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system-to-the-madness · 4 months 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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frodosrings · 2 months ago

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In Times of Great Snow, a Child Still Grows

hi guys, i wrote my first fic!

here is the link to ao3

Summary: When Faramir is away on a work-related mission, Éowyn has no one else to share the news of her pregnancy with, aside from her reclusive brother-in-law, Boromir.

Aka, a heartfelt conversation between a brother and sister-in-law who have hardly ever spoke before. Slight Boromir girl-dad mention. Boromir lives au! me writing for platonic rare pairs!

(this is not a ship fic)

Rated: G

Words: 4.2k

read below :)

Typically, winters in Gondor were mild. At times fog would seep through cracks in the walls or press its cheeks against windows, but snow seldom fell, at least in Minas Tirith. This winter was different. Deep snow sought shelter in the streets and flooded stone rooftops of city buildings. There was so much of it that the city had practically shut down, as it was unknown to the people how to deal with such a situation. Every chimney coughed smoke plumes into the sky until the homes were sweltering. Doors and windows remained locked and shut tight to prevent even a faint whisper of cold air from turning cheeks pink. No one entered or exited the great gate of the walled city, as no guards wished to risk frostbite in order to keep watch outdoors.

Only two weeks before the white blanket of winter disrupted the city, Faramir and a group of soldiers were sent to the eastern border, as talks of enemy scouts lurking near Mordor spread to the ears of Aragorn. Unfortunately, the group of men were unable to make it back to the white city when they had planned due to the unforgiving weather. What made it worse was the fact that the winter storm was so harsh, a messenger could not travel with letters even if one wanted to, so no one in Minas Tirith knew when the group of soldiers would return.

Boromir missed his brother, sure, but duty called even in days of loneliness and snow. Besides, they had spent much longer apart before. He kept busy as usual, though he had more recently taken a step back from most of the physical work he used to crave. Most of his duties now took place in the ways of talking politics and writing logs on flimsy parchment for the archives. He enjoyed this work. The stress from his days in the fellowship carried on through the years and led to him slowly receding from his workload. It was better this way, or at least, that’s what he would tell himself. He could never deny that there were times he craved the adrenaline of striking down an enemy with a thick steel blade or riding a steed through the canyons of uninhabited earth, but the pain from his almost final days spread through his veins like poison ivy pinpricks and created somewhat of a recluse out of the once indomitable warrior.

He was shut in his chambers with a quill in hand and half-complete writeup about the record breaking winter when the softest of knocks announced their presence on his door. He almost thought he had imagined it, as it was far too late in the night for any casual visitors. Perhaps Aragorn had come up to try and convince him to rest, as there were times when his concern for Boromir’s wellbeing could not be contained between quiet conversations with Arwen.

“One moment, I am finishing up with some ink.” Boromir called out after a second knock came, a little louder than the first. He was not even able to place his quill back in the ink pot or turn around in his chair before the door had opened. Strange. It was hardly customary for anyone to open the doors of another’s chambers after being told to hold on for a minute. Not even Aragorn would intrude without permission.

“Well, by the gods, would you give me a moment—” He began as he turned around to gather a glimpse of his intruder, only to hold his remaining words back on a leash when he noticed his brother’s wife shutting the door behind her. Not even the faint flicker of too few candles could hide the wetness of her eyes, nor the disquiet expression which accompanied them.

Boromir had all the time in the world to get to know Éowyn, for she had been married to his brother for three years at this point in time, but the two of them remained quite distanced from one another. Boromir had always blamed it on the near twenty year age difference between them; how could he have anything to speak about with such a young woman? What do they have in common, other than Faramir? Though these excuses satisfied Boromir in moments when he would think of her, he still could not ebb away the guilt which gnawed through his bones. He was cold and callous at times, and he knew it was his stubborn pride and recent reclusiveness which stood in the way of giving her the time of day. It was not that he disliked her, not at all. Anyone who made Faramir as happy as he had been in recent years was someone who was automatically respected by Boromir. He simply had never honestly thought of going out of his way to speak to her without the presence of Faramir.

Boromir stared at her awkwardly for a few moments, his eyes not hiding the surprise he was feeling inside. Éowyn, too, was slightly apprehensive, and the silent showdown continued for what felt like hours.

“Come, sit.” Boromir ended the silence with a gentleness that surprised even himself. He had stood up from his chair and allowed her to take his place in it. As she sat and wiped away some of the tear trails from her cheeks, Boromir stood a few feet away and wished he had something to occupy the gawky stillness of his hands. He eventually crossed his arms over his chest. “What upsets you?”

“I apologize for my intrusion, I see you are busy, but there is something which eats away at my mind the longer I keep it to myself, and if not you then I do not know who else I would tell in Faramir’s absence.” She spoke calmly, despite her clear solemnity.

“You needn’t, I would much rather you intrude than keep whatever it is which pains you to yourself.”

The exchange was cautious, each of them very aware of the fact that they had hardly ever spoke one-on-one. Though, Boromir knew something perhaps quite serious was at hand if she had come to him so late at night. He tried his best to rid himself of his typical sternness. If he was honest, he was a bit afraid of what she had to say, it made him anxious in a way he hardly ever was.

Éowyn looked up at him for a moment, and then wiped another tear which had fallen down her pale face. “I am pregnant, I have only just found out this morning, I do not know what to do—”

If Boromir’s eyes were surprised before, he did not even want to know what they looked like now. He couldn’t help but interrupt. “You are pregnant? You are with child?”

A faint nod of her head confirmed the truth of her statement, though a stifled breath confirmed the hidden thoughts which troubled her mind.

“You are upset? Do you not wish to have a child?” Boromir tried to guess the reason for her lack of enthusiasm. He was still shocked by the news, and he did not know what to say which would comfort her. It frustrated him.

“No, no, I do wish for a child, I am happy, truly,” she wiped her cheeks once more and sought out his eyes again, “I am merely frightened. The thought of being a mother— of Faramir being a father, it is what I have dreamt of since our marriage. I have only forgotten that in order for such dreams to occur I must actually carry out a pregnancy, and Faramir is not here, I haven’t the knowledge of when he will return, I miss him, I wish to tell him now, I want him to be here now. I also fear it, his reaction. I know he shall be happy, but I have horrid thoughts that perhaps he shall not be. It is the wrong time; he is so busy. And what if something happens, to the baby, what if I am not ready? I hardly know if I shall even make a good mother. Please, you mustn’t tell Faramir—”

Without a second to think twice, Boromir had lowered himself to his knees in front of the chair that Éowyn was sitting in, and took her hands in his own. He had no idea where this was all coming from; he hadn’t the slightest clue how to comfort an upset individual, especially an individual he knew hardly at all, but it seemed to come naturally. This was the woman his brother loved so dearly, so he knew he would do anything he could to expel her worries. His words flowed quicker than he could think of them.

“I shall not tell him, you needn’t worry,” he spoke, his voice reassuring and calm, “you are afraid to carry the pregnancy? You fear the possible complications, or the reaction of others?”

“All of it.” She whispered tearily in response.

“The potential negative reaction of others should not dictate your happiness. I do not have a single individual in mind who would be anything less than thrilled for you. Faramir— gods, Faramir will be so very pleased, Éowyn. He has dreamt of fatherhood since we were children, and he has never been more certain of any of his desires, aside from his desire for you. You needn’t be afraid that he shall respond indifferently.”

“What if something goes wrong? I hate to be so negative, to allow these horrid thoughts to consume me, but I haven’t any other way of dealing with it. I am so afraid I shall fail.”

“Fail? And how would you fail? If anything happens during this time, to the baby, you will not be at fault. You mustn’t think like this, dear girl. The snow is heavy, it is a burden at this time, but Faramir shall return the moment the sun carries it all away. What in your mind tells you that you are not ready?”

Éowyn composes herself slightly. She slips a hand away from Boromir’s comforting grasp to wipe a final tear from her cheek before slipping it back to his hold. “I do not know. I cannot translate my thoughts into words, perhaps it is a doubt all women feel. I fear it is the wrong time. Faramir is whisked away so very often, I feel as though he would prefer for his work to die down before we have a child.”

“Forgive me, for perhaps I will misspeak, but is the time ever right for a child? If the time truly was so wrong, I do not believe you would be pregnant at all. I do not think there is ever a right, nor ever a wrong time to have a child.”

“Is it truly such a good thing?”

Boromir was surprised at the question. He squeezed her hands just slightly, and neither were certain if it was out of comfort or because the chilling breeze of a winters night had found its way into the room. “Are you happy, Éowyn? Truly, do you feel glad about this?” He asked with such vulnerable gentleness that it struck down all her built-up indifference towards his usual harsh exterior.

“Yes, I am happy. I have wished for this day to come for longer than I remember.”

“Then let us be happy, dear girl. I am so pleased— so very pleased for you. Your child is perhaps the most fortunate of all children in Middle-Earth. What wonderful parents you and Faramir shall be. A summer baby, it is just what we need in this city, a beautiful summer baby. Do not doubt your ability to be a good mother, I cannot name one woman I know who would make a more loving mother than the woman who sits in front of me now. Please do not worry. Faramir shall arrive as soon as the snow gives us peace, and Aragorn will ease him of his duties once he is aware of the news. I will make sure of it.”

Éowyn smiled gratefully. She did not know what had caused Boromir to become so gentle and ruminative, but it was a side of her husband’s brother she did not know even existed. There were many times she wished to be closer with the man, for Faramir’s sake, but he was so closed off that it was near impossible. Even she had noticed in recent years how much Boromir shut himself away in his quarters. He only spoke to Aragorn and Faramir and perhaps a few noble officials he needed to discuss work-related things with, but sometimes even Faramir would go a day or two without even a glimpse of his older brother.

She knew she was somewhat of an outsider to his struggles. Sure, she knew every member of the fellowship Boromir was once a part of, and she knew her fair share of stories from their journey, but she did not travel with them from the beginning. Boromir had never come to Edoras back when Sauron was festering the mind of Frodo. He was thought dead, even by Aragorn himself, and he surprised the entire city when he showed up at the gates one morning after the ring was destroyed. Éowyn could still remember the brief glimpse she got of Boromir when he was carried in a rush through the doors of the citadel towards the house of healing. She could still remember the disbelief of Faramir, who had thought that his brother had died, who had seen Boromir near death with his own eyes, who had rushed by her to get to Boromir’s bedside as quickly as his feet could take him. Oh, the grief her husband had gone through after Boromir’s return. Éowyn would spend countless nights awake with Faramir and listen to him blame himself for all of it. Countless times Faramir would choke up over the fact that he did not take Boromir out of the small boat when it drifted by him, how he did not even check for his heartbeat, how he could not even look at him a second time.

The guilt of Faramir grew larger once Boromir began to seclude himself. Éowyn heard it all; she had comforted her husband when he mourned the liveliness Boromir once exhibited. His trauma from the days of the fellowship had consumed him even more than the ring once did, yet he did not share these thoughts with anyone. Instead, he kept to himself. This was the only way Éowyn knew Boromir, so at times it was difficult to imagine that he was once any different. Boromir, the brooding hermit of a man was once a proud and esteemed warrior? She could only pretend to empathize with Faramir when he grieved a man she could not believe existed.

When she found out about her pregnancy, Éowyn had immediately felt isolation. Her husband was gone and was forced to stay away due to the drastic severity of the weather. All she wanted to do was to go to him and share the news, but she couldn’t. At first, she thought about going to Arwen. Who better to tell about a pregnancy than another woman? And not just another woman, but a mother? The more certainty she felt about telling Arwen the news, the more she began to simultaneously doubt it. Éowyn wanted her husband, the only person in the world whose reaction to her pregnancy she cared about. Without his presence, who could she go to that knew Faramir just as much, if not more than herself? Of course his own brother. Perhaps it was a bit of a whirlwind of emotions and desperation which led her to his chambers in the pit of a late night, but Boromir felt like the only person she could tell. It was true that the two of them only exchanged words when Faramir was around, and even those words were brief, but she could not imagine anyone else hearing the news in place of Faramir. Besides, this was her brother in law, family through marriage, he would be the uncle of her child.

“Your words are appreciated, more than I can say. I am sorry again to intrude; I could not keep it to myself. I felt such a strong pull which led me here this night.” Éowyn spoke softly with a warm smile. Only their voices broke the silence of the candlelit room; not even the strong winter breeze outside interrupted their murmurs.

“You needn’t apologize, not anymore, you did not need to even the first time you did. You are forgiven, if the words soothe you, but I am not angry. How could I be? This is such a joy, dear sister. I shall not be able to rest this night, for my excitement is too great.” Boromir smiled genuinely and largely. He moved a hand from her own and hovered it over her stomach, before looking up at her, as if for permission. The hesitancy in his motions was endearing, she thought.

With the nod of her head, Boromir carefully placed his hand on her stomach. He was not sure what he was expecting, of course the baby was not grown enough to kick or prove its presence, but even with the whisper of his hand against the fabric of her gown, Boromir knew it was true. He couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“You laugh?” Éowyn said, amused.

“Aye, I laugh, though not with mockery. Éowyn, I truly am so pleased for you. I can hardly believe it. I have imagined the day Faramir would father my niece or nephew since we were children. And you— he loves you so greatly that I cannot even compare it to anything else, for it would outweigh it so disproportionately.” Boromir placed his other hand on her stomach as if in place of the hand which could not be there, Faramirs. He hoped that somehow and some way, his brother could feel it in his palm. “When will you tell your brother?”

“I do not know, I have not thought of it just yet. Not until Faramir knows. I do not want anyone else aside from you to know of this until Faramir is back home. I am unsure whether I will send a letter to Éomer and Lothíriel, or if I shall convince Faramir to come with me to see them personally and share the news.” Éowyn answered, her hand resting atop one of Boromir’s own on her stomach.

“They will be so happy for you. A summer baby, I cannot believe it.”

“Yes, I myself can hardly believe it.”

“A niece or nephew shall I have, dear sister?” Boromir teased gingerly.

“I do not know, I cannot say I would prefer one over the other. What would you choose, if you were able?” Éowyn responded with equal lightness. She no longer felt awkward around him, nor he around her, and her sadness dissipated completely.

“If I am honest, I have always wished for a daughter. So forgive me, for I fear I would favour the idea of a niece.” Boromir hesitantly explained, a gentle smile still on his lips as he looked back up at her. His hands still held her stomach like they were carrying the most precious thing. In a way, they were, for the child was not even near ready for birth and yet Boromir already adored it.

“A daughter? Is that so? I did not know you harboured such a desire.” Éowyn spoke with a curious intrigue. She had never pictured Boromir as a father, but she had also never really pictured him as anything at all, as dreadful as that truth was. She had no way of imagining him as anything other than an isolated man.

“Aye. I have imagined it since I was a young boy, I always pictured walking the white streets with a little girl of my own upon my shoulders like a young rider on a pony. I had imagined names, I dreamt of her face, I suppose I wished for a daughter even more than I wished for a wife.”

“Yet you have not had one? You would be such a wonderful father. Will you ever, do you imagine?” Éowyn asked. It was in no way judgemental or laced with mockery, she truly just wanted to know. It was so interesting seeing Boromir like this, so human.

“I fear those days are long behind me now. I am old, a man in his mid forties does not get married or have children. A man my age is supposed to have those things already, so I suppose it was not meant for me.” He didn’t know why he was being so vulnerable with her, maybe it was because she was vulnerable first, or perhaps it was because although unbeknownst to him in the current moment, he really did trust her.

“There is no right or wrong time to have a child. Was it not you who spoke those words to me only minutes ago?” She smiled, rubbing his knuckles in the same way Faramir would rub hers when she was deep in thought.

Boromir chuckled and shook his head. “I see Faramir has taught you to rebuttal with my own past words.”

“Faramir has taught me a good deal of things, yes.”

“As you have taught him also.”

“And what have I taught my ever knowing husband?” Éowyn chuckled back. Her face was now completely free from the tears that had earlier interrupted its smoothness, and her usual resting smile reclaimed its place.

“Strength, wisdom, pride, dear sister what haven’t you taught him? I have not ever seen my young brother so resilient and fearless since you have blessed this kingdom with your union. He did not ever know our mother, and our father failed to take her place in our childhood. He has needed a beautiful, brilliant woman like you in his life since he was a boy.”

Éowyn could only smile at this, for she feared words may fail to express the gratitude she felt for his words. A soft yawn made its way through her lips and reminded the two how late it was.

“You should be resting; it is not right to remain awake so late in the night.” Boromir spoke again.

“You also remain awake. If I am to rest, I must also know that you shall too.”

Boromir huffed out a breath and smiled largely at her subtle stubbornness. She was strong willed, that was certain. He stood up from his kneeling position on the ground with a grunt. Éowyn arose from the chair, though much more gracefully.

“I will rest. I am happy for you, dear girl, I cannot express it enough. Faramir will be so very pleased.”

“Thank you, Boromir. I do hope we shall all be seeing more of you soon. Your presence is greatly missed in the citadel, especially by Faramir.” Éowyn spoke tentatively. She did not know if this was pushing her luck too far. She already had somehow gotten him to open up just a little bit for the first time, and she immediately felt selfish for pressing on a matter that was obviously distressing for him. She nearly backtracked on her words, but his calm voice extinguished the flames of her momentary regret.

“For you, for Faramir, for your sweet child, I shall be ever present. I would not miss a moment of their life for the world. It is a promise, my sister,” He placed a soft kiss to the top of her head, “now off to your chambers, Faramir would never forgive me if he knew I allowed you to stay awake this late in the evening. This news shall stay between us until you say otherwise, I mean my words. You are a perfect mother, so there shall be no more doubts lingering in your mind. Goodnight, Éowyn.”

With the return of a “goodnight” from her, she had exited Boromir’s chambers and left him on his lonesome once again.

He shed his daywear and changed into comfortable nightclothes before moving to his bed. The room was frigid, as he did not have the fireplace lit, and the only warmth which encompassed the space was from the weak flicker of a few candles he had lit on his worktable. Despite the cold, Boromir did not move from where he was laying. His mind flurried with thoughts like the snow in the night sky. He would be an uncle; his brother would be a father. There was a small part of him which was envious, and he hated it, but he couldn’t help it. For so many years he dreamt of being a father, yet he feared now it was too late. He knew, however, that this child of Éowyn and Faramir would be loved as if it were his own. Enough time had been spent locked away in his chambers as a way of coping with the trauma of his past, a new time was now beckoning him to rejoin the world.

(thank you slime for beta reading!)

#lord of the rings #boromir #eowyn #faramir #lotr #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings fanfiction #boromir fanfiction #boromir girl dad #boromir supportive brother!

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gloomwitchwrites · 7 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.”

taglist:

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

@singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @glitterypirateduck @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @ninman82 @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@weasleytwins-41 @thewulf @firelightinferno @protosslady @fstwdsstuffandthaaangs

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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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storiesaplenty · 5 months ago

Note

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 .

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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lathalea · 2 years ago

Text

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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#boromir #boromir x oc #boromir x reader #lotr #the lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #fanfic #boromir fanfiction #fix it

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mooflat · 1 month ago

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Are there reverse Girl Falls Into Middle Earth fics? Like, a member of the Fellowship falls into the modern world? I want to read about Boromir being introduced to a hot shower.

#lotr #lord of the rings #boromir #lotr fanfic #boromir fanfiction #I JUST THINK IT WOULD BE GREAT

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esta-elavaris · 7 months ago

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I have half a mind to make this a cute little miniseries but I don't know whether I will or not.

Modern AU meet cute -- originally for flufftober, before I decided I would not be doing flufftober. I hope you guys enjoy, just a bit of cute fluffiness for this far too warm Wednesday evening.

I'll post it on AO3 eventually, but for now it's just here.

Main, tenth walker, modern girl in Middle-earth fic of these two can be found here 💜

Dividers by cafekitsune

Boromir/Sybil [Boromir/OC] ~ 2,880 words

Sybil was having what was quite possibly the worst day of her entire year.

Striding through Gondor’s vast parkland, she turned her head this way and that, tears stinging her eyes and a lump lodging itself in her throat.

“Sarah? Sarah! Oh come on, damn you – Sarah?!”

Nothing. No response, no glimpse of ruddy red between the trees, nothing. What was she going to do? What could she do? Going home alone wasn’t an option, but how much longer should she search? When did it become a matter of informing authorities? Did one even inform authorities, in circumstances such as this?

…Was she hurt? Had she been taken?

“Sarah? Sarah!”

She was so concerned with her search that she didn’t bother looking where she was going, and she realised the stupidity in that only when she tripped.

Tumbling into the grass, she managed to roll as she did, taking the brunt of the impact to her hip rather than her tailbone. She was apologising before she’d even registered the pain.

“I am so sorry!” she exclaimed to the owner of the slack-clad legs she’d tripped over.

A businessman, judging by his dress, reclined on the grass, the remnants of his lunch gathered in a paper bag at his side. He was already sitting up, caught between grabbing at her to make sure she was already and the knowledge that laying hands on unknown women was not a welcome thing.

She tried to right what she’d knocked over – a paper coffee cup, which she realised had thankfully already been empty – and then accepted his help to rise, which he offered as he did so, too. Her heart thudded in her chest as she already wondered how quickly she could leave without being rude, more concerned with her search than with this stranger who was making enquiries as to her wellbeing that she only half listened to.

Then, though, she registered who she was looking at. Boromir. Lord Boromir. The Steward’s son.

Her panic – it had to be the only reason she hadn’t recognised him from the start. How many times had his face been flashed across the television screen in her home growing up, usually accompanied by her parents shaking their heads? When she was very young, the news pieces usually despaired at his teenage antics, often debating (just a touch too gleefully) whether any typical youthful foolishness was actually an indicator of a deeper, more troubling character flaw. But as he aged into young adulthood, and Sybil grew old enough to heed the goings-on of Gondor at all, those stories shifted, instead hailing him as the people’s prince – despite the fact that he technically wasn’t one – and singing of his wartime achievements.

These days, the press took on a decidedly different turn, focusing instead on when he would finally marry. And, more importantly, whom.

Naturally, Sybil found the whole bloody thing ridiculous. Not only that, but also intrusive to any unlucky enough to be involved, and – most of all – entirely irrelevant to her life. So she paid it little mind. But now he was smiling at her, he was handsome, and she was blushing.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? I wasn’t looking, it was stupid of me – I’m so-”

“I’m uninjured,” he cut in with a warm laugh. “Truth be told, I’ve been debating on whether to offer you my assistance. You’ve lost your friend?”

If it was a friend she’d lost track of, she wouldn’t be wandering the park on the brink of tears. She wasn’t quite that pathetic just yet.

“Sort of,” she offered an embarrassed smile. “A four-legged one.”

Mostly, she just wanted to end this encounter with as much dignity and speed as humanly possible so she could get back to her search without worrying about creating a diplomatic incident.

“A dog?” he understood her meaning easily. “You…you named your dog Sarah?”

Sybil met his eye, then quickly looked away, and finally looked at him again, knowing what she had to do but doubting she had the strength.

“It’s…it’s a stupid joke.”

“Now you must tell me,” amusement coloured his tone.

“Look, I really need to-”

“The sooner you tell me, the sooner you will secure my aid. I’ve quite a lot of confidence that I can help you.”

Quietly, Sybil muttered the dog’s full name. He didn’t catch it.

“Pardon?”

“Sarah Jessica Barker,” she repeated.

There was no way he wouldn’t understand the reference. Sex and the White City had been filmed here in Gondor, after all, continuing to shut down the fancier levels of Minas Tirith whenever an additional movie or season was dredged back up.

Lord Boromir’s lips stretched into a wide grin, his chest stuttering a little as he swallowed down a laugh, before he cast his eyes out into the distance, visibly trying to school himself back into seriousness. Great. Being laughed at by one of the loftiest men in the land in this moment, of all moments, was packing salt into a wound that still bled – and whatever momentary bedazzlement had struck her upon coming face to face to him quickly faded into annoyance, her lips thinning and nostrils flaring.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said flatly.

She spun on her heel but his voice stopped her.

“Wait – wait. Miss! I’m sorry,” he held out a hand as if to snatch at her wrist, before he seemed to remember that grabbing strange women in parks wasn’t particularly well-received in civilised society. “Please. Allow me to help you. Truly, I didn’t mean to laugh.”

He was so contrite, and so damn earnest, that she couldn’t continue to be annoyed. Not outwardly, at least. And whatever ire still had her chest feeling tight was more panic masquerading as anger than anything else – the latter feeling somehow more palatable to feel.

“Fine, but unless you’ve seen her, I’m really not sure how you can help.”

“What does she look like?”

So sincere was his contrition that any who saw them without knowing who they were might think him her assistance, standing and regarding her solemnly, his hands behind his back as he waited, prepared for any request she might have. And then there were his eyes. So warm, and shining with true concern. It was enough to do away with the last of her annoyance.

“Tall, blonde, with a fondness for high heels,” her attempt at a joke was weak, but it earned her a grin, and he at least stopped looking so damn guilty. “She’s…she’s a spaniel. A red spaniel. She doesn’t bother much with strangers, so she wouldn’t have come up to you. I’m sure you would have missed her, if you weren’t specifically looking for her.”

“Perhaps, but hope is not lost. Come – please.”

And follow she did. Not because she ascribed to the belief that his station gave him mystical powers of capability, but just for sheer lack of anything else to do. What was the alternative? Refuse, and continue to wander, her calls for Sarah going ignored? And he seemed pretty sure of himself, at least. That gave him more going for him than she had for herself.

Boromir led the way to the pond that the park boasted – a manmade feature in a rough oval shape that curled in on itself, spanning almost the full width of the park, with a bridge stretching over it that was a very popular scenic spot for proposals.

“Ah,” he stared at the water. “It’s just as I thought.”

Still addled by panic, it took her a second to realise what he was talking about, beyond a look that confirmed that her dog was not, in fact, lurking beneath the surface. The emerald green algae that coated the surface of the water by the stony shore was disturbed, broken up here where it was otherwise a thick undisturbed carpet all the way to the left and right.

It was with a heavy sigh that he spoke next.

“The ducks like to gather on a hidden ledge beneath the bridge there,” he explained. “And the dogs like to bother the ducks.”

As he talked, he stood on one foot, lifted the other with not even the slightest wobble, and began to untie his shiny black leather shoe. He was moving onto the second one by the time she broke through her shock.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned at her, the impact annoyingly devastating.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Something ridiculous – you can’t go in there.”

“I must reunite you with your, forgive me, ridiculously named hound. The ends justify the means.”

“If she really did swim under there, she can swim back,” she protested.

Apparently willing to entertain her theory, but visibly unconvinced by it, he gestured at her as if to say by all means. Then he stood, rubbing at the back of his neck as she called out to her hound. The ledge that he’d spoken of was only barely visible from where they stood, but at her call, a black nose poked around the corner of the underside of the bridge, followed by fur that usually glowed a beautiful golden red on sunny days like this, but was now a sodden algae-ridden ruddy mess.

"Sarah!" she called, hunkering down and holding out her arms. “Sarah, come here!”

The dog panted, and she might’ve wagged her tail, but otherwise she regarded the water, and then Sybil, as if she was asking far too much. As if she hadn’t just been in that very water.

“Oh, for the love of…”

With a groan, she toed off one trainer, and then the other. She wasn’t wearing white today, at least that was something – nor anything particularly nice. Just workout leggings and a long, baggy tank top reserved for dog walking and generally not being seen by anybody of consequence. So much for that.

“What are you doing?” Boromir echoed her earlier words, placing himself between her and the pond.

“I’m getting my dog.”

“I’ll do it,” he laughed as if her idea was ridiculous.

“She’s my dog.”

“It’s my father’s pond,” he countered easily. “Technically speaking. And I was the one who presided over its opening ceremony, so I suppose it’s also part mine.”

“You can’t-”

“I insist! I can’t have you stealing my thunder when I have an opportunity for heroics.”

Those brilliant, handsome grins of his could easily have her giving him the damn dog if he kept it up. As he made his insistences, he took the cufflinks from his cuffs, handing them to her for safekeeping before he began to roll up his shirtsleeves. Too stunned for words, she may have ended up staring at his forearms…and he may have caught her. The grin on his face became just a touch more boyish for it.

“Are you sure?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun as she squinted up at him.

“I insist,” he repeated. “On one condition.”

“Oh?”

“Tell me your name.”

It beggared belief. How swiftly, without being able to even pinpoint when it had happened, the atmosphere between them felt charged, somehow, now that she wasn’t driven by panic. When he saw how his condition surprised her, he looked just a little too smug, so Sybil gave herself a shake, cleared her throat, and breathed a laugh.

“Well?” he prompted, removing his socks next.

“You haven’t held up your end of the deal yet.”

She almost regretted her words when he stepped into the pond. Gritting his teeth, he hissed sharply at the cold, then looked at her as if to make sure she was still watching. When he found that she was – little could persuade her to look away – he schooled his features back into an amused sort of determination, his brow set with a smirk tugging at his lips.

Sarah watched the spectacle with curiosity.

As he waded deeper into the pond, Sybil couldn’t help but be relieved that he’d volunteered himself for the task. The water, when it just reached his hips, would’ve already been well up to her waist.

“She doesn’t bite, does she?” he called back towards the shore.

“No. I’m more worried about her making a break for it.”

If she decided she’d rather not be captured by the strange man, she could easily jump back in and swim further up the shore. All right, if she did that, Sybil could run and try to beat her to whatever patch of land she emerged at, but it would complicate matters. Especially if the dog decided this was a very fun game to play.

“I’ll catch her, if she does,” he replied, unfazed. “I’m a fair swimmer.”

Yes. She’d heard that particular tale. Although she’d never be so insensitive as to bring it up. Although the knowledge of what he’d seen, fought, and lived through, did make the sight of him wading through a pond to retrieve her dog all the more surreal.

“Faster than a dog?” she asked doubtfully.

“My lady, if you keep doubting me, I shall have no choice but to take it personally,” he levelled her with a boyish grin over his shoulder before he turned back to the pup.

She was glad for his divided attention, for it would hopefully mean he’d miss how she blushed.

Boromir continued wading towards the dog, her brown eyes fixed on him with a sort of interest Sybil knew well enough to recognise as mischief, but even still hoped she might be mistaken. It was all for naught, though. Once Boromir was just out of arm’s reach, she yapped, and then threw herself into the water, paddling happily past him and towards the shore. Once out of the water, she shook herself off with ease, and then trotted to Sybil, sopping tail throwing algae with each wag.

Yes, there would be absolutely no living this down.

Lifting the dog into her arms just for something to occupy her hands with, she slotted the lead back onto her collar, and then watched in mortification as Boromir waded his way back out of the water. They’d drawn rather a crowd.

“I am so, so sorry,” she said when he drew near, trailing water in his wake.

His white shirt was now a very strange brown-ish green, clinging to his abdomen in a way that was determined to draw the eye.

“Don’t be,” he insisted, “I mean it. A more novel lunch I’ve never had.”

Wriggling in her grasp, Sarah panted, writhing and trying to struggle in the direction of her would-be rescuer. Unhesitating, Boromir extended his arms, looking to her for permission. When Sybil granted it, he accepted the dog with warm laughter, keeping her easily in his grasp despite how she jolted, holding her just far enough away that her attempts to lick his nose would prove fruitless.

"Hello, Sarah," he greeted, eyed Sybil warmly for a few moments, and then returned is attention to the pup. “Your mother is very pretty when she’s embarrassed, did you know that?”

“Technically, I’m her aunt. She was my sister’s before she was mine.”

“I think I shall make it my mission to have her grow more comfortable with compliments, too,” he commented idly, holding the dog in one strong arm so he could scratch behind her ears with the other hand. “What do you think?”

He spoke to the dog but he looked to her, his face more tentative than his words, as if worried he was making her uncomfortable. Sybil acted on impulse. Later, she’d blame it on the sun beating down on them, the collective of people who were pretending (poorly) not to watch, and the sheer amount of genuine kindness in his smile.

“I…live nearby. And I have a tumble dryer, clothes that may just fit you, and a collection of coffee options that beggars belief. If any of that would do as thanks.”

“Ah, but you have not yet offered the thanks I am truly interested in,” he said – and then balked, appearing to realise how suggestive his words sounded, and quickly added. “Your name.”

She wasn’t the only one, she thought, who was pretty when she blushed. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she stifled a smile at how he appeared to be in no rush at all to return her dog – nor was Sarah in any rush to be unhanded.

“Sybil,” she answered finally. “My name is Sybil.”

Extended a hand, her cheeks blazed when he accepted it and then lifted her knuckles to his lips. He had to bend a little at the waist to avoid yanking her arm up at an uncomfortable angle, such was the height difference between them – and his beard tickled her skin when he kissed her hand.

“Sybil,” he repeated with a smile when he’d released her hand, “it suits you. Now, tell me more about this coffee collection.”

She took up his shoes, seeing as he was in no hurry to release the dog, and he nodded his thanks before nodding that she should lead the way out of the park. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she didn’t owe Sarah a treat or two after all.

#boromir/sybil #boromir x oc #boromir/oc #boromir fanfiction #modern au #lotr fanfiction #fluff #modern!boromir

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