#boromir lived

[janeeyreofmanderley]

One of my favourite Boromir lives scenarios is him obliviously happily tagging along during the Faramir Eowyn romance in the houses of healing!

As new Steward at a time of crisis he would be busy, but still would seize every chance he gets to check in on his little brother. So he will drop by and find him reading aloud to Eowyn and he is just like „ Oh nice he found a friend“, because after all Faramir is his little brother which means part of Boromir relies on his expertise and wisdom to guide him but another part is convinced that Faramir is eternally 12 years olds and prefers fire crackers to girls.

And he just doesn’t get the hint.

He loves hanging out with both but while Ioreth has already picked names for Eowyn‘s and Faramir’s first 8 children, Boromir will happily barge in on both of them sitting close on a bench and squeeze in the middle.

Eowyn thinks it’s hilarious.

Faramir thinks he should be more annoyed but realises after all that happened he can’t be and just looks forward to the moment he can tell a totally unsuspecting Boromir he’ll get a sister in law.

[howling-medic]

Uncle Boromir

Summary: Not even in his wildest dreams did Boromir dare dream he could have a day like this. No, he didn't dare dream of a future like this, but he meant to make the most of each one.

TW: None

Rating: Gen

Pairings: Aragorn x Arwen, Faramir x Éowyn, Pippin x Diamond

Word Count: 1.5K

Uncle Boromir

Boromir sat beside Faramir and Aragorn. It was a rare occasion the three rulers could be in the same place. Between the restoration of Arnor and Ithilien, their duties spread them to the wind more often than not; however, for this day, they could sit in peace. Even rarer still was Merry and Pippin being in the same place as them. Much like the first time Boromir met Aragorn and the hobbits in Rivendell, it was wholly unplanned. A meeting of chance, which made it all the more precious.

The intervening years showed on the faces of all present. A few more gray hairs dappled Aragorn’s hair. Faramir, while still lean, had lost the last of the wiriness from his youth. Wrinkles had begun to gather on Boromir’s face, and his left shoulder never quite healed correctly. However, the once occasional ache reminding him of that fateful day at Amon Hen now plagued him most mornings - and any time the weather changed quickly. Despite it all, he still trained as often as his body would allow. A mere ten years would not tie the Captain of the White Tower to a desk - even if his title of Steward meant he ought to be far more than he permitted himself to be. No, he found as much time to train with his troops as he could. He still needed to be in peak form, but not for battle. At least not only for battle. There were other things that demanded Boromir, Steward of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower be fit as ever, and they had nothing to do with his titles or combat.

But today? Today there would be no training. Sitting beside his brother and Aragorn, he revelled in the life they had built together over the past decade. The life none of them dared hope they could have. In the simple fact that they had any life at all. The same soft smile pulled at all three of their lips while they each took in a different part of the scene before them. 

Faramir’s gaze rested upon Éowyn, who was lounging against a tree reading the latest section of Merry’s book on Herb Lore. Her eyes flitted across the page, and she would scribble the odd note in the margins. His heart swelled at the love she held for the hobbit. The kindred spirits - doubted and dismissed and then unexpected heroes. Brilliant minds and fierce hearted. There were still days his heart ached for the way both had been doubted, for how men still doubted them on occasion. 

Aragorn watched Arwen doting on the youngest of their children. The little ones had always clung to her most of all, and she seemed to relish it. Even the children of her friends flocked to her. Her tales captivated them, and there seemed no end to them. Today, their one year old, however, looked far more fixated on her hair than any tale she may have been telling. The soft wind rustling the leaves above Éowyn carried her laughter up to the wall upon which the three men sat. Below them, she disentangled her youngest daughter’s hand from her long hair. Gilraen reached in vain for her mother’s hair, giggling all the while. Arwen tapped her daughter’s nose and produced a small toy before beginning another story. Gilraen settled once again. 

Boromir tracked the movements of the older children sparring with each other and the hobbits. Elboron faced off against the younger Faramir, and he held his own, but the young hobbit had his father’s rather unorthodox fighting style that made Pippin a formidable opponent for most men twice his size. Elboron was evenly matched against Faramir despite the edge his age and size afforded him.

 Eldarion stood opposite his younger sister and Merry’s son, and he was trying desperately to get them to pay attention to his instructions. Unfortunately, they were far more content to whack each other with the wooden swords than to mind Eldarion. At ten, he was the eldest of all the children, and he was already quite a fighter. He approached much of life with a quiet seriousness, and his sword training was no different. He excelled at it, as he did with nearly all his studies. He had the keen mind of both his parents and his father’s gift for swordplay. His young eyes held the same power as Aragorn’s, and where Arwen’s features had softened the sharp edges of his face, the grim set of his jaw when vexed was a replica of his father’s. Boromir could easily see the future High King of Gondor in the boy when he bore this expression. However, Edlarion’s two wayward pupils seemed immune to it - though it had cowed many soldiers and political foes on his father’s face. 

 In the blink of an eye, the scene below him devolved into chaos. The two uncooperative students of Eldarion turned their conflict into an alliance and changed their target with a shrill battle cry. Eldarion blinked in surprise before he took a defensive stance, but mischief sparked in his eyes. It was a spark Boromir knew well on Aragorn’s face. It gave both father and son a striking resemblance to a cat stalking their prey. In a council meeting, it spelled danger for whomever Aragorn’s target was. When it appeared on either father or son in moments of play, it meant the game was on now. For several moments Eldarion feigned a valiant fight. He gave a fantastic performance of attempting to fend off the two younger children. He let them land a few blows to his torso before throwing himself onto his back in defeat with a great cry. 

Boromir barked out a laugh and jumped from his seat. “For Eldarion!” he yelled before charging into the scrum. The old warrior launched himself into the pile and attacked the sides of the two battering Eldarion with their wooden swords, which was an effective means to disarm them and reduce them to squeals and laughter; however, within moments, the strategy backfired. In the silent language children possess, the three children allied themselves, and Eldarion turned on his savior with his former assailants. Three sets of hands mercilessly attacked Boromir’s sides. In full melodramatic fashion, he flung himself onto his back, but his slightly hysterical laughter and writhing was anything but dramatics. Every time he would begin to catch his breath, those small, searching fingers seemed to find another spot that would pull another peel of laughter from him. 

It took no more than two minutes before Merry and Pippin abandoned their coaching and refereeing session with Elboron and Faramir to come to the aid of their friend. And Elboron was right behind them. In no less than five minutes, there was a mess of men and children thrashing about the dirt, dirtying their clothes, and laughing hysterically. It took no more than another few minutes before the adults were calling for a truce and surrendering to their attackers, breathless and exhausted. 

As the cries and laughter died down, Boromir caught the sound of Aragorn and Faramir laughing at their plight, and then he caught sight of Éowyn and Arwen who were red faced with their own laughter. He couldn’t find it within himself to be upset by it, however, when a worn out Faramir and Elboron tucked themselves into his side. He wrapped his arms around them and breathed out a contented sigh. A quiet voice roused him from his descent into reverie. “Uncle Boromir, can you help me with my fighting later? Maybe after lunch?” 

The sun was unexpectedly high, Boromir noted, and his stomach rumbled quietly. He catalogued the places he was already going to be sore tomorrow from the skirmish and diving headlong onto the ground. “Of course I can Elboron. Faramir, do you want to join us? I think, even as old as I am, I can take the both of you on.”

The two boys’ eyes flashed with the challenge thrown down - tired as they may be. Faramir looked positively indignant at the idea that they could be bested. “I don’t think you can beat us both! We won this fight!”

“That is true…perhaps you are correct, but I suppose we must see after lunch. Speaking of, come, let us find out how long til we are to eat. I don’t know about you two, but that battle made me quite hungry.”

Elboron and Faramir sprung from the ground, both managing to drive at least one limb into his side. Oh yes, Boromir would be sore tomorrow. Sore, and utterly glad for it. Glad for the life he built despite all the bloodshed and tragedy it took to get here. He had his family and a realm finally at peace. If that meant his muscles would ache after wrestling with the kids or sparring for too many rounds with his troops as though he was still the soldier of his youth, then that was a price he would happily pay because he was alive safe at last. Alive and had no need to fight to keep this miracle safe anymore; sore with no blood shed. He could finally enjoy all he fought to secure. And enjoy it he would. Every minute of it.

A/N: @eliosberry, here's the promised Uncle Boromir content. Sorry it took so long!

[emilybeemartin]

Every time I tried to write today my phone would buzz with a new message about a colleague who's been indiscriminately fired, so here's some junk food of Boromir re-entering Minas Tirith after the battle of the Black Gate

Based on this image

Which I saved as "draw the ponytail.jpg" and the image above as "happy ponytail.jpg"

[byrobird]

My toxic tolkien trait is to draw boromir as if he survived and lived through all the Lotr events

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

[ardate]

Every Boromir hater makes my enormous love for him grow stronger. Sorry you couldn't understand him, I get him tho and we're holding hands and the whole of Gondor is laughing at you

[backhurtyy]

so crazy how fellowship just ends with boromir blowing the horn of gondor and we don’t find out what else happens. he’s definitely alive though.

[asssdirector]

shake off all of your shame

[sotwk]

Nowhere in canon is Boromir ever described as being particularly graceful or light on his feet, but istg every. time. I watch a scene of a dashing yet besotted gentleman sweeping around a ballroom floor with his partner, Boromir x Reader images and ideas come screaming for attention.

Not the graceful Elves or the jig-lovin' Dwarves. Boromir. The stern Man of Gondor. Boromir is the dancer, my brain has decided.

I've already written one into fruition (Breathe), and by Eru, there will probably be more. Ride that Dance of Romance trope to death, baby.

I apologize in advance but not really.

[x-wynona]

LOTR in a modern world headcanons? I think yes.

I did this on one of my old accounts that i ended up deleting for some reason, i don’t remember, but here. Back on my Lord Of The Rings BS, let’s gooooo. This’ll be the fellowship with everyone intact, no one is dead.

As always requests are open and let me know if you want more!

LOTR x GN! Reader, general headcanons for if you had to take care of them today, in 2023. Enjoy!

The ring most likely has no power in this dimension, so yay Frodo is free from torment!

Sam loves watching cooking, gardening and home renovation shows, and he gets very invested in the former two. You learn a lot you didn’t really need to know from his commentary

Once Pippin learns about pyjamas and fuzzy slippers he never goes back, you literally cannot get him out of them

Boromir and Aragorn, being human and coincidentally two of the most responsible members of the fellowship, are the easiest to take in public to the grocery store and such.

You can pass off the hobbits (if they cover their ears with their hair) as children, and Gimli is your friend with dwarfism.

Gandalf you can pass off as your grandfather, and Legolas looks pretty normal if you cover his ears.

Pippin is the type to bounce in his seat in the car and ask “Are we there yet?!” every 5 minutes

Frodo really likes to draw, especially when there’s so many cool places and movies to draw inspiration from.

Movie nights? No horrors. The hobbits are terrified by ‘em.

Movie nights are literally so difficult because they all have such different tastes

Merry really likes James Bond movies.

Pippin is obsessed with nail polish when you introduce him to it. Boromir gets his repainted every time the polish come off. His nails need serious help after a while

Pippin and Merry often start pillow fights, and drag everyone else into it

If you have space for a garden or plants in your home, Sam is on it. He finds it calming, so now you have some home grown plants :)

Taking the hobbits in public? Bad idea. You can trust Frodo and Sam, but Merry inevitably drags Pippin off to do something dumb and possibly dangerous.

Gandalf has an old man rocker. There is no discussion.

The hobbits do the classic “getting one sibling to ask for fast food because whoever’s in charge will say yes”, they get Frodo to do this because he has the best puppy dog face and he’s unsure about asking for things normally.

Pippin and Merry cannot handle too much caffeine or sugar or they go crazy

You thought Legolas’ hair was good before? He steals your hair care products and his hair is literally perfect.

(He’s also willing to do skincare with you, not that his face needs it. Again, flawless)

Game nights are so chaotic. You can’t play a lot of games since they don’t know what many things from this world are, so games like Trivia and Charades are off the table

Gimli and Legolas verse each other in video games, often enough it ends with Legolas winning and Gimli rage quitting

Aragorn is so responsible he’s literally the perfect man to do anything with, and he can hold the fort down if you need to leave

Pippin is so clingy, he trails you wherever you go and asks you random questions but it’s adorable

Boromir insists on carrying your stuff, bags of groceries, all that

Frodo often goes to the library to find new books to read, with you of course

There’s a whole debate on whether 3D or 2D animation is better, i would not get involved if i were you.

Pippin and Merry are also avid fans of quoting their favourite movies, once they see them

Legolas and Frodo are the best listeners, they will just sit there and not judge or try to give you advice they just. sit there. like the perfect men they are.

Legolas would have a meme for everything. Like any situation. You text him like “PIPPIN FELL DOWN SOME WELL WE DON’T EVEN HAVE A WELL HELP” and he just has a meme that fits the situation perfectly.

Frodo and Legolas would watch Avatar: The Last Airbender together because it’s their favourite show. Aragorn jumps in also.

Those three are also avid tea drinkers.

Boromir likes Game Of Thrones. I don’t know anything about it, he just does. Please confiscate Pippin while he does.

Pippin gasps dramatically whenever a plot twist surprises him.

Sam loves to cook, and he does a lot of cooking in the house once he arrives. You two just work together in the kitchen (if you can’t cook, he’ll teach you) and have nice sweet conversations

Legolas is great at doing people’s hair. If you ask him to, he’d probably agree, though he’d probably be a bit flustered as that is a courting ritual in his culture.

Ask Legolas to talk to you until you fall asleep. His voice is so heavenly istg-

The hobbits get sleepy when their hair is played with and it’s adorable

Won’t lie this hyperfixation came back then it circled back to TMNT and today i watched these films with my friend and now i’m back to LotR love. Most of this has been sitting in my drafts for a couple weeks.

Anyway, I think that’s about it from me, I hope you guys enjoy! :)

If you want to request, rules are pinned on my page! Let me know if you want a general part two or a set of modern headcanons for a specific character. I love LOTR in the modern world content so much.

Have a good day, and remember that you are loved!

[janeeyreofmanderley]

Legolas and Gimli meeting Faramir for the first time: My how you‘ve grown!

Faramir:….what the….

Faramir: Boromir! Did you show people baby pictures of me again?

Boromir: I may have shown them the one or other odd one I had on my phone …

Faramir (dread in his voice): How many baby pictures of me do you have on your phone????

Boromir: Remember when I broke my leg badly two years ago?

Faramir: Yes?

Boromir: I used the time to digitise mum‘s old photo albums…

Faramir: …oh no.

Boromir: … and when uncle Imrahil saw what I was doing he asked me if I also wanted the pics he took…

Faramir: Good grief.

Boromir: And then Ioreth mentioned she snapped a few pics of the two of us growing up- mainly because I was so cute you know…

Faramir: Give me strength .

Boromir: Oh and Gandalf too is a surprisingly good photographer.

Faramir ( muttering): I survived the war for this???

Boromir: So yeah I digitised those and put them on my phone. The one where you fell asleep in the spaghetti as toddler is my background, so adorable!

Faramir: Please swear you will never show Eowyn any of those!

Eowyn ( calling from next room) : What do you think is my phone background?

Aragorn: And mine!

[howling-medic]

All Duty Requires Purpose

Summary: Boromir has far better places to be than a meeting hall and far better things to do than listen to inane debate

A/N: @rivendell-poet talked about Boromir cuddling the other day, and then I couldn't stop thinking about it. Now this exists.

Warnings: Nothing at all...for literally the second time ever I think

Word Count: 1.6K

Rating: Gen

Pairings: Boromir x Reader

All Duty Requires Purpose

Meetings drained soldiers more than any battle ever could. Trading words, remaining still, when there was work to be done chafed against their nature. Today’s meetings dragged on into the night. Boromir sent for food because quarterly reports necessitated resolutions before anyone exited the meeting hall. His ornate, and well cushioned, oak chair with its finely carved wings had never caused his back to ache this much before, but he also had never sat in it this long. His mind began to wander to his wingback couch in your quarters where you undoubtedly were sitting. Without fail he could count on finding you tucked into one corner with your feet tucked under you and a book in your hand. Perhaps by now it had fallen from your grasp, and your arms were pillowing your head. 

He cleared his throat and dragged his focus back to the meeting. “We simply cannot afford to purchase fifty more horses! Not war horses anyways, and there’s no war to justify such an expense even if we could afford it!” Boromir reached the end of his patience. The Minister of War and Minister of Finance stood no chance of coming to any agreement.

“Gentlemen!” The room fell silent. “I believe I may have a solution to settle this, so we can all go home. We have no urgent need for war ready horses, as has been noted several times; however, we have soldiers who need cavalry training.” Neither minister looked pleased at Boromir’s interruption, nor at the opening of Boromir’s proposal. It mattered little. As Steward, he passed the reports and proposals for Aragorn to finalize, not the ministers. “What if we train our new recruits on the horses we currently possess? Not each man needs his own mount in a time of peace. We can begin negotiations with Rohan to establish an agreement for the purchase of horses with each breeding season. We can slowly grow our string of war horses at a lower cost than purchasing fully trained horses while also strengthening our ties with Rohan.” He fixed the two squabbling ministers with an icy gaze. “Do any take issue with this proposal?”

The room fell silent. Tension rippled through the assembled councillors,each waiting to see if the others would challenge Boromir. When none did, whether because they had no objections or they refused to be the first to try, Boromir rose. “Excellent. On that note, let us each retire. A draft of the Quarterly Report will arrive by sundown tomorrow all else remaining equal. As per usual, should you take issue with the notes pertaining to your position, send word to me.” The scraping of chairs and hushed murmurs interrupted by the groans of men idle too long stretching aching joints filled the room. Boromir took a moment to collect his thoughts while he sorted through his notes and tucked them into his leather folio. His hand itched to pull out a fresh scrap of parchment out and scribble down a list of all he needed to do before he could finally truly retire for the night. The day’s scribe handed him the veritable stack of the meeting minutes. Despite inwardly groaning at all the information he needed to review, he thanked the man - Damril? He really ought to remember, but it ranked low in priority compared to all the information vying for his limited attention tonight.

At least two advisors called out to him, but Boromir pretended not to hear, opting to make a beeline to the Steward’s House. He truly intended to go directly to his study and begin assembling a complete set of notes on the day’s meeting, if not a rough draft of the Quarterly Report itself, for Aragorn. Truly, that was his intent. The sound of a crackling fire and soft snores coming from the parlor stopped him in his tracks. With a sigh, he set the folio full of notes on a side table in the hall, stepped out of his boots, and laid his cloak on top of the folio.

Even with his boots off, the sound of his footfalls roused you. Boromir had never mastered the art of moving silently like Faramir had. Even Aragorn, two inches taller, could move more quietly than he could. You lifted your head nearly imperceptiblty. He thought you called his name in a questioning greeting, but all that was even vaguely intelligible was “Mir?” and even that was muffled by the pillow. You were just where he expected to find you, however. Your face was pressed into a pillow, and you had managed to curl yourself into as tight a ball as possible pressed to the far end of the couch. Your book lay open on the floor. Apparently you had fallen asleep before you had the chance to properly set it aside. 

The folio drew his gaze one last time, but there was no folio to see. Just his cloak. Boromir sat beside you on the couch and draped one arm lazily over the backrest. “I’m home.” The words washed over you and brought as much warmth as the blanket he pulled up over your shoulders. “I apologize for working this late,” he began, but a shake of your head cuts him off.

“You are forgiven, my love.” The words are mumbled and just as muffled by the pillow as your greeting. You opened your eyes, and found Boromir smiling down at you. His arm no longer rested upon the back of the couch. It migrated down to wrap around your shoulders. You couldn’t pinpoint when he moved it, though. Possibly when he covered you with the blanket. “Aragorn came to collect the notes from you - said he would write up the draft himself. He was…displeased… you let the meeting drag on into the night. He threatened to go break up the meeting himself, but I told him you would die of apoplexy if you should fail to reach reach resolutions on every matter to be included in this quarter’s report. I think he left a note somewhere, but I cannot remember where. My book was good, and I was tired.” You gestured vaguely away from where you sat.  

Boromir laughed. A full and rich sound that drew you to him like a moth to a flame. You shifted to rest your head on his arm. “Of course he did.That is horribly like him, I’m afraid. His note, however, can wait until later. Right now, I am quite content to stay where I am at.”

“It is terribly like him, and it would have been right for him to do it - would you not have worried yourself sick about all that was left undone.” His arm wrapped further around you, drawing you further into his hold. 

“I may have welcomed the intervention this time. That infernal new Minister of War may well drive me out of my mind. Did you know he wants us to buy fifty, fifty, fully trained war horses? The Minister of Finance - you remember Celebdîr? - nearly lost his mind. Poor man; I truly would not have blamed him for throttling him. The two of them bickered for ages. I eventually had to cut them off. I think I have a solution that will leave them both acceptably mollified.” Boromir broke off midway through his building rant and let out a deep breath. “That’s more than enough work. It took all of the evening; I will not let it take any more of our time.” 

You let out a small hum of acknowledgement. “You know I will always listen to you talk about work, but I agree it has occupied more than enough of your day - and night.” Boromir watched as you stretched and rolled so you could face him in full, which left you pressed into his chest. His arms tightened around you; his face pressed into your neck.

“Truly more than enough. By the time I cut those two off, More of my mind was back here with you than in that room.” His breath ruffled your hair, which tickled his nose. Your scent enveloped him, and the last of the day’s stress gave way. He could feel more than hear your answering giggle. 

When you tucked yourself fully into his hold, your position became a mirror image of when he lay his cloak over his folio - but with all your weight against him. You let out a contented sigh, he chuckled and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, savoring the warmth of you against him. Boromir pulled you tighter against him and settled in to keep you right here in his arms for as long as you wanted to stay before the fire. 

Whenever anyone asked him about the long hours he keeps, the years he had given to this city and this realm, the blood, the sweat, the tears, he would answer it was his duty. It was undoubtedly that, but that was far from the full truth. Duty bound him to his service, yes, but this right here - holding you in his arms - gave that duty purpose. He savored every single second. It was only when he began to struggle to keep his eyes open, that he conceded defeat and carried you to bed.

The folio stayed beneath the cloak until the morning light broke through the bedroom window. Then he slipped out of bed, careful to not disturb you, and retrieved the packet of pages and his writing box. Just as he has done on many mornings, settles in with his work and pulls you back to his side to steal a few more minutes of peace before he has to surrender himself to the day ahead.

A/N: A writing box is basically a lap desk. I was obsessed with the mental image of Boromir working away while you were still snuggled into his side. A quick Google search said that apparently lap desks in various forms have existed since about the 1600s, so I decided that was close enough. Fun facts courtesy of Hannah.

[moonlit-rose-garden]

With You Till The End

A Boromir x Reader oneshot

Word count: 1,023

Reader is a skilled healer and the 10th member of the Fellowship. This mixes the events in the book, the movie, and some stuff I made up to make it more dramatic. The biggest difference is Boromir lives! Dialog will be a bit different as I don't remember all of it.

Boromir stumbled and leaned his shoulder against a tree. It all felt unreal. His body felt as if it were on fire. "I have failed..."

The adrenaline left Boromir's body, and he could no longer stand. Letting out a choked sob, he slid down the tree and looked at the blue sky.

"I failed them... the little ones, my brother, my people... I've failed them all..."

"Boromir!" He quickly looked towards the voice. Just a few feet away were his companions, Aragorn, (Y-n), Legolas, and Gimli. Quickly, they were by his side.

(Y-n) gently grabbed Boromir's hands. "Boromir... what happened?"

"They have taken the little ones." He tried to sit up, off the tree. Aragorn laid a hand on Boromir's shoulder, stopping him. "Be still."

Realizing he could not see Frodo nor Sam, Boromir frantically grabs Aragorns arm. "Frodo... Where is Frodo?"

"I let Frodo go." Boromir's grip loosened and drops his gaze to his other hand, still in (Y-n)s. "Then you did what I could not... I tried to take the Ring from him."

"The Ring is out of our reach now." Aragorn reassured him. Boromir was silent for a moment. "Forgive me. I could not see it." He looks at his friends till his eyes land on (Y-n). "I have failed you."

"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You kept your honor." (Y-n) hushed him and went to remove an arrow lodged into him.

He grabs her hand, stopping her. "Leave it. It is over. The world of men shall fall. All will come to darkness. My city will ruin..." His eyes water, tears threatening to fall.

"I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you I will not let the Great City fall. Nor our people fail." Aragorn attempts to comfort him. His words make Boromir smile. "Our people... I would have followed you, my brother, my captain... my king."

(Y-n) shook her head, knowing they were saying goodbye. She pushes Aragorn away. "Be gone. Take Legolas and Gimli. Find the hobbits. I will care for Boromir."

(Y-n) gives a determined look to her friends and holds Boromir's hand tight. "Boromir shall not fall this day! My friends... we will see you again. Now go... make haste."

Aragorn bows his head as a goodbye, and he, Legolas, and Gimli quickly leave.

(Y-n) quickly got to work on Boromir's wounds. Removing arrows as gently as possible. "Why bother... I fear your troubles will be for naught... I won't make it through the night..." (Y-n) stopped for a moment to quiet a sob.

"Boromir... please... don't say such things." Her eyebrows stitched together, and tears filled her eyes. Boromir's eyes widened at her face, how it twisted in sorrow at the thought of his death.

For a short while, he said nothing as (Y-n) worked on him. "Boromir," (Y-n) breaks the silence. "I can not treat you properly with all these layers on."

Slowly, she helped him remove his cloak, surcoat, tunic, chainmail, and gambeson. The chainmail gives the most trouble with its weight and getting caught in his long hair.

(Y-n) heart hurt at the sight of his bruised and scratched body. She carefully cleaned and patched the lesions and punctures that riddled Boromir's skin.

He let out a hoarse laugh that caused (Y-n) to look at him confused. "This is not how I imagined you'd see me without any shirt for the first time." His smile left his face as he realized what he said.

"Oh. I apologize... I didn't mean..." Boromir weakly tried to explain. (Y-n) cut him off with laughter. He felt his heart beat faster as he watched her. Her laugh was beautiful.

"Worry not, dear Boromir. I thought the same..." She admitted with a small smile. Shocked, Boromir sits up slightly, looking at (Y-n). She's imagined them together, too?

"Can you... tell me what you imagined?" She asks slowly. He laid back, still watching (Y-n) as she put the finishing touches on the bandages that wrapped around his body.

Looking up at the sky, Boromir thought back to the last time the Fellowship made camp. "Last night... You were patching some of my clothes that I had foolishly torn... I watched you work by the light of the fire, and my mind wondered."

Despite the pain that rendered Boromir practically immobile, he couldn't suppress the happiness he felt getting to tell (Y-n). "I found myself wishing to hold your hands and your face. To feel you. To hold close to me with nothing separating us... I decided that when the war was over, I would ask for your hand."

A silence followed his confession, and he grew worried. "(Y-n)?" He sits up slightly to look at her.

She sat on her knees hunched over, hands clasped over her mouth. Her shoulders shook as she quietly cried. "(Y-n)?! Are you alright?" She looked at him, tears streaming down her red cheeks. All she could do was nod as a big smile graced her face.

"Oh, Boromir... I hardly allowed myself to dream that you felt this way. I thought surely you had someone waiting for you..." (Y-n) sobbed.

"I have only you in my heart." Boromir assured her and took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. "If... When we make it through this war, will you marry me, Dear (Y-n)? Will you be mine and I, yours?"

(Y-n) nods. "Dearest love... of course... I can think of nothing I want more..." Boromir beams. "I love you, (Y-n)."

(Y-n) scoots closer to his head and bends over, planting a kiss on Boromir's cheek. "And I love you..."

"I will be with you till the end, Boromir..."

The end! How'd you like it? Sorry if he's ooc. It's been a while since I watched lotr. Anyway, feel free to make requests!

[gloomwitchwrites]

An Unexpected Catch: A Boromir x Female Reader Romance

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

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

Chapters: (ongoing)

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

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

taglist:

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

@firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @miaraei

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

@smileykiddie08 @berarenado @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

[scyllas-revenge]

Watching LOTR with other people and have to pretend I’m normal about Boromir

[autistook]

sometimes when I see Boromir all I wanna do is **** *** ** ******* **** **** ** ******* ** **** and also **** *** ********* and even [REDACTED]