#fandom adjacent news I guess?

[rainswept]

my toxic trait is that i expect bsd fans to just Sense my Presence and seek me out when in reality i have not made a single post on the tags (<- is afraid to reach out to people)

[danzafila]

#3h #Honestly liking edelgard for women's wrongs reasons is my curse #Oh yeah I love fucked up fire emblem women! Wow a girl character who's a fascist this is so rate! #Oh... Oh you think she's a communist revolutionary... #Oh...

PREV TAGS PREV TAGS PREV TAGS!!!

Only related to a post I saw but it IS wild that

Things that Dimitri Fire Emblem can rightfully be criticized for:

Using excessive violence against his enemies

Dedicating a massive amount of his life to revenge

Actively seeking death when he’s made promises he needs to be alive to keep

Leading people who loved and were loyal to him on what is essentially a suicide mission

Being a dick to people trying to help him

(All of which are acknowledged by the story and he changes)

Things Dimitri gets criticized for:

Defending his home country against imperialism

Some bullshit “status quo” argument

Being mentally ill

[sleepingdeath-light]

finding out his s/o is pregnant hcs ; older!our!ciel

requested by ; echosoftheocean (—/02/23)

fandom(s) ; black butler

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | main cast

character(s) ; our!ciel phantomhive

outline ; “ Saw the fluffy February event and meant to send an ask in sooner but forgot. I hope I'm not too late. I'm sure you know me by now, but my request is some fluff with OCiel x female reader regarding him finding out she's gonna have his heir.”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

his schedule had been packed full of meetings and missions for the past few months, leaving him very little time to spend with you during the day

this also meant that he saw very little of your early symptoms — certainly not enough to predict such a substantial announcement

of course he realised you were rather ill, but he assumed you were just under the weather and instructed the staff to keep an eye on you

to keep you fed, warm and healthy

so when he finally has the afternoon free to lounge with you, and he calls you into his office to spend some quality time together, he doesn’t quite understand why you seem so fidgety

nor why the servants are grinning and giggling amongst themselves as they escort you to his private office

and he certainly doesn’t appreciate he the knowing smirk on sebastian’s face as he dismisses himself with a warm smile and a bowed head to you

not until you take his hands in your own and blurt out that you were pregnant

like actually pregnant, having confirmed it every way you could: anecdotally (via bard), medically (through the family physician), based on symptoms and even according to demonic intuition (three guesses)

and as you’re explaining all of this, he’s dead silent with this startled expression on his face as he takes in the news — not quite able to believe that you were with child

this is the case for several moments until — just as you’re starting to worry — he snaps out of his stupor and he grins this broad, earnest grin and just starts laughing

he pulls you to your feet and into a kiss before dropping to his knees and placing his hands on your stomach (despite the fact that you were too early to show)

you were going to have a child, you were finally starting a family — you and him and this baby you were carrying

it was a dream come true… something more even

and between the affection and celebration of the moment he’s calling for sebastian and instructing him to ready a room adjacent to your own to become the nursery — and to increase protection around the estate

you mean the world to him and he wants nothing more than to nurture and adore this life you’re carrying — and whilst he’s scared and hurt and fearful for what the future holds, he knows that he’ll be able to bear it so long as you remain by his side

as is the nature of love

[batobbsession]

Underused batfam-adjacent characters

Mia Mizoguchi (aka Maps aka sometimes Robin?) (also Maya Ducard and Colin Wilkes and Kathy Branden and Jay Nakamura and Suren Darga and Nika/Flatline)

Mia is Damian's school friend and like a partime Robin. Also she's a detective who would definitely get along with Tim. The rest are also Damian's various friends (Kathy and Jay are more like Jon's friends but if Jon and Damian are friends then they're probably friends?). Also Jay is/was Jon's boyfriend if that interests you. Kathy is also an alien so that's cool. I'm pretty sure all of them have their own hero identities so they could totally be a team or something. And I think it's sad nobody in this fandom remembers that Map's was kind of Robin.

honorary mention to Damian's cousin, Mara Al Ghul

The rest of the Arrows

So generally I see just Roy,Oliver and sometimes Dinah and Lian as the arrowfam. And to be honest I don't know much about them, but where's Conner Hawke, Mia Dearden and Emiko Queen?

Conner Hawke=Oliver Queen's son who was raised with his mother, Sandra Hawke, and was sent to an ashram to learn Buddhism stuff i guess. He reconnected to Oliver and became the second Green Arrow eventually.

Mia Dearden=She had an abusive father and ended up an underage prositute. She was rescued by Green Arrow and became Oliver Queen's new ward. She trained with him and Conner Hawke and eventually became the second Speedy and joins the teen titans. Also she's HIV positive? Idk the story there.

Also Jason Todd kidnapped her and beat her up so Tim wasn't the only one.

Emiko Queen= Emiko is Oliver Queen's half-sister. I'm pretty sure she's the second Red Arrow now? Her mom's and assassin which is cool. She was also raised as an assassin.

Tim's Friends

Why do people think Tim's only friends are young justice? He's a social butterfly. What happened to Ariana,Darla,Bernard and Ives?

Ariana-Tim's ex girlfriend. Her father was murdered and she was born in the USSR

Darla-Daughter of a mafia boss with magic powers. Tim's school friend and she used to have a crush on him.

Bernard-... you all know Bernard

Ives- One of Tim's closest friends in high school who he called smart multiple times. He was diagnosed with cancer and stayed friends with Tim

honorary mention to Ives's Wizards and Warriors group Callie,Kevin and Hudson

Jaro the Starro

starfish alien who was adopted by Bruce

honorary mention to Harper and Cullen Row and Helena Bertinelli/Helena Wayne and CARRIE KELLEY my beloved

[theminecraftbee]

you know, what with both guess the author and the au fest big bang ending recently, there are a LOT of great new fics out there, i bet! also it's been a bit since i've done a lot of hc fic reading, so... hey hermitblr and also adjacent fandoms (trafficblr, for example), got any fic recs?

i'll start with three fics i've been reading recently:

i'm like very behind currently on writing_and_worrying's comms au, but it's an EXCELLENT fic that makes really fun use of the medium! i'm not sure how to describe it other than "the comms logs of an increasingly tangled knot of sci-fi horror". it's great.

speaking of aufest: i read Tangotek Evil Incorporated by onawhimsicot and it's a spectacularly fun fic! in which tango is a very ridiculous cartoon supervillain who has to go rescue his nemesis, jimmy, with help from jimmy's partner, grian. made me laugh out loud a few times. big recommend.

finally, snake's always gonna be one of my favorite hermitcraft writers, and i've been reading Lost On a Starlit Sea lately to prove it again. in which iskall and zedaph are astronauts who go on a mission that appears to be going quickly awry thanks to secrets being kept from them. looks very fun!

however, that's only three fics out of the MANY MANY that have been posted lately - y'all got any fic recs you'd like to share? i'd love to hear them! i'll reblog any lists that get put on here but also i'm hoping there are a lot of suggestions in the notes. (also, feel free to promo yourself or if, say, you were on a big bang team, feel free to promo the author you worked with for that!)

[mothmanssweetsucculentass]

Nina The Killer Headcanons

Psycho Barbie’s turn in the spotlight!!!!

I��ve always thought Nina in concept was so fucking cool, like, an obsessed fangirl becoming a copycat killer always scratched a good niche in my brain, so I never hated her like most of the fandom did when I was younger, I just never really interacted with anything about her cause. The fandom hated her, lmao.

Expect canon typical violence/topics beyond this point pookies <3

TGIRL SWAG!!!!!!!!! Nina is trans I’m making it canon right now and you can’t do shit about it

Roughly about 25, two years younger than Jeff

Ann ain’t the only zombie adjacent character in the mansion

Nina actually has zero fucking clue why she keeps coming back every time Jeff murders her, but she’s having fun with it so ig it’s fine right?

Some of the more supernaturally intelligent members of the mansion also have no fucking idea what her deal is. By all accounts she should be dead and rotting a thousand times over

Eyeless Jack has done four vivisections on her and all yielded the same result, human

Except humans don’t bounce back after having their heart cut out????

Seconds after losing organs they just???? Reappear??? Inside her body???? What the fuck????

Out of everyone she’s a massive enigma. No one can figure it out but everyone loves using her as a guinea pig for murder purposes

Ya girl is such a masochist she actually gets disappointed when people don’t like testing new stabbing methods on her

She’s so unapologetically a freak, she’s cringe, but she’s free

Out of everyone in the mansion she’s the easiest to get along with

Sometimes to her detriment, her hyper extroverted personality off puts some of the more quiet and reserved inhabitants

No one truly hates her, you can’t exactly hate someone who doesn’t have a combative bone against you in their body, but not everyone likes to stick around her

It bothers her only a little bit when she’s noticed she’s pushed people away with her intense personality (it bothers her A LOT-)

She loves collecting and gifting trinkets and jewelry to people. The amount of Kandi bracelets she’s made Jeff and Ben, good lord-

The most persistent determined bitch in the world. You would have to nuke her entire existence to get her to stop focusing/going after something

Of course it ends up making her stubborn

Buuuuuuut she’s also an honorary favorite dog of Slenderman

The household often has monthly contests to see who can have the highest body count. You’ll never guess who’s almost always in the top 3

So she’s out on missions a lot. She comes back and gossips talks about what’s happened when she comes back two days later

Surprisingly doesn’t have a sweet tooth? You’d think with how manic she acts she injects sugar and caffeine into her bloodstream, but nope, she doesn’t. She hates fruit candies and can only stomach dark chocolate

Always comes back from hits and supply runs with tons of candy anyways to share with everyone

Is a SLUT for spicy foods

Ann had to cut her tongue off one time because she fucked it up so bad eating stuff that was borderline radioactive with how spicy it was

Everyone is convinced she would eat actual nuclear waste if given the chance just to feel the burn

The biggest foodie in general too. She’s not the best at cooking but everyone loves her pancakes

Ben made a joke one time about her putting crack in the batter. Two weeks later she had to apologize to mansion parents Masky and Hoody about why half the house was suffering withdrawal symptoms. Someone has to monitor her while she cooks now. Bummer.

She’s a total junkie but she is responsible about it at least dammit!

Like yeah she gets stoned out of her goddamn mind with Ben every other weekend, but that shit doesn’t leave her or his room

She has to set a good example for Sally!!!!!

The kid fucking adores Nina like a big sister

Nina is always bringing her goodies and toys

In return Sally does her makeup for the day

Does it look like a 5 year old scribbled all over her face? Yes and she doesn’t care!!!! She wears that shit with pride

Helen made fun of it once and he has since learned not to piss off the hyperactive pink glitter mayhem lady who knows how to wield a chainsaw

Oh yeah fuck knives. Nina got tired of knives pretty quick. Ya girl USES A CHAINSAW

It’s totally not the same kind of chainsaw Jeff used when he was a scare actor in college shut up no way

She’s really good with the thing too. It’s so heavy and she totes it around like it weighs nothing

She’s got such a sleeper build it’s insane. She’s 5”2 and 160 pounds of pure whoop ass

AND SHE DOES IT ALL IN PLATFORMS AND ACRYLIC NAILS??????

She’s just constantly full of energy and needs to be doing something at every second or she thinks she’ll explode

Besides her signature chainsaw covered in stickers and glitter, she’s also pretty handy with handguns, axes, and baseball bats

She’s got a small collection of weapons under her bed

Three guns (all customized with stickers and paint), a large axe (with a heart in the middle of the blade), and two baseball bats (one covered in nails)

Her room is a fucking mess but she knows where anything and everything is

Girl can’t even see her floor and she’s somehow able to find what she needs in there

Bead curtains, a disco ball, leopard print carpet on the ceiling, lava lamps, it looks like scene mixed with the 70’s threw up in there

Not exactly the most fashionable but has the biggest wardrobe and most flashy way of dressing

Like. I don’t even think she owns anything solid. Definitely not solid black

Has given herself many tattoos and piercings

To the point she’s so good at it that the others start coming to her asking for her to do the same to them

Her hair never stays one color for long, but often goes between red and purple

Is best friends/close with: Ben, Kagekao, Jason, LJ, Sally, the Puppeteer, Clockwork, and Jane

Has a tolerable relationship/is neutral about: Masky, Hoody, Liu, Eyeless Jack, Ann, Helen, and Slenderman

Hates no one

Has a… questionable relationship with Jeff

When first starting off he fucking hated her, but she was so goddamn persistent and just kept getting back up despite the multiple times he was certain he’d killed her, to the point she’s grown on him like a parasite

She sees him as her ultimate best friend, her ride or die, and he’s flattered…but he definitely doesn’t feel intensely as she does

Like he obviously doesn’t hate her anymore and actually quite enjoys her company. But she also annoys the shit out of him and he often finds himself needing a break from her constant state of “on”. Girl has no off switch

The two of them are often found lounging together and talking random shit, or sparring

She believes that somehow the first time he killed her, it gave her her weird zombie regeneration abilities

And of course she thinks that’s cool as fuck and nearly worshipped the ground he walks on because of it

The more time has passed the more she’s grown to stop feeling like she needs him to function

She went from making herself Jeff’s biggest fan her whole personality to becoming an actual decent person outside of her unhealthy obsession with him

Surprisingly never had any romantic feelings for the man

Like yeah she was obsessed but not like that

She just thinks he’s waaaaay cooler than other people see him as

Jane and Clockwork are her girl solidarity bffs

Jane was practically the girl’s mentor in how to be girl 101 when Nina was beginning to realize she was trans

Whereas Clockwork was her combat mentor who taught Nina everything she knows about kicking someone’s ass

They went from her cool lesbian moms to her cool lesbian besties

She’s one of the only few who can tolerate LJ’s nonsense

And by nonsense I mean his usual mad hatter ramblings and personality. Nina thinks it’s hilarious and loves that he’s just as down to clown (SORRY) as she is

Her, him, and Sally are the prank trio

The two would do anything to hear that little girl erupt into giggles

Her and Ben bond over scene fashion and old internet stuff

Ben is also her weed dealer. He’s everyone’s weed dealer but she gets special treatment and doesn’t have to pay him shit cause they’re besties

She’s a pretty positive person overall but cannot fucking stand/HATES anyone outside the mansion

She views everyone there like family

The outside world not so much. Bullying has really left her bitter

Hates blackmail but definitely holds grudges!!! It’s hard to get on her bad side though, so no one’s worried about it

Loves breakcore, kpop, jpop, any kind of hyper and electronic music, extra points if it’s pop

[misguidedandperplexed]

I've been curious lately about the origins of some details in Ao3 Stucky fics.

I'm relatively new to the fandom and didn't read fics back in the zenith of Stucky popularity, so I'm catching up on all of it now, and in a sense, I get a bigger picture of Stucky fics as a whole because I'm reading over a decade's worth of them in one go (instead of spread over the decade).

And I've noticed that there are some details that crop up pretty frequently, details that are movie-canon-adjacent but not actually canon, and the editor and researcher in me can't help but wonder how they came about — Were there 'fads' when it came to certain details? Like one popular fic author including a detail and others co-opting it and then it becoming ubiquitous? Because I can't imagine that so many authors individually made the same choices.

To clarify, I'm not referring to tropes, nothing like a/b/o or soulmate fics. I don't even mean the [over]use of epithets (that's for a different post). I'm talking about small details, like:

Calling the place Steve rescued Bucky and the others Azzano instead of Kreischberg (Azzano was where they got captured but they were brought to the factory in Kreischberg)

Calculating years Steve is out of the ice as 70 years + years passed (it was 66 years; Fury says "You've been asleep, Cap, for almost 70 years.")

Calling Bucky's hair chestnut (chestnut hair is lighter and maybe also a bit more reddish; his hair is only remotely chestnut after he gets a makeover to prepare for seeing Steve in Infinity War, but even then, calling it chestnut is still a stretch)

Calling Steve's hair blond (it's dirty blond at best; his enlistment form says light brown)

Blonde and brunette (okay I guess I am touching on epithets, but this is more about the use of the feminine forms of the words rather than the use in the first place)

Giving Bucky a job at the docks; or Bucky working at the family mechanics shop (this one's not incorrect, just very common for some reason; is it in any way comics-related?)

Making George Barnes abusive (same as above)

Anyone able to shed light on any of this?

(I'm also curious about fanart that has Bucky's right arm amputated/as a prosthesis instead of his left one.)

[dammit-tazmuir]

So I'm still relatively new to the fandom and I'm not sure if there are common "fanon" or widely held theories about the pre-Resurrection names, but I did try looking around and didn't see any so...

Hear me out. ✨Even more Biblical symbolism.✨

I don't have strong thoughts for Ulysses, Cassiopeia, or Nigella. And with Cristabel's new name (still?) having ties to "Christ" I wonder if she's closest or even was allowed to keep her old one (which, yeah two C—s without clear hierarchy would have gotten confusing, but could be another reason she was only "the nun" instead of given the same name treatment as the others), or perhaps hers was more Greek (Cassandra, for being the one who kept telling John things he didn't want to believe?).

But for others, I suspect...

Alfred / "A— Junior" was originally Andrew, after the first apostle to join Jesus. More importantly, Andrew was the brother of Simon Peter, who was the most prominent apostle, generally considered in Catholicism to be the first Pope, the first bishop of Antioch, and a lot of other stuff that could make him an interesting parallel to Augustine (not that I think he shares a name, just potentially some indirect parallels). Also the literal meaning is "manly/man", see Augustine below. -

Titania / "T—" (on her papers) was originally Tabitha, after a woman who was literally brought back to life. (This was done by Saint Peter, so not the most direct parallel with the above thoughts on Augustine, but with him being part of the very original project with John, not fully disconnected either.) -

Pyrrha / "P—" was originally Priscilla or Prisca, who notably shared a home for a time with (Biblical) Paul. (It means "ancient", but that's hardly unique here, though I guess her being the last surviving member of the original aside from John and Alecto is worth something there.) A secondary guess would be Phoebe, who's mentioned in Paul's epistles; the name means "bright, pure" and also has Greek meaning (moon goddess and grandmother to Artemis), so it would kinda hit both the major name origins in this series. Or as a third guess, while I think parallels would be shared/split rather than having this instead of the other Peter thoughts, something like Petra could also work, though that might be too similar to Pyrrha to consider. -

Gideon / "G—" was Gabriel, the archangel and messenger of God who announced the births of John (the Baptist) and Jesus. The name comes from the words for "God" and "strong man" or "hero". -

Augustine / A—, the First Saint to serve the King Undying, was Adam, sharing a name with the Biblical first man, first of humanity. The literal meaning is also arguably "man", which makes for a bonus with A— and A— Junior having that much more similar names. -

Lastly, the one I'm most utterly convinced of, Mercymorn / M— was Mary. Perhaps Mary-something, mimicking the "two names" format of Mercymorn (ex: Maryanne, Mary Lou, Marilyn), or maybe a name from a Marian title (Mercedes would be especially amusing), possibly both (Marisol, Marigold). But 10,000% her name comes from the Virgin Mary in some form.

For starters, the first time Harrow sees her, she's described as

"Virginal" as one of the first words ever associated with her, with further description making her sound very much like the kinds of paintings one would associate with Mary.

But much more interesting is her role in Dios Apate, Major. Both

and

She was the both the one who managed to get the sample despite John trying to be careful about that and had been intended to be the genetic mother of the baby, but not to carry. While certainly not literally "virgin" here, she's still in a very real sense a sort of "virgin mother of (space) Jesus".

Any of them could be adjacent or have nicknames, of course. G— could have been "Gabe." The idea of P— being called "Prissy" is funny enough to me that I'd fully buy it. A— Junior could've gone by "Andy", etc. But I feel like all these have some solid merit, especially Mary-Mercy.

[andreawritesit]

The Red Storm - Part II

Fandom - One Piece

Pair - Shanks x Reader

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Dadan!” you shout while opening the worn-down door of her house. “I got the kids!” Ace snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not a kid. These two are. I’m their older brother.” You roll your eyes as Sabo kicks Ace in the back. Luffy ignores them both, runs to you again, and tugs at your shirt. You look down at him and see drool pooling at his mouth. “Where’s the food? You said if we’ll come back with you, Dadan will give us food.” 

“Want food, do ya?” Dadan’s voice rings behind them. Sabo lets go of Ace’s hair at once and Ace puts Sabo’s hat back on his head. The two kids stand apart from each other and one can’t even tell that they were beating each other a moment ago. Luffy runs to Dadan and jumps onto her shoulder. “Oi Dadan! Where’s the food?” 

The older woman grits her teeth and it takes all her strength to not fling Luffy across the room. Instead, she slowly puts him back down and lets out a loud sigh. “Fine, you’ll get your damn food! Wash the floors first!” All three boys complain aloud but one look from the curly-haired woman shuts them up and they begin mopping the floor. “And you,” she points towards you, “go fetch some booze from Makino. We’re out.” You nod and head to the bar. Ever since Shanks had left, you had stopped going to the bar. That place held too many memories of you two together. Usually, you would straight up refuse to go there but today Dadan was in a very bad mood. It’s better to not rile her up any further. And so you walk down the painfully familiar roads and finally reach the bar. Makino is at her usual place, cleaning some glasses. There are very few people in the bar than used to be. You walk over to the counter where Makino greets you with a wide grin.

“Hey! I haven’t seen you in so long!” she exclaims as she walks over to give you a hug. You smile and hug her back, already feeling nostalgia hit you. Oh, how much fun you would have with her and the Red-Haired Pirates! 

Stupid Shanks! And his stupid crew!

“Makino, Dadan has asked for more booze. Do you have any for her?”

Makino put her hand under her chin and seemed to be in deep thought. “I don’t know actually. I think the new supply is arriving later. Will you wait till then?”

“I guess, I mean I don’t really have a choice. Dadan will kill me if I return without booze.”

“Good. Come have a seat. I’ll pour you something.” You nod and sit at your usual seat near the counter. Every now and then your eyes move to the adjacent seat, where he would be sitting with his arm around your waist, narrating his grand adventures. You close your eyes and try to get rid of those images but in vain. And so you resort to drinking the loneliness away.

Shanks enters the dimly lit bar, the familiar scent of alcohol and old wood greeting him, but it is soon overshadowed by the sight of you sitting at the counter, a glass of wine in your hand. The years have been kind to her, he thinks, as he makes his way over to where you are sitting, his heart pounding in his chest.

Before he can even say a word, you feel his presence behind you. I’m being stupid. He can’t be here, can he? Agonizingly slow, you turn around and gasp loudly, the wine glass in your hand falling on the table. His eyes meet yours and you feel your heart stop. Why is he here? How? 

You stand up from your chair and take a step towards him. None of you say anything. Shanks stands there, waiting to see your reaction before doing anything. You take another step toward him but you lose your balance and fall forwards. He leaps forward and catches you quickly. "Hi," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your hands ache to just wrap themselves around him but the disbelief makes them dangle uselessly by your sides as he holds you up. “You look so… so-“

“Old!” comes a voice from behind him. Your head whips around to see Lucky Roux laughing his ass off with a lamb leg in his hand. “Damn girl! You look like you’re a single mother of three!” he adds as he takes another bite of the meat. Shanks lets out a sound something between a laugh and a sigh and sets you back on your feet. 

“And you look like you have drank the sea dry!” you retort back. “Did they kick you out of the Grand Line for causing drought?” He laughs again, clearly drunk, and Yasopp joins in this time. Shanks holds your wrist lightly and turns you to him. “Don’t pay him any mind. You look as beautiful as you were, if not more.” You smile at him and your eyes wander over his face, his handsome face you haven’t seen in years. Your hand automatically goes to his face and you run your fingers over his scars. “You’ve gotten more handsome if that’s even possible.” He smirks and runs his hand from your wrist to your shoulder. 

“Get a room!” Roux shouts and then chokes on the lamb. You laugh at him and Shanks lets go of your shoulder. 

Shanks takes your hand and leads you to your usual seats. The two of you sit down at the bar, talking and laughing as if no time has passed at all. After a lot of alcohol and catching up, you’re both sitting in silence, enjoying each other’s company.

"I've missed you," he says all of a sudden, his voice husky with emotion. You reach out and touch his face, tracing the lines and contours that you know so well. “I’ve missed you too, you dumbass,” you reply, running your thumb over his cheek. 

“Why did you come back, Shanks?”

“I had to. We had left something valuable here. We couldn’t possibly go further without it.”

You raise your eyebrow at his response. “What exactly did you leave here?”

“You. I came back to take you with me.” You let out a gasp and shook your head.

“Don’t joke with me!” He intertwines his fingers with yours. “I’m not. I want you to go with us.”

“But…But you said that it’s not safe for me…”

“I know. And it isn’t. But I cannot function properly without you. I have grown so fond of your presence that I couldn’t even look after my crew properly. A feeling of emptiness kept nagging me. It took a lot of alcohol and a dozen scoldings from Benn for me to realize that I needed you with me. Even if it’s dangerous, I’ll protect you with my life. Just come with me, please.” His voice breaks at the end and you have to stop yourself from saying yes immediately.

“But Shanks, what about Luffy? He needs me, no?”

He nods and rests his head on your shoulder. “I heard his grandfather is looking after him. He’ll be safe with him.”

“I guess so but..”

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Well yes but how will I tell that to Luffy? Oh yes, you can come with me! He’ll be so happy to see you and he’ll understand you better!”

Shanks lifts his head and shakes his side to side. “I can’t see him. Not yet. We promised to only meet again when he has become a pirate captain. You’ll have to go say goodbye alone.”

“Meanie…” you mumble under your breath. He laughs and pulls you into his arms. “Sorry, it is what it is.” You huff at his reply and stand up to leave. “Fine you asshole. I’ll go say goodbye. I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning then, alright?” He stands up as well and nods. “Alright, love.”

And then, without another word, Shanks reaches out and gently cups your face in his hands, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His eyes search yours, seeking permission and reassurance. Finding nothing but love and longing reflected back at him, he leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don't. As his lips met yours, it’s like a floodgate is opened. Years of pent-up longing and desire surge through you, and you respond eagerly, your hands finding their way around his neck, pulling him closer. His kiss is soft yet filled with passion, a gentle exploration that speaks volumes about the depth of his feelings. You could taste the sweetness of his lips, and feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Every touch, every caress is like a promise of all the things that could be, all the moments you have missed out on. When you finally break apart, you are both breathless, your hearts pounding in sync. You look into his eyes, and in that moment, you know that this is where you belong, in his arms, forever.

------------------

I might have to write another part. Yikes

Part III - here

[anistarrose]

saying this with love: it's almost comically hard for me to imagine the era of early TAZ Balance fandom where people took the Red Robe seriously as a villain.

like, I've dug up enough old posts and fanart to know it happened, because of course it did, he was practically carrying a big flashing "villain" sign around with him, and I guess he brutally forced a guy to choke on poison or whatever — but like, that's my dad! that's my father! he would help me with my homework if I asked him!

his iconic ominous voice was fake! he actually sounds like he's from Fantasy New Jersey or somewhere adjacent! he's a wife guy bereft of a wife because she's stuck in Taako's umbrella! the most threatening action he ever took towards THB was before he even died and became the Red Robe, and all he did even then was just annoying Merle into stabbing himself with a fork! his name is Barry J. Bluejeans!

[eusuntgratie]

wip wednesday on thursday bc i do what i want 😘

haven't shared in a while bc i haven't had time to write but i appreciate all the tags so i'm gonna share a few little snippets of a few things i'm working on. tags below the cut!

guess who tripped and fell into a new fandom? oops. y'all gotta scroll past some 🏳️‍🌈👽 before you get to any rwrb-adjacent words 😏

malex bartender au (roswell new mexico) - hopefully posting soon!

Alex is covering the bar for Maria when he gets stuck, bottle of tequila hovering in between the bar and the glass he’s supposed to be pouring it in. He works hard not to notice people, notice men, but the most beautiful man he’s ever seen is walking into the bar and it's impossible to look away.

malexa 2x06 canon divergence, starting with maria waking up the next morning

Maria wakes up with a crick in her neck. One of her arms is asleep and she’s got a pleasant ache in her thighs.  She's warm, and the bone-deep fear that's been trying to suffocate her for weeks has abated. She takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes squeezed shut when she remembers why.

me? already writing rpf from my new fandom? GASP! please pretend to be shocked - vlamburn + a third i can't decide if i want to keep mysterious or not bc everyone who reads them would know who she is anyway i think?

“Kiss him,” she tells Michael, who finally tears his gaze from Tyler’s face to ask, “why?”.  “Because I wanna see.”  She nods and smiles when Tyler searches her face, looking a little panicked. But then Michael is leaning in close, wrapping his big hand around Tyler’s pretty neck and pulling him in and kissing him like he’s starving for it. Tyler moans and she’s so fucking wet she could shove Tyler out of the way and sit on Michael’s dick right here in front of him, but she keeps still, and watches. The way Michael pulls him closer, the way Tyler’s fingers twitch near his waist.

a little cuck fic update (sensing a pattern? don't worry about it) - taynick, disaster verse

Nick catches himself leaning forward, trying to chase Taylor’s mouth and his touch. He hears a sharp, “stay,” that rocks all the way through him and he slams himself back in the chair. He gets a barely perceptible nod for his efforts. He tries not to think about what he could do to elicit a bigger reaction. He drags in a breath and refocuses on Taylor. At a small gesture Nick barely notices, Taylor bends over the bed again. He is so fucking beautiful. Nick’s not sure he’s ever had the chance to just take him in like this. He’s always so desperate to get his hands on him when they’re alone.

alright that's enough snippets... hopefully i'll be able to get some things finished in the next few months! i miss writing! let me know what you think; i need all the motivation i can get.

thank you for the tags sunday and wednesday!

@catdadacd @firstprincehornyramblings @thesleepyskipper @basil-bird @sparklepocalypse

@thinkof-england @taste-thewaste

tagging @lostcol @bigassbowlingballhead @onward--upward for alien reasons 😘🛸

[ass-deep-in-demons]

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + friends & family

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

Rating: G

Chapter Length: 10k

Author's Note: I wrote this because I love Boromir and I want him to have a life. Also, I love Minas Tirith and I will be moving there next summer.

✦ Chapter 1 ✦

...in which we meet Boromir, High Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor. We get to learn a little about his daily life in Minas Tirith, as he tries to make sense of Recent Events: the mundane, the unusual, and the ominous.

[AO3] [masterpost]

Middle Earth, 1st of Nárië 3016 TE

The training grounds adjacent to the Garrison on the Third Level of Minas Tirith often attracted warriors of different provenances. Originally, the compound had been meant to merely house the troops of men-at-arms in the Steward’s employ. However, because the Training Grounds were the only swath of dirt where soldiers could freely run and spar inside the Walls, the Citadel Guards and Crown Knights would exercise there too on the regular. Boromir would come to the Garrison every morning to begin his day with a run, and there he would meet and greet many of his peers and fellow soldiers. This day was no exception. 

As he jogged, answering an occasional salute, he thought about the things he needed to accomplish later that day. A pending muster of the new recruits in the Garrison, equipment inspection at the Citadel, a report from the Masons’ Guild on the state of Pelennor fortifications… just to name a few of his ordinary duties as Captain and High Warden of the White Tower. However, one particular instalment in today’s agenda weighed especially heavily on Boromir. Earlier in the morning, just as he had exited his quarters in the Citadel, the Steward’s page had handed him a note. A summons. (...) today, at your convenience, the note read. It meant his father would be waiting for him in his office in the Tower of Ecthelion; waiting to talk about… Boromir knew not what, and therein lay the problem. Yesterday, when he had seen his father during the Midsummer festivities in the Citadel, the Steward had made no indication of wanting to speak in private…

Oh, Boromir would meet with the Steward on a regular basis, naturally. Every Valarday, Lord Denethor would host a private dinner for his sons and most trusted friends. There were the scheduled reports on the Citadel Guard, which Boromir dutifully submitted in person each week; then the military strategy meetings, which he considered his primary concern; the Council sessions which usually made him bored, or furious, or both; and of course the ever hated Court audiences, which required formal wear and a great deal of posturing. Alas, as both the sons of the Ruling Steward knew well, the most tricky of all were the dreaded individual summons. 

It’s not that Boromir did not love his father. He loved him dearly and revered him, as was due to his sire and his liege lord. But individual summons were serious, and a harrowing experience more often than not. Such a private audience was never without a cause, and rarely would that cause be pleasant. 

“Boromir!” He heard someone call his name from the entrance to the training grounds. Only a handful of persons in the whole of Minas Tirith had the standing to address him with such informality, so it wasn’t difficult to guess who was seeking his attention. He halted and turned around to greet the newcomer. The man cut a tall figure and stood out, with his hair red like most of his Blackroot Vale kinsmen, clad in the green vestments of his house. Boromir jogged towards his friend and clasped his arm.

“Derufin! Must that my eyes deceive me! Or is this you sleepwalking?” he asked, with mocked astonishment.

“Why, aren’t your wits sharp as ever on this grey morning, my Lord,” parried Derufin tersely. “Not all of us are like to run ten leagues in full plate ere breakfast, you know?” he grumbled. Boromir would often prod him for his dislike of early rising.

“Well?” asked Boromir, “what is so important that’s got you up, then?" It was quite unusual, Boromir had to admit. Derufin was the Captain in charge of the Steward’s bowmen. Archery training would start shortly before noon on the regular, when target visibility was best. His friend hesitated to answer, too, and his expression turned even more solemn, which gave Boromir a pause. Had something happened?

“Lady Morwen is leaving,” said Derufin finally, as if he was announcing a death sentence.

"Leaving? Have done jesting, Derufin," Boromir shook his head. "I saw her just yesterday in the Citadel, in passing. She was in high spirits, enjoying the festivities."

"Aye," claimed Derufin, "and after the feast she said her goodbyes. Hallas told me she'd bid him farewell for good and that she'd already packed for her journey to Arnach."

“Bugger!” Boromir said, for all his (reportedly) sharp wits not able to come up with anything more eloquent at the moment.

“Bugger indeed,” Derufin agreed and deflated. 

For a while the two of them stood there, dumb and brooding. To someone unacquainted with the lives of Gondorian peerage, Lady Morwen’s leaving might appear a trifling matter, no more than food for gossip, or a personal hardship at worst. But Boromir knew well what it signified, and he did not like it one bit.

Lady Morwen of Lossarnach, daughter of Forlong the Fat, had for some years been the favourite of the Minas Tirith’s youth, an avid attendee of gatherings, and a devoted patroness of shops and fashionable hostelries. Her love for the White City could rival Boromir’s own, albeit for vastly different reasons. It followed that if even the Lady Morwen herself was leaving the City for Lossarnach, other noble Ladies and Gentle Folk were bound to desert as well, and soon.

Boromir could plainly see the reasons for which Gondor’s nobility was abandoning the Capital and taking refuge in the western fiefdoms. The situation in Minas Tirith was gaining urgency with every passing moon. Had been for some time. As the skirmishes with orcs and Southrons grew in frequency and magnitude, more and more civilians, common and noble alike, chose evacuation. In their place, men-at-arms, masons, smiths and fletchers were flocking to the City in great numbers to seek employment in the army. The Steward encouraged and supervised these changes, and Boromir was tasked with organising the draft and the drilling of the newcomers.

“What am I to do?” Derufin finally broke the silence. “Should I go and see her…? No, that… But, what if…” His desperation was quite evident and Boromir pitied his friend. Out of all of the Lady Morwen’s astonishingly numerous admirers, Derufin was perhaps the most devoted, if also, regrettably, the least skilled in the art of romance. “Say, Boromir, will you go with me? Just to see her off?” his friend demanded, and Boromir rolled his eyes. It was entirely too early to be social. “You must! She’ll only talk to me if you’re there,” Derufin pleaded.

“You’re a major dolt, you know?” Boromir informed his friend. “She’d see you even without me, and it would serve you better. But very well,” he relented, “let’s go, lest she ride out ere you gather your wits. But I am not changing. We go as we are, and then we break fast at the Mûmakil,” he asserted, as he waved over his squire and began unbuckling his armour. 

“Just hurry,” Derufin said, anxious. “We should still be able to catch her Uptown. If not, we’ll have to race her convoy to the Great Gate! It would be just like in the songs…” the redhead mused, and Boromir was, once again, privately astonished by the sentimental spirit of his airhead friend. A horse race down the Main Street, at this time of the day, would be harrowing at best, not to mention a hazard, and a public spectacle.

Boromir left his equipment with his squire, the young Huor, and the two men began their brisk climb to the Sixth Level in companionable silence. The main paved road of the White City meandered from the northern to the southern half of it and back, crossing each of the seven walls at a different point. The Main Street was buzzing with activity. Withering Midsummer decorations could be seen here and there after yesterday's Parade, which had been, on all accounts, underwhelming compared to the celebrations that Boromir remembered from his childhood. Still, on both sides of the Street the commerce was yet alive - the merchants and craftsmen were opening their shops and the air was permeated by the smell of fresh bread from the numerous bakeries of the Third and Fourth Level. To walk along the tract, up to the Sixth Level, would take the entire morning, but Boromir, a true son of the old Minas Anor, knew every narrow passage, every unofficial crossing point, and the location of a conveniently placed hidden ladder, that allowed them to scale the Fifth Wall momentarily. This way, their trek to the Uptown was over in less time than Derufin had needed to come up with what to say to the Lady.

“Better you greet her, and I follow along,” Derufin told his friend.

“She will not bite, you know,” Boromir replied quietly, as they approached the Lord of Lossarnach’s city estate. Sure enough, a carriage waited out-front, laden with numerous chests and packs. Even more baggage was being lugged from the townhouse by a flock of servants. Several horses waited nearby at the ready.

“I think I wouldn’t mind if she truly bit me…,” pondered Derufin. “Depending on the location of the biting, certainly!”. Boromir snorted and opened his mouth to retort, but then the Lady herself emerged from the door.

“Lord High Warden, Captain Derufin! I regretted not seeing more of you yesterday at the Feast,” she said by way of greeting and flashed her white teeth. "Do you already miss my dancing? Are you here to beg me to stay?" She levelled them both with her gaze playfully, but lingered on Boromir, no doubt noticing his decidedly not fresh training attire. He did not look the part of the High Warden, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Lady Morwen. Certainly the seamstresses of the Fourth Level will be grieving your departure come tomorrow,” he countered her easily. “With you goes their livelihood. We are come on their behalf to bid you a safe journey.”

Lady Morwen laughed. She was tan and plump, had a wide smile, wide hips, luscious dark bouncy curls and bouncy… other parts, and Boromir liked all of that. She was also quick witted and he liked that even more. But Boromir would never think to court her. She would likely neither understand nor agree with his warrior’s lifestyle, and, more importantly, under no circumstance would he do anything to undermine Derufin’s chance at happiness. They remained acquaintances and Boromir enjoyed their friendly banter and an occasional dance. The same could not be said of Derufin, who would become severely tongue-tied and prone to stumbling in her presence.

“Well then, you may inform the mourning seamstresses that I shall be thinking of them very fondly in Arnach, and I shall return one day for new gowns, so they better be ready for me,” she said cheerfully, but then her smile faded. “I truly am loath to depart, but I dare not  ignore my Lord Father’s summons any longer.”

They fell silent at that, for there was nothing left to say. To his surprise, Boromir felt a pang of genuine sadness. He was no courtier, nor did he attend much of the noble gatherings, but even he could recognize that the White City would be diminished greatly by the exodus of its gentry. With their departure the music would die down, the parties would cease and the fine arts would be abandoned. But such were the dictates of war.

“Well then,” said Lady Morwen, ending the silence. “Unless one of you, Lords, has something to say to me, that could induce me to stay a while longer…” With these words she looked long and hard at dumbfounded Derufin. ”... I must be off.”

She then briskly entered her carriage, and once seated, looked at them one last time.

“I will be thinking of you and praying for your safety,” she said. “You are our champions and heroes, and the hearts of the people are with you. Do not forget that on the field of battle, my Lords.” Her solemnity and pathos surprised Boromir, but he detected no sign of mockery nor artifice.

“We thank you, Lady. Please, do convey our respects to your esteemed Lord in the Vale of Flowers,” he replied officially and bowed.

“I fervently hope to see you again, my Lady,” said Derufin.

“As do I, Derufin,” she said, then she tapped the roof to signal the coachman. The carriage started moving and just like that, Lady Morwen was off to Lossarnach. Both men looked after her convoy advancing on the Main Street to disappear in the Sixth Gate. Derufin uttered a heart-rending sigh.

“You truly are a dolt,” said Boromir. 

“Aye, that I am,” Derufin agreed weakly, and Boromir had no heart to tease him any further.

“Come, let us go to the Mûmak and cheer ourselves up with a hearty breakfast,” Boromir ordered. “I’ve received summons from the Steward and I cannot face him on an empty stomach,” he said and grimaced. Immediately, he regretted these words, honest as they were. He should not be mentioning his liege lord in such an irreverent manner. A sign, perhaps, that his patience was wearing thin these last weeks. 

But Derufin seemed to take it in stride, sympathetic to his fellow noble son’s predicament.

“It wouldn’t do, no,” he said. “I do not envy you and Your Lord, with what has been going on.”

To that, Boromir could only nod, and sigh, and then the both men were off to Midtown. Derufin was the closest friend Boromir had in the world, save of course for Faramir and perhaps for Theodred of Rohan. Derufin and his older brother Duilin, sons of the Lord Duinhir of Morthond, had come to Minas Tirith some twenty years prior, at the cusp of their adulthood, to receive military training. They had quickly formed an alliance with the Steward’s Heir, them being alike to Boromir in age and station. After two summers of training Duilin, as his father’s heir, had been summoned back to Blackroot Vale, Derufin however had received leave to remain as one of the Knights in the service of the Steward. And so he and Boromir had spent most of their youth together, sparring, chasing skirts and frequenting taverns. 

The Fat Mûmakil on the Fourth Level was one such tavern, their favourite establishment, as it happened. The upper-class Sixth Level had several elegant inns with gourmet cuisine, as well as a scattering of small shops with artisanal pastries and refreshing spicy beverages from Rhûn and Harad. The Fifth Level boasted many ever-crowded dining establishments with regional dishes, which offered overpriced deals mostly aimed at tourists and travelling merchants. The Fat Mûmakil on the Fourth Level was less formal and less crowded, but still respectable. Mainly Citadel Guards and local men of trade could be met there, and that suited Boromir just fine. He even had his own favourite table, which the owner, Otto, would oft reserve for him, as Boromir was certainly his most prominent patron.

On this day the Mûmakil's main chamber was more crowded than usual, and Boromir could see many of yesterday's revellers trying to drown their hangovers in ale. No sooner were Boromir and Derufin seated at their table, as the serving girl, Gurdun, greeted them with her usual enthusiasm.

“What will it be, my Lords?” she asked. “Late breakfast or an early lunch? We have excellent fresh mutton today!”

Indeed, it was almost noon already, Boromir noted, only then realising how hungry he felt. Derufin’s failed romantic endeavours had cost them the entire morning. The Archer would be late for target practice, but that couldn’t be helped now. Not when a whiff of roasted meat, mixed with tones of sage and rosemary, had his stomach gurgling in pleasant anticipation. After a short deliberation, they decided to fogo breakfast and order the mutton, but just as they were about to place their order, they heard Otto call out from behind the bar.

“Oi! Lass! Haven’t I told you to come and fetch me if Lord High Warden showed up?” the innkeeper chastised poor Gudrun and hurried to their table. “Begging pardon, Lords!” he addressed them politely.

“What is the hurry, Master Barkeeper?” Boromir asked. This behaviour was somewhat irregular for Otto, a man of few words, who often preferred to leave his patrons in peace.

“With your permission, Lord High Warden. I am to relay to you a missive, entrusted to me by one Captain Faramir of the Rangers,” Otto declared, his tone and the expression on his pudgy face indicating utmost reverence.

“Hold on!” Boromir exclaimed and shook his head. Surely the barkeep was mistaken. “Captain Faramir is stationed in Ithilien, and will stay there for some weeks. I would know it if mine own brother was come back home.”

“That is the very thing, Lord Warden,” Otto said, exasperated. “The Lord Faramir was here this morning looking for your Lordship. He’s left this note with me.” With these words, the innkeeper produced a squarely folded letter and handed it to Boromir. “I beg your pardon, Lord! I would have passed it right away, but for this forgetful goose that calls herself a waitress.”

“Come now, surely no harm is done,” Boromir waved off the barkeep’s concerns and winked at the lass, which made her face turn even redder, if such a thing were even possible. Sure enough, the letter bore Faramir’s seal and Boromir hastily broke it to unfold the parchment.

To the most worthy Lord Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, High Warden of the Citadel, and Captain-General of Gondor, from his loving brother Captain Faramir: warmest greetings!

It has ever been my sincerest wish to see you in good health and high spirits, and for myself, to be by your side always, or at least as oft as Fate would allow. Now I rejoice, for the time of our reunion is near.

I am come back to the City this morning post haste, spurred by a most peculiar Dream. I have looked for you in the Garrison, but found you absent, and your Squire informed me you had left with Lord Derufin of Blackroot Vale. I thought you had gone to the Fat Mûmakil for breakfast; it seems I was mistaken. No matter, you are like to turn up here sooner or later. I am most impatient to reunite with you, yet there is someone I need to see first about the Dream.

I pray dearest brother, meet me in the Citadel this afternoon after the third bell. 

May the Valar bestow upon you all their blessings, so wishes Yours forever loving brother,

Faramir

Boromir couldn’t help but smile, as he read the letter. So like his Faramir, to have even the most mundane of notes be a cause for shame for the professional scribes. Boromir hated correspondence and would always make it as short as possible, yet Faramir could produce artful speeches off the top of his head, even scrawling over his knee in the corner of a tavern. He would not forgo any part required for the sake of formality, which Boromir was wont to do.

Yet, formally complete as it was, Faramir’s letter posed more questions than it answered. That his brother on occasion was plagued by weird dreams, and that he ascribed to them prophetic meanings - Boromir knew, and sometimes he even dared believe it. But why was this dream so urgent to warrant abandoning his post in East Ithilien? Did his brother have some news relating to the Enemy? And who was this person Faramir was going to meet? The logical guess would be the Lord Denethor, whose insightful predictions often bordered on prophetic as well. But then why hadn’t Faramir simply written that he was off to meet their Lord Father? Surely, as Captain of the Rangers he had to report to the Steward first thing?

“And? What writes Faramir?” asked Derufin, snapping Boromir out of his musings. Both his friend and the innkeeper had apparently been waiting for his reaction, and in the latter case - for a dismissal.

“You spoke true, Otto, my brother is in the City and bids me to meet him,” Boromir said and nodded to the barkeep. “As always, I thank you for your hospitality, and for delivering this message,” he said. Otto bowed and then, seemingly relieved, retreated behind the bar.

"Friend, I've need of you," said Boromir to Derufin.

"Of course," his answer came. “Say aught and it will be done.”

"I find I cannot wait, so here is where we part. I am going to the Citadel to seek out my brother," Boromir declared, all thoughts of a meal forgotten. "When You reach the Garrison, tell Sergeant Hirgon that the muster is postponed till tomorrow. And send my Squire Huor Uptown."

Derufin raised his eyebrows.

"As you wish, Boromir. But I expect to later hear from you about all this that you are about now. Whatever the matter, it has your knickers in a twist."

"I know not the matter myself yet. Only that certain things do not add up, and I must investigate," pondered Boromir. He stood and tossed coins to the table. "Now I am off! Treat yourself to the mutton on my account. Be hale, Friend!"

"And you!" came Derufin's answer, but Boromir was already halfway to the tavern's door.

Time was of essence, so he used the hidden ladder on the Fifth Wall, which was just a short walk behind the Mûmakil. Once he reached Fifth Level, it was only a matter of following the Main Street for some two hundred yards, and he found himself crossing the Sixth Gate. He gave the obligatory password to the men at the post; it was, of course, entirely unnecessary in his case, as one would be hard pressed to find a guardsman not able to recognize the High Warden on sight. However, Boromir would personally reprimand any guard who forwent this duty, and well they knew it.

The Sixth Level did not cover a large area, and it mainly comprised the estates of the most prominent Lords and Barons. It had a couple notable points, though. On the left, Boromir passed the grand complex of the Healing Houses with adjacent Gardens. Continuing along the Main Street he reached the seventh and final of the City Gates, which was in truth more of a tunnel than a gate, hewn under the spur of rock that stemmed from the Hill of Guard. The tunnel went three-ways: it connected northern and southern parts of the Sixth Level with the Courtyard of the Citadel. Boromir could walk the path to the top with his eyes closed, without even thinking about it, this time however, something perverted his course.

Just as he was about to turn left to enter the staircase leading to the Courtyard, he felt a strange, distinct tug in his stomach. As if he was supposed to go somewhere else. A calling, of sorts. Instead of turning, he continued straight through the tunnel and emerged on the northern side of the Spur. 

This part of the Sixth Level would become shadowed by the Mountain later during the day, but for now the white walls of opulent townhouses shone still in the early afternoon sun. Compared to them, the building of the Royal Archives looked nondescript, but it was the one that Boromir turned his steps towards. He could not say what sort of intuition guided him; he only had an inkling as to who might be waiting for him at his destination.

Despite the outward building of the Archives being average in size, on the inside its chambers were numerous and vast, for they continued deep into the Mountain, and the farthest, oldest halls were situated under the Citadel. There was even a secret passage between the Archives and the Tower of Ecthelion, although that was one of the better guarded secrets of Gondor, and Boromir was one of the only few, besides his father, Faramir, Warden of the Keys and the Head Archivist, who knew about it.

But right then, after entering the Archives, Boromir went not to the deep halls and the passage, but towards the airy and well lit Public Hall.

The Archives were unpopulated most of the time. The Public Hall was furnished with numerous tall rows of bookshelves, which formed a veritable labyrinth, with a few small and sparsely lit desks and workstations. As he wandered between the shelves, Boromir heard two voices speaking, of which both sounded familiar: one belonged to his brother Faramir -  there could be no mistake. The other voice he could not quite place, although he was certain he's heard it before.

"... And think you truly, that this has aught to do with our Kingdom?" Faramir's muffled voice became clearer as Boromir approached a large stained-glass window. His brother and the mysterious guest were occupying an alcove in the library, fashioned in a wide, sunny embrasure. Boromir knew the spot; it had long been Faramir’s favourite hideout. 

"Who can tell what fate has in store for any of us, my young friend?" answered the second voice and although Boromir recognized it then, he could scarce believe his own ears. What finally convinced him of the mystery person's identity was a generous billow of pipeweed smoke that wafted from the embrasure. Boromir halted. He was not sure of his readiness to face the guest, and he didn't want to interrupt what he knew was a long-awaited opportunity for Faramir.

"I should tell Boromir about this, later," Faramir said, "Though, he is like to make light of such matters. Yet I find I want to share with him all the news of import anyways." Hearing this, Boromir felt his heart swell with a rush of tenderness for his younger brother. He should pay more attention to the stories and dreams Faramir would recount to him, even if he did not always understand them.

"You need not wait, my young friend. You can tell him right now," the voice answered. Of course, thought Boromir, I cannot hide from a Wizard.

“Now? How…” Faramir began, but Boromir decided to wait no longer.

As his presence had been discovered, he had little choice but to step out from behind the bookcase and face both Mithrandir and Faramir; the latter quite literally, for Faramir was immediately upon him, clasping his shoulders and arms in greeting.

“Brother!” he exclaimed, his entire face alight with joy. Boromir immediately felt a tight knot in his chest unravel. He did not know how much he had been worrying for his brother until the worries dissipated at the welcome sight and new vigour surged through his veins.

“‘Tis I! And ‘tis you, and you are whole,” Boromir said and embraced his brother, overcome with emotion. “A happy day. I’ve got your note.”

“Aye! But how did you know I’d be here? The note said the Citadel, and after the third bell!” Faramir asked, furrowing his brow in that characteristic manner of his, which always amused Boromir.

“How did I know you’d be in the library? Where the books are?” Boromir laughed. “A wonder, truly. Must that you’re not the only one with prophetic abilities, little brother.” He did not want to elaborate and explain the mysterious premonition that guided him here, so he disguised it as a jest.

“Evidently not,” said Mithrandir, reminding the brothers of his presence. 

On the best of days, Boromir was not too fond of Wizards. They came and went as they pleased, and seemed to know entirely too much, but they never shared their insights, unless it suited their agenda. They kept their own counsel, the Order of the Istari they called it, or what had you, and because of this Boromir was always a little suspicious about their true allegiance. Greater good they always preached, but too often they were the ones who dictated where that greater good might lay. The lore of Western Domains brimmed with tales of unfortunate mortals, who were spurred by this Wizard or the other to do something unpardonably stupid.

Or maybe he just did not like to be on the receiving end of that drilling, speculative gaze, like the one Mithrandir was currently regarding him with. It made Boromir’s teeth itch.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith, Grey Wanderer," Boromir said nevertheless and bowed politely. It was always wise to be polite to the Istari, lest they turn me into a frog, or whatever it is they do to mortals they no longer have use of, he reasoned.

"Well met, Son of Denethor," said Mithrandir. "You are much changed, since last I've seen you."

Typical wizard behaviour, Boromir thought sourly. Always implying something, but never saying it clearly. What was even more annoying, he could not say the same to the Wizard - The Grey Wanderer had not aged a day during the entirety of Boromir’s life, and also the life of his father Denethor, and his grandfather Ecthelion, if they were to be believed. He chose to ignore the Wizard’s remark.

"Long has it been since we last spoke, Lord Istar," he answered levelly. Thirteen years, to be exact, his memory supplied. Members of the Istari order would visit Minas Tirith from time to time: sometimes they were gone for a year, sometimes for five years, sometimes twenty, and sometimes two hundred years or even more. Five of the Istari were known to the people of Gondor, their deeds recorded in legends, and if there were more, they had never revealed themselves. As far as the memory of the Ruling Stewards reached, only two Wizards: Mithrandir and Curunir, had ever regaled Gondor’s rulers with their company and their advice. Of the two, Mithrandir’s name had often been associated with ill news and ill adventures, and the inhabitants of Minas Tirith generally feared and avoided him. They called him Stormcrow, the portend of doom. Fitting, that he’d turn up now of all times, Boromir thought.

"Has it?" the Wizard furrowed his comically bushy brows. "Seems to me like yesterday. I must be getting old."

You think? Boromir snarked in the privacy of his thoughts, but said nothing out loud. He did not have time for Mithrandir's antics. He came here to meet with his brother, whose absence of several months was felt by him more keenly than Mithrandir's over a decade of silence.

“Don’t let me keep you, Sons of Denethor,” said Gandalf, not for the first time making Boromir wonder if perhaps the Wizard could read minds.

“But what will you be doing now, Gandalf?” Faramir asked, seeming loath to part with the Wizard, whom, as Boromir knew, he greatly admired. In his youth, Faramir had spent many evenings in the Grey Wanderer's company in these very Archives, or in the Sixth Level’s Gardens, to the amazement of the archivists and healers, and to the Lord Steward’s eternal annoyance. Mithrandir would smoke pipeweed then, recount his many fantastical tales, and tutor Faramir in the art of interpreting dreams. Boromir knew this only because Faramir had told him, for he himself had never been present during these meetings. Faramir often spoke about Gandalf and reminisced on everything the Wizard had told him, even many years after the Grey Wanderer’s last visit to Minas Tirith. 

To Boromir’s astonishment, the Wizard gave a plain answer.

“I will be searching for a certain piece of history deep in the bowels of these Archives, my young friend,” he said, with uncharacteristic sobriety. “Pray that I find it, for it will be no easy task, and much depends upon it.”

“Then I will help you!” said Faramir immediately. “This is why I am come! To be of service to you, dearest Gandalf!” Boromir could see his brother’s excitement, but privately he worried. He would hate for Faramir to get involved in one of the Wizard’s suspect schemes.

“You already serve Gondor and your Lord well, Captain Faramir, and let us leave it at that,” said Gandalf kindly. “Your present tasks are vital and appreciated. This quest must be mine alone.” In his words rang such finality, that no one in their right mind would dare contest them.

“We wish you a brief and fruitful labour, then,” Faramir acquiesced. “May you find what you came for.”

“Farewell, Faramir and Boromir. Until we meet again.” With this, Gandalf wandered off into the labyrinth of bookcases and disappeared in a billow of pipeweed smoke.

Now left alone with his brother, Boromir afforded himself the luxury of a shared quiet moment with the person he loved most. He took in the sight of Faramir, whose skin was tan and whose hair gained paler reflexes from being out in the sun, but who was safe and sound, and generally no worse for the wear, despite having faced the danger of the Enemy every day for the past near to four moons. Faramir observed him in turn. When they were both content that no harm had come to the other, Boromir spoke, almost hesitant to interrupt the silence.

“Have you seen our Lord the Steward yet?” he asked, knowing that Faramir wouldn't be too eager to fulfil this particular duty, and wanting to assist him. Or maybe it is me who doesn’t want to face the Steward alone, Boromir thought sourly. He still hadn’t answered his father’s summons.

“I have, as happens,” Faramir said, to Boromir’s surprise. “I went to him first thing, ever his faithful servant. He is up to date with the Rangers’ manoeuvres, as I’ve been sending him frequent and extensive reports. He did not want much from me, save for the recount of recent days and of my journey here. And, of course, the cause for my abandoning of my post. He did not take kindly to that, even if he could see my reasons.” Faramir’s tone was bland and formal, as it was usually when he was speaking of Denethor.

“What were your reasons for coming here?” Boromir asked.

“I’ll tell you everything, but not here. There are still respects left to pay on the occasion of my return,” said Faramir, and his eyes softened. “Will you go with me?” he asked.

“I will,” Boromir agreed, not even needing to ask where they were going.

Together, they exited the Archives into the lazy afternoon bustle of Uptown. They directed their steps to the left, where the uppermost traverse of the Main Street girded the Citadel and led straight to Fen Hollen. As the name implied, the massive gate would remain ever closed to the public, with the exception of a select few. The sons of the Steward counted among the approved visitors, of course.

“Lord High Warden, Captain Faramir!” the Portier saluted as he held the door ajar, only wide enough to let them pass.

Only once the iron gate closed behind them, could Boromir relax. He was finally alone with Faramir, in this hallowed space designated for eternal rest. Slowly, they strolled along Rath Dínen, admiring the view of the slopes of Mindolluin bathed in the afternoon sun that the path afforded. Boromir was anxious to hear his brother’s tale, yet he knew better than to press him. Sure enough, Faramir soon spoke unprompted.

“Chiefly, I came back to meet with Gandalf, although of course I did not tell that to Father,” Faramir began.

“No,” Boromir agreed. Denethor hardly needed any more reasons to be angry with Faramir, as was. “But how did you know he’d be here? There has been no news of him for over a decade.”

“I think he summoned me,” Faramir said, frowning. “Although he would not admit it. I sensed his coming, and hastened back to the City. Anyways, it was vital that I spoke both to father and to Gandalf because of a dream I had last night. I knew not what to make of the vision and seeked to consult them.”

Not with the visions again , thought Boromir. The theme of revelations and premonitions had always been pervasive in their family. After three decades of his service to the Steward, Boromir became convinced that his father had some means of clairvoyance that surpassed ordinary mortal senses. It was impossible to hide anything from Lord Denethor, and his intuition was legendary among the people of Gondor. How would his father obtain clandestine knowledge of various topics and occurrences, Boromir knew not, for the Steward confided in no one.

Boromir was, on the other hand, privy to the intimate details of Faramir’s life. Ever since childhood, his brother had suffered from mysterious dreams and spells of delirium, which even the Warden of the Healing Houses could not explain. During those states, Faramir would experience visions, often filled with symbolic topics and legendary themes. The visions were what fueled his love for history and lore. Some unsympathetic courtiers would circulate rumours that the younger son of the Steward was unsound of mind, none however would dare to repeat such slander in Boromir’s range of hearing. Mithrandir considered the visions a gift, and declared them prophetic. It was for this reason that the Wizard decided to tutor Faramir, and he visited the city regularly for a period of time during their youth. Anyone who knew Faramir could not doubt the strength of his on all accounts brilliant mind, and neither Boromir nor Lord Denethor had ever given any serious consideration to the notion that Faramir might be going insane. However, Boromir was to this day reluctant to buy into the supernatural diagnosis as given by Mithrandir.

In truth, Faramir’s condition often worried him. The visions concerned grave topics and were connected to the history and fate of their Kingdom and the world of Men. They often taxed Faramir, who was ever for his part a sensitive, introspective lad, and the dreams became the cause for his brother’s further isolation. To remedy this, Boromir would always listen to Faramir’s recount of the visions and try to lessen his burden by offering consolation, even if he himself was not entirely convinced of the origin or veracity of his brother’s clairvoyance. This time was no different.

“Will you tell me?” he asked. Faramir needed no further encouragement.

“I dreamt, and in that dream I saw a vast swathe of forest,” his brother began. “A realm older and darker than the woods of Ithilien and Anorien, if you can believe it. The sky above it was clouded and dreary, and for a long time there was silence and little else. Then suddenly the sky was rent, and a flash of blinding light appeared to permeate the entire forest. A strange and wonderful chanting filled the air, in a language unknown to me, and I was overcome by awe. Soon, as rapidly as it started, the song died down, and a great many birds took flight at once and soared to the West. The dream was not yet over then, but I missed it’s last part, because that’s when Mablung woke me, damn him. He said I was trashing in my sleep, which I probably was. But something important might have escaped me because of him. I hope I’ll dream of it again.”

Boromir hoped for the exact opposite, because Faramir’s tale filled him with a sense of supernatural foreboding, which did not sit well with him.

“What did our father make of it?” Boromir asked.

“He’s listened to my recounting of the dream, but offered no insight nor any commentary,” Faramir sighed. “You know how he is.”

“Aye,” Boromir confirmed. Denethor took interest in Faramir’s visions, true, but often offered no sympathy nor counsel for his younger son. It always angered Boromir, because, of all the people, Lord Denethor, who probably shared some of his son’s gifts, would be best equipped to relieve Faramir’s anxieties. But he never did. “And what explanation did Mithrandir give you?” Boromir asked instead of dwelling on the family conflict. 

“Gandalf said that something has happened in one of the Elven realms of the North. A source of primaeval power, rarely seen in Our Age, has briefly awakened, and disturbed the peace of an Elven Queen. He himself has felt the surge of magic, and later received news of what’s happened from a friend. He also said…” here Faramir briefly hesitated, before continuing, “... that because I have dreamt of it, the event might somehow connect to the fate of Gondor. Though I do not see how, nor does he.”

As always, Boromir was in awe of how much occult knowledge the Wizard was willing to share with Faramir. Boromir himself could not get a straight answer from Mithrandir even if he asked to be shown the way to a privy. Wander and ye shall find what ye seek the old man would say, or other such nonsense, and then he’d gladly watch Boromir piss himself. 

However, he had to abandon both his humorous musings of wizards, as well as the daunting mystery of Faramir’s dreams, for the brothers had at last reached the end of Rath Dínen, and entered the Houses of the Dead.

The greatest mausoleum was of course dedicated to Gondor’s Kings of yore, and its portal had been sealed ever since the funeral of King Eärnur, nearly a millennium ago. As they passed its opulent carved fronton, Boromir and Faramir’s feet took them along the familiar path to the Mausoleum of the Stewards, where, amongst the innumerable epitaphs of their kin, their mother had been laid to rest. Lord Denethor had her marble likeness placed upon her monument, and both of her sons now contemplated its cool beauty in silence. Boromir regretted not having brought any token of remembrance - a bundle of fragrant herbs, or a candle to place upon her grave. He would usually forget things like that when visiting here. There were always fresh flowers adorning the tombstone, their father saw to that personally, but it would have been nice to leave something of his own.

"Do you ever think about what she'd make of us?" asked Faramir suddenly, to Boromir's surprise. His brother rarely spoke of their mother and Boromir wasn't sure how well Faramir remembered her, given that his brother had only been in his fifth winter when she had passed away.

"She would be proud of you, I know it," he said. And she would not let the Steward estrange you thus , he added in his thoughts. She would not suffer you being sent to the forefront of a brewing war for months on end. She'd want you here, in the Capital, where your brilliance could truly shine.  

If anyone ever had any influence over Lord Denethor, it had been the Lady Finduilas. Since her passing the Steward would shoulder his burdens alone. In his youth, Boromir often dreamed of finding love like the one he saw between his parents. He firmly pushed those thoughts aside. It was no time to be getting sentimental.

"She was like you, in many ways," Boromir said to his brother instead. "Having you makes me miss her less."

"Yes," Faramir agreed. "The same goes for you. Let us leave her in peace and be off."

They turned back and again strolled along Rath Dinen, this time towards the City. The sun was already leaning towards the West, bound to disappear behind Mount Mindolluin sooner than later.

Now that the heavy, intimate topics were out of the way, Boromir's thoughts drifted towards his everyday worries again. He was sorely tempted to shower Faramir with questions about the orcish warbands that the Ithilien Rangers were battling, about their numbers, their equipment, camp placements and preferred strategies, but he held back for Faramir's sake. After the first euphoria of seeing his brother in one piece had passed, Boromir saw the silent traces of bone-deep weariness in his brother. Faramir looked thinner, his eyes were shadowed and lacked spark. Boromir wondered if he in turn appeared tired to Faramir, given all the pressure he himself had been under these past months. Anyhow, he was unlikely to get out of Faramir any more than he had already learned from his brother's detailed field reports.

Instead, it was Faramir who introduced lighter topics.

"Aunt Irviniel wrote to me that cousin Elphir is to take a wife," he informed conversationally. "She sends you her best regards and regrets we cannot be present for the wedding."

Boromir snorted.

"Oh, I do doubt that!" he countered. "She may miss you, to be sure, but me and father I'd wager she could do without." There was no love lost between Boromir and his aunt Irviniel.

"Do not be like that!" Faramir chided. "I shall write to her that you send your regards as well," he added generously.

Together they returned to the Citadel, mostly trading news about their friends and extended family. When they entered the Courtyard of the Fountain, they halted to consider their next course. 

“When are you heading back to Ithilien?” Boromir asked his brother, reluctant to part ways with him, but knowing he would have to.

“Father wants me back on my post as soon as possible, so I’ll be leaving on the morrow at first light,” Faramir replied.

“I will be there to see you off, then,” Boromir said, as he clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Rest now and treat yourself to a large dinner. You’re waning.”

“Do not mother hen me!” Faramir bristled. “You yourself look worn out like a bed in a brothel! You send me to dine and rest, and where will you go? Off to do more work, I’d wager.”

“Such crass words from my gentle little brother!” exclaimed Boromir, affecting shock, and then laughed. "I see the company of soldiers has been rubbing off on you! But your wits avail you, alas, I am guilty as charged," he added. He was still yet to break the night’s fast, still had High Warden duties to attend to and he still hadn’t answered his father’s call. 

Having traded goodnights with his brother, Boromir went straight to his office in the Guard House. At its door he met his Squire Huor, and he immediately felt guilty for forgetting about the boy for the better part of the day.

“Huor!” he called, “had you aught in your belly since morning?” The boy shook his head. “Ha! And neither had I. Hurry off to the kitchens and bid them send us some provisions. Then fetch the ledgers and be ready to assist me.”

As Huor scurried off in his quest for sustenance, Boromir reluctantly looked at the dispatches and reports piling on his desk. There will be time to read them tomorrow , after the muster, he reassured himself. Among the papers, he found the one he’d been after: the report from the Mason’s Guild on the state of Rammas Echor. Father will be asking about this, he thought, as he unfolded the parchment to briefly familiarise himself with its contents.

After wolfing in the bread and cold cuts that the cook had sent their way, together with Huor Boromir moved to the Armory. There, they were greeted by Warden Ornendil, Boromir’s lieutenant in charge of the Second Company of Tower Guard. The man had been cataloguing the stockpiled weapons and armour pieces since morning, with the help of a small flock of scribes.

“At ease, Warden!” Boromir greeted his saluting lieutenant. “I see you have almost finished the stocktaking without us.”

“With your permission, Lord High Warden,” Ornendil replied, “we are indeed almost done with the listing.”

And so Boromir began the tedious task of examining the quality of the stockpiled weapons, and then checking his ledgers with the lists made by Ornendil’s scribes. The work took the rest of the already fleeting afternoon. In fact, when finally Boromir pressed his seal in the ledger and ordered the stockpiles of weapons moved to the storehouses in the City, it was already dark out. He’d missed dinner.

“Off with you, Huor,” Boromir dismissed the lad with a tired sigh. “Go say goodnight to your grandfather and be ready for muster at the Garrison at first bell.”

“Aye, Sir!” Huor saluted and hastened away. Huor’s grandfather was Hurin, Warden of the Keys, and Boromir only accepted the lad as his Squire out of respect for the prominent court official. He had thought tutoring Huor would be a chore, however, the boy turned out to be an adequate assistant and pulled his own weight more often than not.

Huor went off to his Lord and it is time I went to mine, Boromir thought tiredly, as he crossed the lantern-lit Courtyard and entered the Tower of Ecthelion. He passed through the magnificent Tower Hall, sparing a glance towards the dais with two thrones: one for the absent King and one for his Lord the Steward. The very top of the Tower served as his father’s private study, and everyone in the Citadel knew that the Steward ought not to be disturbed after having retreated there. Boromir knew, however, that his father would be waiting for him in his day office, situated on one of the lower condignations, likely still at work. He wasn’t wrong.

“You took your time.” Denethor’s chilled voice reached him when he ascended the stairs and halted in the office door.

“Apologies, Sire!” Boromir said and bowed deeply. “I’ve been otherwise detained, but now here I am at your service.”

“Detained by gallivanting with the Wizard and sentimental trips with your brother, I am told,” Denethor noted, his tone seemingly nonchalant, but Boromir knew better than to believe in his father's disinterest.

"They brought curious tidings," he answered carefully.

"That may be," His father said. "I suspect Faramir has shared his dream with you. Only, it was no mere dream. What he saw happened in reality. I have been  informed about a magical event of some sort that occurred in the woodlands west of Dale."

Boromir was acutely aware of his father's searching gaze. He was surprised. How could the Steward be able to confirm this news with such certainty and so soon? To Boromir’s best knowledge, Gondor had not kept close diplomatic ties with Dale, and the news travelled slowly, through irregular missives sent with merchant caravans. This was one of those instances that over the years had led Boromir to surmise that his father possessed some means of divination.

“And I wonder… What did the Wizard make of it?” Denethor asked pointedly. Denethor had always been mistrustful of Mithrandir and rarely invited him to the court. However, privately, he strived to watch the Grey Pilgrim’s movements closely each time the wizard visited Minas Tirith.

Boromir could not prevent a sigh from escaping him.

“He said a… magical stirring had disturbed the peace of the woodland Elves,” he reported dutifully, albeit inwardly he winced. He was aware that Lord Steward was using him, and Faramir too, indirectly, to gain access to the Wizard’s thoughts and insights, and it sat ill with him. It felt dishonest. Alas, it could not be helped; Denethor was his liege lord and his sire, and honour demanded that Boromir withheld nothing from him. So he would not. “Mithrandir thinks some ancient source of power caused this. It could be connected to Gondor, though I know not how.”

“Interesting,” Denethor mused. “I will investigate this further, and perhaps consult Curunir…”

Boromir winced again. He could, with some reluctance, tolerate Mithrandir, because, for all of his faults, the Grey Wizard had always been kind to Faramir, and that, to Boromir, counted for a lot. He had, on the other hand, no such warm sentiments towards the haughty and cunning Saruman. Unfortunately, for as long as Boromir could remember the Lord Steward had courted Curunir’s friendship and heeded the White Wizard’s advice. I have had enough wizard-talk to last me three full moons, Boromir thought bitterly.

“Do not make such faces, Boromir,” his father admonished. “We need to be on the lookout for anything that might help us defeat the Enemy, and Curunir has been helpful with his counsel thus far. But, we mustn't forsake the mundane preparations on account of the fantastical. Tell me, what is the state of Rammas Echor?”

Boromir was prepared for this question. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the report from the Masons’ Guild, that he had commissioned a fortnight prior.

“Most of the stonework done by our Lord Ecthelion has either crumbled or been dismantled to expand the farming grounds. A palisade has been erected in its place, which is now serving as a rudimentary barrier, but it is susceptible to fire. The only stone sections that held are the ones adjacent to Causeway Forts, and a line of fortifications near Harlond, but they, too, require repairs,” Boromir reported. He laid out the parchment on the desk before the Steward. “This is the estimated cost of completing the stonework.”

His Father regarded the parchment, but initially said nothing. Boromir felt his anxiety surge. He knew he did not, and would not have enough men to defend a wooden stake wall. He needed a sound, stone defence line, so he could man it sparsely and still be able to hold the Enemy at a distance from Minas Tirith. He also hoped that completing the Rammas Echor would keep at least some of the many farmhouses scattered across Pelennor Fields from harm’s way. However…

“I worry the council will not approve of this expense,” Boromir confessed.

“‘Tis true the State can hardly afford it. But even less can we afford losing the adjacent farmlands and having the enemy cut off our supply lines. You leave the council to me, Boromir,” Denethor reassured him. “They will grumble, but they will yield. I gave you a City to defend, my son, and I would give you the means to defend it with.”

Boromir was overwhelmed with relief. He should not have doubted the Steward. He should not have worried needlessly. His Father was wise, he could see what was necessary. The councillors will bow to his will.

“Thank you, Sire,” he said, trying to convey the depth of his gratitude with his tone rather than opulent words.

“Do not thank me yet,” Denethor sobered him. “The construction, as detailed in this report, will take nigh to two years. I will evacuate the populace, and gather supplies so that the City might stand a chance. But it will take time. You must buy us that time, Boromir. ”

“Surely the situation is not so dire, Lord! According to Faramir, the Enemy’s movements have been concentrated in the North of Ithilien, near Morannon. But we have been provisioning and strengthening Cair Andros for a long time now. The island fort will hold,” Boromir said, assured of his merit. As Gondor’s Captain-General, he had been religiously studying the recent movements of the troops, both friend and foe alike, based on field reports. The situation was serious, but stable, and the constant watches, patrols and well-coordinated sorties from Cair Andros prevented the Enemy’s crossing of Anduin.

“This is precisely why I summoned you, Captain-General,” said Denethor. “It is not Cair Andros that should have you worried. The reports from our soldiers, and your brother’s among them, have been an admirable effort at intelligence, but they are incomplete.” This was news to Boromir. He raised his eyebrows. “Look here,” the Steward said, as he spread a big scroll across his desk.

Before Boromir lay a map of Ithilien, with recent troop movements marked on it meticulously. Boromir recognized his father’s precise cartography and neat handwriting. 

“Observe the placement of orcish warbands, and the Haradrim camps.” The Steward pointed to the irregular blotches of red ink that dotted the forests and grassy plains between Anduin and Ephel Dúath. “Now compare this map with the one from last month,” the Steward said, as he unrolled another, similar map. “Trace the patterns of their movements, and tell me what do you mark from it.”

Boromir bent down over the maps and studied them for a while. The data presented by his father differed from the intelligence from field reports. That, or they hadn’t been reading the same reports. Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier? Boromir wondered bitterly. But his outrage soon gave way to alarm at another revelation.

“They’re encircling Osgiliath!” he exclaimed, looking at his father, flabbergasted.

“They might seem uncoordinated bands of brigands, to an untrained eye,” the Steward commented. “But when one considers all that is given, ‘tis apparent, is it not? They mean to take the Bridge, and enter Anórien right under our noses.”

“My Lord!” Boromir bit back a curse. “How came you by this knowledge? There have been no reports of these Haradrim camps!”

“Compose yourself, Boromir!” the Steward thundered. “That is not the point! What matters is that we are not yet ready to face them on the Western Bank. If they pass, the people will be slaughtered, the crops burned, and they will come knocking at our gates with battering rams ere a siege can be prepared with even a slight chance of success!” Denethor paused his angry tirade and looked out the window, from which a view of the entire Minas Tirith and Pelennor could be admired. The City’s sombre nighttime silence seemed to echo the Steward’s grave sentiments. “They cannot pass. Your men must be ready,” the Steward said with finality.

The news had somewhat shaken Boromir, but not enough to make him doubt his warriors.

“We are at your command, Sire. My men are working their very hardest. And I am, too.”

Denethor was silent for a longer while. Boromir started to think there wouldn't be any answer, and that he should prepare for a harsh dismissal. But when the Steward finally spoke, it was with an uncharacteristically thin, quiet voice.

“So you do, my son,” he said. “I know you do. A better son I could not wish for. And Gondor, for a better General.”

Boromir felt his throat constrict painfully. It were words like these from his father, few and far between as they came, that later would warm him for many a cold night spent in war encampments. And yet Boromir would much prefer to hear words of scolding, than of caress and praise. For Denethor to go soft like that, things had to be dire indeed, more precarious even than the Steward was letting on. He knew he must do everything in his power to support his father and prevent his stumbling. 

Boromir kneeled before his liege and touched his right hand to his heart.

“I will not fail you, Lord,” he promised. “Mordor will not take the Bridge, this I swear to you. Do you hear? I swear it.”

“Raise, Boromir, son of mine,” answered the Steward. “Your oath does you credit, if you can but uphold it.”

Boromir stood up.

“I will do my very best. I shall dedicate everything towards this goal.”

“Again, I know you shall. And so shall I.” Denethor turned his face away from Boromir and his voice grew even quieter. “But I fear, for the first time, that our best may not be enough. It may not be enough.”

Silence struck Boromir. Never in Boromir’s near forty years of life had the Steward wavered in conviction. Never had his father’s heart given way to worry nor despair. This one sentence of doubt uttered just now by Lord Denethor marked the coming of a new, dark age for Gondor and Boromir suddenly could feel it in his bones. He said nothing, because he did not know what possible consolation he could offer to the very one that so many looked up to.

Denethor regarded his son and must have seen the concern in Boromir’s eyes, because he collected himself hastily.

“Bah! Do not look so dejected!” the Steward waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I am yet to give up. I am merely trying to face our chances squarely, meagre as they are.”

“Aye, Lord,” said Boromir, relieved that his father was able to compose himself.

“Your uncle the Prince writes that your cousin Elphir is to be wed,” his father turned the conversation to lighter topics, a little too eagerly to fool Boromir, who welcomed the change of mood nevertheless. “With the orc attacks we cannot attend to him in Dol Amroth, of course, but we will send gifts and best wishes. You should write to your cousin.”

“Aye, Lord,” Boromir replied, already wondering when would he find the time to compose the letter.

“To think Elphir is nigh ten years your junior…” the Steward began, but very pointedly did not finish the sentence.

With that, Boromir knew the time for sentiments was over and his father was back to his usual acerbic self. He took it as his cue to retreat, lest he suffer another earful about not having produced an heir to the Stewardship.

“I hear Forlong’s daughter has left for Arnach,” the Steward made another remark, seemingly unconnected, but Boromir could almost physically feel a noose tightening around his neck. “I trust you conveyed our best regards to her and to the Lord her father?”

“Aye, Lord,” Boromir confirmed, holding back a cringe.

The Steward did not relent.

“It's been nine years, Boromir…” Another unfinished remark that needed no ending to convey a clear message.

Boromir sighed. He was getting entirely too old for this.

“Might I be excused, Sire? The muster starts early on the morrow.”

✦

That night, Boromir slept and dreamt of vast woodlands, rent skies and flocks of birds.

[next chapter]

Header image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you! <3

[cadomoisspokenfor]

I haven’t watched the Knuckles show yet, but even before seeing it I’m tired of the discourse. Mostly I’m tired of the way this fandom talks about each other, and how we’ve seemingly given in completely to the narrative of universal toxicity prescribed to the fandom by people outside it.

If someone says they dislike a certain piece of Sonic media, or have even an inkling of criticism for it, they get thousands of responses decrying them with things like “the Sonic fandom hates fun” or “the Sonic fandom is so toxic, they can’t handle even the tiniest adaptational changes” or “Sonic fans literally don’t even like the character.”

If someone says they like a certain piece of Sonic media, or even just praise certain aspects of it, they get thousands of responses along the lines of “Sonic fans standards are so low they’ll praise ANYTHING” or “Sonic fans don’t even know what good media is” or “the Sonic fandom is a cult that doesn’t accept even the smallest criticisms of their god.”

First off, which is it? Is the Sonic fandom incapable of hearing criticism, or does it only ever criticize without enjoying new things?

Second, this idea of the Sonic fandom being inherently toxic no matter what is a large part of what’s breeding so much toxicity in the first place. Can’t you see it? Please tell me you can see it. If no one can discuss ANYTHING, no matter what opinion they have, without it being labelled as “typical Sonic fan craziness,” than any attempt at building healthy community in the first place is forfeit because it’s already been decided that talking about the character we all like is off limits. We’re all only here to be mad at each other. No one dares say they’re actually a part of the fandom. We all have to be “fandom adjacent” to not be perceived as toxic by default. And that’s stupid.

Why do we talk to each other with such condescension? Why have we just accepted this state of affairs? Why do we act like our opinions are objective and that everyones else must agree with us or else be labeled as “crazy Sonic fans” even if we’re clearly Sonic fans ourselves? And if we don’t act like that, why do we tolerate so many others acting this way and ruining what could be a fairly straightforward and happy fan community? (Not to point the finger but many popular youtubers who dabble in Sonic perpetuate the above quite a bit and I very much wish we’d all stop treating them as arbiters of reason. They’re just people, same as you and me. It’s ok to disagree with them. It should be at least.)

I’m serious. Toxicity in the fandom is a real problem that needs constant vigilance in order to maintain a healthy community space, but that idea has been weaponized and the fandom’s become exponentially worse for it.

I guess I’m just asking, more like pleading, that before you jump to labeling someone saying they like or dislike a piece of media as toxic, stop and ask yourself “Are they really being toxic? Or are they just having an opinion in a completely-unsensational-if-it-was-any-fandom-but-the-sonic-fandom kinda way?”

People need to be able to say “Yes, we’re Sonic fans” without it carrying a negative connotation. And that takes recognizing the humanity in each other first and foremost. If we keep capitulating to those who call the fandom inherently toxic, it will only get worse. Again, toxicity is bad but we lost the plot ages ago. Let’s try and find it and then maybe this fandom can actually be fun again.

[noxsoulmate]

💞 Through Thin Walls 💞

🏘 A Tarlos Neighbor AU 🏘

Ship: Tarlos | Fandom: 911 Lone Star Author: noxsoulmate | Podfic by: Juulna | Artist: kinkajou Read and listen on ao3 | View the art on ao3

Chapters: 2/2 | Complete Word Count: 18197 | Rating: Explicit | Warnings/Tags: alternate universe - neighbors, first meetings, 5+1 things, podfic, podfic & podficced works, podfic length: 2-2.5 hours, dorks in love, two person love triangle, falling in love, getting to know each other, getting together, idiots in love, love at first sight, kinda, cliche firefighter rescue, fluff, fluff and smut

Podfic created by the amazing @juuls

Art made by the wonderful @a-kinkajou

Created for the @pod-together event

Based on a prompt by the lovely @actuallysara

Summary:

“Hey, so please don’t freak out–” In the next moment, Carlos could hear a thud, followed by a curse, and he was pretty sure the guy had just hit his head somehow. Carlos winced in sympathy. “Sorry! Sorry, it’s just your neighbor here.” “Dude,” came the reply, the voice sounding rough, probably from all the crying. “Way to give a person a heart attack. Also, creepy much?” “My apologies. The walls here are basically paper with some paint slapped on. So uhm… noises are somewhat muffled but… not really, I guess.”

~*~

3 times Carlos only heard his neighbor’s voice, 2 times TK lusted over a certain officer, +1 time it all melted together.

OR: A Tarlos Neighbor AU

🏘 Read and/or listen on ao3 🏘

💞 and please leave lots of love on the wonderful art on ao3 💞

I cannot thank my team enough 🥰 @juuls, @a-kinkajou, this was such a wonderful experience!! thank you so much for putting up with me, tolerating my rambles and my writer's block, agreeing to switch fics when I panicked, and always cheering me on - and of course for the AMAZING podfic and art respectively that you two created for this fic. I truly hope this will only be the first of many projects we will work on together 😘

Sneak peek and more art under the cut:

one

When the first sniffles came through the wall, Carlos was startled, turning in his bed where he was cocooned in his blankets, book in hand, and in the process of winding down. It was his first night home after a week straight of night shifts and it was his goal to quickly get back into a normal sleep rhythm, even though he wasn’t remotely tired. 

The sniffling sound that very clearly came from the room adjacent to his didn’t help in that endeavor, setting all his senses on high alert right away.

As far as he knew, the apartment next to his had been empty for the last few months. Someone must’ve moved in during the week – which was entirely possible, seeing how Carlos hardly had any free minutes between his shifts, helping on the ranch for two days, and covering some extra shifts so Mitchell could visit her sick mom.

What little time he’d spent in his apartment, Carlos had been asleep. So yes, a new neighbor moving in without him noticing was actually quite possible. 

That didn’t explain the sniffles though which by now had turned into sobs that hardly sounded muffled. And why would they? His neighbor probably didn’t realize just how thin these walls were. Carlos certainly hadn’t suspected it when he first moved in – but quickly found out the hard way. His neighbor until a few months ago certainly had a thing for loud women… 

Contemplating what to do, Carlos tried to focus back on his book. It wasn’t his business why his new neighbor was sobbing so loudly. Or bawling his eyes out by the sound of it. Damn… 

Putting the book back down, Carlos closed his eyes for a moment. Two parts of himself were at war right now. The polite side, reminding him that it was not his place, that it would probably be embarrassing for the man to find out that Carlos could hear him; that it wasn’t nice to snoop in other people’s privacy. And then there was his protector side, wanting to make sure the man was okay. It didn’t sound like he was in direct danger or crying because he had hurt himself. But the tears still sounded so full of pain.

In the end, it was his compassionate side that won out, and putting the book aside he turned further in bed and moved closer to the wall. Clearing his throat, he spoke just above his normal volume.

“Hey, so please don’t freak out–”

💞🏘 Continue on ao3 🏘💞

Noxy’s Tagging List:

@detective-giggles, @sgirl18, @firstprince-history-huh, @beautifulhigh, @rangergurlgleek1211, @shadesofdeviant, @actuallysara, @carlos-in-glasses, @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut, @welcometololaland, @wtfuckevenknows, @lightningboltreader, @meditating-honey-badger, @just-inside-her, @alidravana, @morganaspendragonss, @bonheur-cafe, @heartstringsduet, @ravens-words, @lire-casander, @otter-love-asl, @ramblingdisaster73, @first-kanaphan, @xtltokio, @buckybarnesalways, @mangacat201, @catanisspicy, @lemonlyman-dotcom

[gold-rhine]

Wait ppl are comparing kaveh and aventurine??? I'm not done with 2.1 yet but he doesn't really give kaveh vibes other than him being blonde and the fandom wanting him to be a babygirl ASDFGHJKL he's most definitely more like childe if we HAVE to compare lol also did you have any thoughts on Duke inferno? I did like the scene with acheron but at the same time I felt he was kinda just a throwaway for his kids to be important which I guess makes sense. Maybe Duke inferno was "too much" for a playable character set in a SPACE FANTASY. I want alien like playable characters hoyo tho I know the closest I'll get is fox people and robots 😭 even acheron couldn't keep the horns. Speaking of acheron, her convo with welt felt like I needed a bit of hi3 context to really understand why they were emo.

they do, a lot. mostly while also making ratio alhaitham, which i think was the main driving force.

i liked the demon skull guy in a suit design a lot :\ i was like well, i dont really like the looks of any new characters, but at least there's the devil in a suit! and then they offed him :\ thanks hoyo

about acheron welt scene, i mean yeah, for sure, but like, i could at least understand point of a scene (bonding over being emo), even if we dont know details, which i do not take for granted in hsr asdfghjkl. at this point i've given up on lore since i dont like reading dictionaries and don't want to play\read adjacent games\comics\whatever, and just want to like, get a general gist of what is happening in plot. and that scene was obviously self-indulgent hi3 writer jerking off, so its like, whatever, i dont really care what happened to be honest lol