromir huffed, and pulled something from his pocket. He lightly tossed it to the older fellow. “What do you make of this?”

Iwar frowned, holding the whale up before his face by the string Boromir had used to make it into a necklace. “Where’d ye get it?”

“In a pond. One that connects to the Anduin River.”

Iwar sent him a strange look. “Do ye know what this is made out of?”

Boromir shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s bone, Boromir,” he replied tentatively.

At this, the captain’s lips parted. “Bone?”

Iwar tossed the whale carving back to him. “Aye, couldn't tell ye what it came from. Whittled too much away for that. Ye said yer got it from a pond?”

He nodded, swallowing dryly.

“Could’ve washed up from the currents.” Iwar stated, nonchalantly, returning to the tasks of his sail. “Some trinket someone lost to the sea.”

Boromir dipped his head, his anxiety present as he fiddled with the whale.

Iwar glanced at him. “Something else, boy?”

Boromir inhaled slowly. “Iwar, do you–do you really believe those tales of the sea-folk?”

The old man sent a weary look at the captain as he tied off one of the ropes upon the fabric. “Aye. Saw one of em’ when I was just a lad. Nearly lost my life.”

Boromir focused his gaze upon Iwar. “I think–I think I saw one last night.”

At this, the older man froze. Slowly, he turned his full attention to the captain, dread slipping from his face.

Still, Boromir continued, trying to justify his sighting. ‘Though, I don't know. I was very drunk. Had a couple ales too many. My mind could’ve—”

“You were out on the sea last night?” Iwar interrupted, confused.

Boromir shook his head.

“The shore then? Never heard of em’ venturing so close.”

Boromir released a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, I was in the pond by the Minas Tirith castle.”

Iwar’s form stiffened as he walked toward the captain. He nodded at the bone carving in Boromir’s hand as he spoke in a tone that held so much anxiety that it radiated through the air around him. “The same pond where ye found that?”

“Yes.”

Iwar’s eyes widened wildly. “I’d tell ye what, lad. Ye have been marked by em.’ And that—” he dipped his head at the whale once more. “—I reckon that's human bone.”

Blood drained from Boromir’s face, replaced with sheer panic. His fingers clumsily grappled with the carving, uncertain of how to handle it. Reluctant to make direct contact, he hesitated before settling on gripping the string, allowing the whale to dangle. Disgust etched across his brow.

“I’d get out while ye can. Stay away from the sea waters, boy.” Iwar warned.

….

That night, Boromir didn't go to the pool of water by the white walls—nor the following night. He, quite frankly, didn't go near the water at all. He stayed far from the beaches and from the Anduin River. He took longer paths to where he needed to go in order to avoid such circumstances that put him near what Iwar had described to live in the sea.

And this—all this broke (Y/N)’s heart. It stirred up a tumult of emotions—sadness, anger, fear, and frustration. Therefore, on the third day, she sought solace in a secluded nook along the Bay of Belfas. Hoisting herself onto a warm rock, she sat, enveloped in her misery. Her once-vivid fantasies of the land-people and Boromir now dissolved into sorrow and regret. What lingered was the haunting image of Boromir's disdainful expression when Iwar speculated that her gift was crafted from human bone. Any mer-folk would be delighted to receive such a heartfelt gesture! But Boromir wasn't of the sea, now was he.

(Y/N) stayed upon the rock for hours, hoping the sun would soak up her melancholy mood. However, that is not what the golden beams absorbed. Her skin dried, her hair lightened and billowed freely, and the scales on her tail lacked the moisture they once held. It was at that moment discomfort struck. Excruciating, searing pain surged through her tail, a relentless agony that prompted a deep cry from her lips. Every nerve seemed to flare with an intense, burning sensation, rendering her nearly paralyzed by the sheer intensity of the pain. She couldn't move, only shake and claw at the rock she perched upon. It felt like hours as she laid there, praying to the gods to make it end. And when it did, she instinctively reached for her scales. However, to her surprise, her hand met no such thing; instead, flesh had replaced the once-familiar tail.

(Y/N) gasped.

Her father had said…

He had tested them all…

None had the gift….

He lied.

Emotions swirled around her naked form as she stared at the strange extension that replaced her glimmering scales—legs. Anger, irritation, sadness, regret, frustration, excitement all ran through her blood.

Slowly, she stood. As she took a wobbly step upon the rock, a loud, breathy giggle escaped her lips.

Was this a dream?

(Y/N) took another uncertain step, and another, and another—until she stumbled, her hand reaching out to break her fall. However, a splash came from that, for her palm struck where water had gathered in a dip upon the rock.

Immediately, she felt it.

Her skin tingled, then burned and stung, stretching and pulling in a painful dance. (Y/N) cried out as the pain intensified. With scales attempting to form on her dry legs, the tugging became excruciating once more—tears streamed from her eyes as she desperately scrambled towards the water.

Her form slipped and rolled, right off the rock and into the ocean.

Immediate relief enveloped her. Scales continued to knit together without a hint of pain. The water soothed her. It coated the soreness into nonexistence.

(Y/N) allowed her form to sink, adjusting.

There she floated, letting her body and mind adjust to what had just happened.

It was then when one of the turmoiling emotions overtook the rest of them. It coursed through her gills and surged through her veins.

How dare he…

With a decisive flick of her tail, she propelled herself toward her father's palace.

The anger granted her remarkable speed, causing other merfolk to whip their heads around in confusion as she barreled past them.

She swam directly to the grand chamber, where she anticipated her father perched upon his throne, and busted the door open with her tail.

“HOW DARE YOU?!” she screamed at him.

Heads turned instantly—her father’s, her sisters’, the guards’.

“HOW DARE YOU LIE TO ME, FATHER. HOW DARE YOU NOT TELL ME I HAD THE GIFT?!”

Her father rose, signaling the guards to leave. They swam away quickly, avoiding the impending wrath of the sea's king and his children.

“You lied straight to my face,” (Y/N) stated.

“(Y/N), what are you talking about?” Anahita interjected, appalled by her sister’s tone.

Mareena added to her statement. “That is no way to speak to our father!”

(Y/N)'s tail flicked with irritation as she focused her gaze on the man before her. “I have the gift to walk among the land-folk.”

Una gasped. Seria’s mouth dropped open. Rana’s eyes widened. Nerida’s brows shot upwards.

Their father swam towards (Y/N). “You went to the land?!” he growled. “It is forbidden.”

“I DID NOT GO ONTO THE LAND!” She snapped back. Taking a deep breath, she spoke again. “I was letting the sun warm me upon a rock when it happened—the tingling, the splitting, the pain.”

“You went to the surface—”

“How dare you not tell me, Father!”

“I DID NOT TELL YOU BECAUSE OF THIS!” He yelled. “Because I knew the minute you would figure it out, you would want to test out your new form. You would put us all in danger.”

“YOU HAVE PUT ME IN DANGER. YOU HAVE MASKED YOUR PROTECTION IN LIES THAT HAVE ONLY CAUSED ME PAIN. HOW DARE YOU!” (Y/N) retorted.

With that, (Y/N) swam away. She twisted through the reefs and the grass. She slipped through the schools of fish and their bubbles. She slithered through the rocks and caves. She did so until she was back in the Anduin River, where the lively markets and the hustle of people's households awaited. Breaking through the water's surface, she emerged with a cautious awareness, ensuring she remained unseen.

She swam along the edge until she came upon a line of clothing strung between two buildings. On it hung sheets as bright as a lemonpeel angelfish, a skirt holding the vibrance of an orange clownfish, a flowing wrap the hue of a blue tang fish, a pair of trousers the color of a brown leafy sea dragon, a top shaded like that of a pink fairy wrasse, and a flowing dress the cream color of a stingray’s belly.

(Y/N) looked at her surroundings.

The people were on the other side of the clothing line—all mucking about in the market. None even bothered to shed a glance behind the fabric. All were too busy going about their day.

Therefore, with little regard for the forbidden nature of her actions—because, really, fuck the forbidden—(Y/N) decided to defy the rules that had once controlled her life.

Originally, she hadn't intended to act in such defiance, but the anger coursing through her veins urged her forward into impulsive urges.

Hauling her form out of the water, (Y/N) manipulated the water clinging to her, using her fingers in twisting and rippling motions. She gathered the liquid into a cohesive ball and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the sphere dancing through the air before it plopped back into the river.

The tingling sensation began, followed by the excruciating pain, and soon enough, the transformation into legs commenced.

Anxiously, (Y/N) stood. Her shaky legs wobbled as she adjusted to their unfamiliar form. Her trembling fingers swiftly seized the cream colored dress—she didn't want to stand out, she needed to blend in—and she clumsily slipped it on. Her gaze then fixated on a brilliant blue wrap. The color resonated with the deep seas she hailed from, and she couldn't resist. The mermaid grasped the silk and yanked, winding it around her hair in a manner she had observed from land women when peeking from the river. Letting some of her locks cascade out of the twisted band, the blue fabric draped over her shoulders. She smiled.

Her hand instinctively rose to her neck, where her necklace adorned with shells, sea glass, and bones encircled her skin. A frown crossed her face. She couldn't part with it—this cherished gift from her since passed mother. Therefore, she let it remain, finding that it didn't look too out of place.

(Y/N) ventured into the market, nervously navigating the bustling city of Minas Tirith with her new, wobbly legs. The vibrant atmosphere teemed with life and excitement as diverse groups came together to weave the people into the human race. So many men, women, and children—all different sizes, all different shapes, all different skin tones—bustled through the streets.

Young children ran through the tents playing games and tricks on one another. Often enough, a woman was pursuing the chase while yelling for their halt of mischief. Men were not involved in this matter. Instead, they loudly called out the names of what they sold, along with prices, at the busy passerbyers in hopes of getting a customer. Never had (Y/N) seen something so brilliantly enthralling and engaging—not in her time under the sea with the mer-folk.

As she moved through the people, she discreetly snagged what she needed. A pair of sandals disappeared from a rack, and she swiftly turned away before anyone noticed. Vibrantly colored bracelets caught her eye at a vendor's stall, and she couldn't resist snagging a few. Additionally, she plucked food from bins and baskets. She didn't know what it was—but oh how delicious it tasted when it was not dunked in the salt of the sea.

Here, (Y/N) stayed, exploring the thrill of humanity and letting their culture enrapture her senses. So much so, that she failed to notice a soldier adorned in silver until she collided with his metal-plated chest.

Her form tumbled backwards, taking an extra moment to steady.

“Are you alright, miss?” a concerned voice inquired.

(Y/N) slowly raised her head to meet a familiar face: Faramir.

Unable to find her voice, she could only nod in reply. Shyness and anxiety filled her as she backed away from the unexpected encounter.

He acknowledged her reply with a dip of his own head before turning to another soldier a little ways away. He made way towards him and gently touched his arm. “Boromir, we should get going. Father is expecting us.”

(Y/N) went still. Her inquisitive gaze shifted towards him, and indeed, there stood Boromir. His dark, sandy hair brushed upon his forehead, tousled slightly from the refreshing breeze. Vibrant blue eyes held a sternness, concealing the sadness she knew resided in his heart. His pink lips pressed into a firm line, refraining from the warmth of a smile. Boromir was clad in the silver armor and the metal weapons that she had seen him in nearly every day. He looked fit for his position as captain, his authority nearly radiating from him. Now that she was upon the land, he seemed so much bigger—so much stronger. So much more important.

(Y/N)’s cheeks began to heat, prompting her to quickly ducked behind the fabric of a tent. After giving herself a moment, she peaked out.

Though she knew she shouldn't, she found herself following them. At a safe distance, she mimicked every turn, accentuated every step, and utilized every path they took. And when the Steward's sons crossed the threshold of Minas Tirith Castle, so did she.

Instantly, she was met with just as much business as the market. Servants flooded the halls, carrying trays of fruit and platters of meat. Maids held onto neatly folded laundry and finely pressed sheets. Guards bustled about, their steel clanking as they moved through the halls, to get to their next shift, meal, or rest.

(Y/N) was so overwhelmed that she failed to notice a group of soldiers rounding the corner. As they pushed past her, a heavy shoulder slammed into her, the edge of the metal plate catching her forehead. The impact sliced the skin open, causing her to tumble backward against the wall.

Surprising her, she felt a gentle hand upon her arm, holding her steady. A soft voice that she knew all too well, that spoke words all too similar to his brother’s, filled her ears. “Are you alright, miss?”

In a daze, (Y/N) looked up at the dark sandy hair, vibrant blue eyes, and perfect pink lips of Boromir. Too stunned to speak, she merely stared at him, every thought that had occupied her mind vanishing in the moment.

Boromir turned towards the group of soldiers who had caused the commotion and knocked her down. With a tone infused with authority and anger, he snapped at them, “Watch where you are going!”

They turned, initially confused and uncertain of Boromir's reprimand until they spotted the frightened and injured girl beside him.

“What kind of soldiers are you that you let your steel hit a woman!” Boromir added, his irritation even more obvious. “Keep better track of your things—and your forms!”

The soldiers nodded, though their indifference was evident, and they shuffled away without much concern.

Boromir turned back to (Y/N), repeating his prior question, his tone gentle once more. “I apologize for the actions of my men. I will reprimand them later, but right now you are more important, yes? Miss?”

She looked up at him, blinking. He didn’t recognize her, did he?

“You’re bleeding,” he stated softly, his finger pressed gently upon her forehead.

A quiet gasp of pain escaped (Y/N)’s lips and her expressions distorted slightly.

“My apologies. I did not mean to make your pain worse. May I take you to the infirmary? We can get that treated.”

Unsure what to say—and what an infirmary was—she nervously dipped her head.

“Alright,” he began. “Let’s get you moving.”

Gently, he helped her move away from the wall, one arm wrapped around her waist. However, with a couple steps, her vision swirled and she stumbled.

Boromir caught her quickly. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Just a step at a time.” His brows pulled together as he looked down at her. “Are you dizzy? Is the room spinning?”

“I—I,” she stuttered. “Y-yes, uh, sir.”

He released a heated breath from his nose, the anger at the men who had harmed her simmering within him. However, he pushed it away, ensuring his attention remained on her. "How about you sit back down? Lean against the wall to keep you upright, yes?"

(Y/N) nodded, allowing him to help lower her to the stone floor. As the coldness rushed through her bones and the stillness began to steady, she looked up at him. “T-thank you,” she whispered. “Uh, sir.”

The captain smiled softly. “You may call me Boromir.”

She nodded slightly.

Boromir looked up and stopped a passing servant. “Could you please fetch me a medical kit from the infirmary? Just basic supplies.”

The man nodded, accepting the order, and rushed off. Moments later, he returned with various materials in a small box.

Boromir expressed his gratitude as he opened the kit. Without hesitation, he took hold of a soft cloth and gently swiped it upwards, collecting the blood that was now trickling down (Y/N)’s forehead. He then pressed it against the cut that was bleeding rather heavily. "Hold this there," he commanded gently.

The woman reached up to follow his instructions, and Boromir proceeded to lay out an array of little bottles and scraps of cloth. "What is your name?" he inquired as he doused a cloth in the liquids of one of the containers.

Her eyes followed his motions nervously. “(Y/N),” she replied timidly.

The Captain smiled, attempting to provide some comfort. “Are you from around here, (Y/N)?”

She shook her head.

“No? What are you doing in these parts then?” He asked.

“I—I don’t know.”

Boromir frowned, looking up at her from the medical supplies. She appeared more disoriented than he had initially expected. Perhaps the blow to the head was more substantial than he had thought?

“You don’t know?” He questioned, no alarm in his tone. Meanwhile, he began threading a needle, preparing it for the task of stitching her forehead. “Have you come with anyone? A husband? A father?”

She frowned, a blush creeping into her face at the implications of his words. “N-no. Alone.”

Boromir pressed his lips together, a sudden loneliness hitting him—one that he knew all too well—as he placed the threaded needle upon a clean cloth.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

She shook her head.

“Hmm. Alright. Let’s get you cleaned up, then we can worry about that.”

Boromir took the cloth from her forehead, his hand brushing upon hers as he did so. He then began bringing a damp cloth towards her face.

Instantly, her eyes went wide and she ducked away from the material. “It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s just alcohol.” He replied, lowering the cloth.

“N-not water?” She whispered, almost fearful.

He shook his head. “Nay. Water would not clean it properly. This will prevent any infection, though I’m afraid it will sting a bit. Is that alright?”

Slowly, (Y/N) nodded.

Boromir pressed the cloth to the cut and, instantly, she hissed.

“I know, I am sorry,” he murmured.

Gently, he cleaned the wound, being careful to not make any sudden movements that may startle her. When he was certain it was clean, he moved to pick up the needle.

“I will have to stitch it back together so it heals properly.” He looked into her worried gaze and he instantly felt guilt tugging at his heart. It appeared she had never experienced such an injury, or perhaps she had but never received proper treatment for one.

Cautiously, he used his other hand to pick up her own. Her soft palms brushed upon his hardened calloused, gentleness upon her touch. Placing her hand upon his knee, he spoke softly, “If it hurts too much just squeeze really really hard, and I will pause, alright? It is important that you keep your head still, yes?”

She nodded, adjusting her grip upon his knee, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety in her eyes.

Slowly, Boromir began the delicate task of stitching her skin back together. Her grip tightened upon him, only slightly, as she adjusted to the strange sensation of tugging on her skin.

"You are doing beautifully, (Y/N). We are almost done. I promise," the Captain reassured her. As he finished the last stitch and skillfully moved the thread to knot itself, he breathed out, "There we go," placing the needle back upon the cloth. He smiled gently, a reassuring warmth in his eyes, as he carefully cleaned the area around the stitches. "All finished," Boromir stated before leaning back, (Y/N)’s hand slipping from his knee.

“It will be sore for a bit,” he said. “But it should heal in a week. The stitching will fall out on its own, so if it starts to come out, do not worry. Though, I would advise you not to get it wet.”

At that last sentence, (Y/N) smiled softly. She wasn’t planning on getting wet—not anytime soon.

“Can you stand? Has the dizziness subsided?”

The woman nodded and slowly rose to her feet, taking Boromir’s hand when he offered it.

“Let’s find you a place to rest while you heal. And I would like to apologize for my soldiers’ actions once more. You are welcome to stay in Minas Tirith as long as you would like. I will make sure you get everything you need.”

(Y/N) looked up at his kind expression and spoke with that same nervous hesitancy. “Thank you.…Boromir.”

The captain guided her through the castle, arriving at a room. He opened the door and gestured inside with a soft smile. "It is yours to stay in. I will ensure the maids are alerted to provide you with adequate care. If you need anything else, my chambers are just down the hallway to the right, the second door."

She nodded in reply.

He bowed his head. “I will leave you then, miss.”

With that, he was gone.

(Y/N) moved to the center of the room and slowly spun around taking it all in. It was massive and airy. The windows were wind open, the sea breeze rushing in and caring hints of the city. The white curtains blew with that gentle wind, dancing in its whispers. The walls of the chamber were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting only what she could assume to be the legendary tales of the city. They were woven with beautiful silver and turquoise thread, catching the light so delicately. A bed sat in the middle of the room, soft white blankets and comforters piled on it. (Y/N) walked towards it and gently sat upon the fabric. It was….strange. Very different from the large shells she was used to curling up in.

Feeling a sudden tiredness take over her form, she laid down with ease. Resting her head upon the pillow, she allowed sleep to consume her.

…….

When she finally woke, the sun had set, and the stars took their place among the blanket of the sky. Cautiously, she pulled her legs from the cage of blankets and let them dangle off the side of the bed. They looked so….strange upon her form. She was used to her glimmering tail that collected light to share among the waters. Not—not this. She lowered her feet upon the stone floor, almost startled by the coldness that greeted them.

Hunger settled into her stomach as she moved towards the door. However, she found herself at a loss, unsure where to find a meal at this time. The markets were long since closed and she knew not where the kitchen in the Minas Tirith castle was. Of course, she could wander down to the tavern that Boromir frequented regularly—she knew the way well enough, but she didn't have any means to pay.

(Y/N) shifted on her feet. Boromir did say she could come to him if she needed anything….

Almost as if it were an excuse to see him again, she slipped through the door and began following his directions to his chambers. With every step, her heart pounded harder. She would get to see him again—and it wouldn't be through layers of water.

Upon arrival, the door stood ajar, allowing a whisper of cold air to drift from his open windows. Cautiously, she peered into the room. It was shrouded in darkness, with only the soft glow of the moon reflecting upon the vast room—oh, and what a beautiful room it was. The room eluded a captivating chaos, in the most exciting way. Tablets and shelves were filled with various items—maps, books, stones, germs, inventions, and trinkets. The room held a multitude of objects, each beckoning to be looked at, studied, and pondered—igniting a sense of wonder and an urge to guess the intention. Oh, it was a captivating sight.

“Boromir?” she called out.

Silence.

Slowly, (Y/N) stepped in. She let her feet carry her throughout the room, her hand brushing upon every object that her eyes could consume. She picked things up, examined them, then put them down for another. She did so continuously, urgently, the thirst for knowledge of the humans’ customs eager in her blood. She did so, until she came across something familiar—something she was surprised to see.

(Y/N) picked up the bone carved whale from the shelf that it rested on.

He had kept it.

A little grin formed on her face, for after his conversation with Iwar she didn’t think he would.

“Does that one interest you?” A soft tone asked.

(Y/N) jumped, startled.

Boromir chuckled lightly, stepping into the room. “I am sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

She glanced down at the whale carving before looking back to him.

“I am not quite sure how that one came into my possession,” he continued as he moved to stand beside her.

She frowned, looking up. Her eyes were now direct at him, focused and stern—for the first time since he had met her. He would be lying if he said it didn't startle him a bit.

“You don't remember?” she asked, her tone strong.

“Well, no it’s not that. Of course, I remember how I got it. It just was a bit peculiar.”

(Y/N) tilted her head, not understanding.

Boromir sighed, his tone was distant as he spoke, his blue gaze not wavering from her curious eyes that suddenly seemed so bold. “A friend of mine says it's a dark omen, ment to mark me for death.” His vision trailed across her face. “He says it is made of the bone of my fallen brothers, urging me to follow them to their deaths.”

“Do you believe that?”

He blinked, his gaze lingering upon the whale. “I do not know what to believe.” Boromir looked at her expression. “What are your thoughts on such a statement?”

(Y/N) shrugged, placing the whale in its spot upon the shelf. “I believe people don’t understand other cultures and customs. I believe they make their own assumptions out of ignorance and fear.”

The captain raised a brow at her intelligence. “You are feeling better then?”

“Hmm?” (Y/N) hummed in question as she moved to another object.

“Well, that is the most I have heard you speak since I met you. You are wiser than you appear to be.”

She only shrugged in response, picking up a telescope and looking through its glass—by the wrong end.

“Though,” Boromir continued in a teasing manner as he plucked the object from her grasp, turned it the correct way, and placed it back in her palms. “That wisdom seems not to extend to everything.”

She frowned, looking through the glass once before placing it down. She then went for a music box, her confused expression deepening. “We do not have all these….these things where I am from.”

Boromir reached across her and twisted the little lever, releasing the gentle music from its hold. “And where is that, may I ask?”

At the twinkling sound, her smile, born of pure delight, extended from her expression. Her response to his question, however, was only that of a simple word, “Far.”

The captain raised a brow. “How far?”

(Y/N) shot him a strange look, placing the music box down and picking up a crystal sphere instead. “You ask a lot of questions,” she mumbled.

He grinned playfully. “You do not seem to give many answers, Miss (Y/N).”

She glared at him.

With that playful smile, he spoke again. “Would it help if you got to ask a question?”

(Y/N)‘s eyes crinkled with thought as she placed the object down and turned towards him. She saw how his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, how the circles under his eyes appeared so dark, how his expression was so hollow. Softly, she spoke again. “Why are you so sad, Boromir?”

Taken aback by this, his lips parted. “I—I do not know what you mean.”

She took a step closer to him, a step that nearly eliminated the space between them, and her piercing gaze burned up at him for the truth.

Hesitantly, he whispered that truth, as if she compelled it right out of him. “I—I recently was in a shipwreck. I thought, well, I thought I was dead—left for the watery graves below.” He paused, just for a moment. “But yet I am here and I do not know why. And, I am beginning to question things that I know, well, thought I knew, for the world appears different now.”

Silence.

Boromir's soft voice then picked up again, his breath warm upon the woman’s face. “Why are you so sad, (Y/N)?”

At this, her shy nature returned. (Y/N) turned her head away, not wanting to look at the source of her sadness.

Gently, Boromir tugged on her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You implored me to tell you such a truth,” he whispered. “May I not ask the same of you?”

(Y/N)’s tone was soft. “My truth is complicated.”

“Are not all truths complicated?” he responded.

With that, she withdrew from his grasp—a hold she desperately craved—and created enough distance between them, leaving him to wonder if such closeness had occurred at all.

A loud grumble then echoed through the dark room—splitting the darkness with something else, something much for lighthearted.

“When have you last eaten?” Boromir asked.

Her brows pulled together as she looked at her stomach.

He chuckled, offering her his hand. “Come. Let’s get you some food. I can take you to my favorite place.”

“But I—I have no coin,” she whispered shyly.

“You are a guest of Gondor, Gondor will see you fed.”

(Y/N) smiled, that innocent gaze returning. She hesitantly took his hand and he led her through the castle and towards the tavern.

The two arrived at the tavern rather quickly. Urine, stale ale, and sweat flooded (Y/N)’s nostrils—familiar aromas reminiscent of her vigilant watch over Boromir along the Anduin River. The lively atmosphere enveloped the pair. In the corner, a bard sang to the patrons, his melodic voice resonating throughout, enticing some to join in. Drunk men, tapping their feet along to the beat of the tune, howled in laughter and glee as they clinked their ales together and shoveled food into their mouths. Requests for additional drinks prompted maidens, adorned in long skirts and aprons, to gracefully deliver brimming glasses, the foaming liquid sloshing about.

(Y/N) smiled, taking in the environment.

Boromir cast a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “It’s just a tavern.”

She turned to him, her grin unwavering. “We don’t have taverns where I am from.”

He raised a brow. “And where is that? You never said.”

She shrugged. “Far.”

(Y/N) moved deeper into the tavern, with Boromir following suit. He motioned towards an available table, and they both took a seat. Before long, a serving maiden approached. Boromir signaled for two meals and two ales, and they promptly arrived.

The woman wasted no time and eagerly indulged in her food, swiftly emptying the plate.

Boromir tried to suppress a smile as he saw this, for he was glad she was getting proper nutrition after her likely long and hard journey. He, of course, wished to know more of her origins; though, he could see she wasn't quite ready to discuss such things. Instead, he opted to answer any and all questions she had which began with her curious tone.

“Boromir, would you be willing to tell me of your city? How you live in these parts? I wish to know.”

His soft gaze made contact with hers and he nodded, chewing his food and swallowing before he spoke. “What would you wish to know?”

“Everything—its structures, its people, its culture, its history.”

Therefore, Boromir spoke of such things. He described the White City's towering architecture, the valor of its people, and the complexities of the various beliefs held. He relayed its history and tales, showcasing the values of the Gondorian people.

His narratives ignited a spark in her eyes, drew laughter from her lips, and filled her heart with joy.

Fuck the forbidden indeed.

As the hours stretched on, Boromir’s friends joined them. (Y/N) could see the gleam in their eyes and catch the less-than-subtle teasing tones as they whispered about Boromir bringing a lady to their tavern. Faramir, arriving shortly after, seemed prepared for a night of dealing with his drunken brother, only to find himself pleasantly surprised by his brother's apparent sobriety and the joy the unknown woman seemed to bring to his melancholy soul.

Yet, amid the cheerful atmosphere, a pair of shifting gray eyes belonging to an old man that (Y/N) recognized as Iwar, kept her uneasy heart alert.

…..

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