#faramir fic

[storiesaplenty]

Miscellaneous Masterlist

This has not been proofread. Please enjoy, though.

Warnings: Smut under the cut. Oral (f receiving). Pussy fingering. P in V. Oral (m receiving) Spit-roasting.

WC: 689

storiesaplenty 2025: Do not repost or translate my work. This is the only place I post my work.

This was requested by one of my favourite people on this app. We have become fast friends. I love your silly jokes. How it always a suprise when ever I open an app to see what you sent me. Happy birthday @madhatterbri . I hope you like this.

"That's it little brother, just like that. Remember to insert a finger or two while you eat her out. She likes that."

Boromir said as he kissed the side of my head, my back leaned into his chest, as his younger brother, Faramir was laying between my spread legs.

Hesitatingly doing as his brother instructed.

I gasped Faramir's name as his thick fingers filled my pussy, his mouth and tongue eating me out like a man starved.

"I am sure he will treat you well while I am gone." Boromir muttered as he started to play with my breasts.

His hands squeezing them, and playing with my nipples, making me whine his name now.

"Come now brother, let me show you how she likes to be fucked." Boromir said, pushing his brother's head back, making me cry out in frustration as I was so close to finishing on Faramir's mouth and fingers.

But I knew I was in for a good time with Boromir. The man has never left me unsatisfied, making sure I have cum at least two times before he filling one of my holes.

◆

"You see how I am squeezing her hips. She likes being able to feel your touch upon her skin days after you fuck her, isn't that right?" Boromir's question sounded like it was coming through a fog.

I couldn't think. I could hardly breathe it feels like as he fucked into me from behind.

Each snap of his hips felt like he was in my lungs, and I know that isn't possible.

I felt his hand grip my hair and left my head from his bed, my eyes trying to focus on Faramir, whose hand was wrapped his leaking cock as he jerked himself off to his brother fucking me.

Boromir chucked behind me, already knowing I am completely fucked out of my mind, due to him already fucking two orgasms out of me.

Doesn't take much with Boromir.

"Come over Faramir." Boromir grunted as he angled his hips a different way, making me cry out his name, my eyes squeezing shut at how quickly orgasm was coming.

"Open your mouth for him. Yes take him down your throat." I did as Boromir asked, moaning as Faramir filled my mouth just as much as his brother did.

"Go on, fuck her beautiful face. She doesn't mind it. She will let you know if it becomes to much for her by tapping on your thigh three times. Remember, tap on the thigh three times."

Faramir repeated that to himself as he pulled his hips back just as Boromir did before the both of the slammed into me at the same time, forcing a squeal to try and fall from my lips around Faramir's cock.

The two of them used me to get off, just how I like it. How I need it.

Faramir's thrusts were getting sporadic, before he stilled, my face in his crotch as the first rope of cum hit the back of my throat.

I swallowed as fast as I could, not wishing to waste a single drop of it.

Faramir pulled out of my mouth, collapsing into the chair next to the bed.

"Open your mouth for him. Show him that you swallowed it all." Boromir demanded, and I did as he asked.

Faramir cursed under his breath at the sight of my empty mouth.

Boromir wasn't that far behind. His thrusts getting sloppy before he pulled out my pussy, turned me around and shoving his cock down my throat just as he came to him shouting my name.

His hands gripping my head so hard, making sure I couldn't move. Not like I wanted to anyways.

I swallowed every last drop and didn't stop sucking until he pulled his softening cock from my mouth.

Faramir stood up, starting to get dressed.

"Where are you going brother?" Boromir asked as he sat on his bed.

"Are we not done?" Faramir asked, a confused expression coming over his face.

"There is more I must teach you."

Faramir's eyes got real wide, before nodding his head in understanding, taking off his clothes to come and join Boromir and I once more.

[aesthetic-bbyg]

he’s fine asf but y’all are not ready for that convo.

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Masterlist ⚘

Hiii, finally got around to making a Masterlist for all of these. I can’t believe I did every single prompt or that it’s done, but I really enjoyed this <3

Most of these contain the general whump warnings (blood, injury, etc…) but are probably tamer than some others

Panic Attack (Eowyn x Fem!Reader)

Role Reversal (Arwen x Fem!Reader)

"I warned you" (Tauriel x Fem!Reader)

Hallucinations (Galadriel x Fem!Reader)

Healing Salve (Arwen x Fem!Reader)

"It's not my blood" (Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader)

Magic with a Cost (Galadriel x Fem!Reader)

"Leave the lights on" (Arwen x Fem!Reader)

Bruises (Platonic Faramir x Fem!Reader)

Slurred Words (Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader)

Loneliness (Eowyn x Fem!Reader)

"Just a little more" (Tauriel x Fem!Reader)

Multiple Whumpees (Platonic Boromir and Faramir x Fem!Reader)

Surivors Guilt - Alt. (Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader)

Childhood Trauma (Platonic Faramir x Fem!Reader)

Wound Cleaing (Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader)

Motion Sickness - Alt. (Arwen x Fem!Reader)

Revenge (Eowyn x Fem!Reader)

Blood Trail (Arwen x Fem!Reader)

Shoulder to Cry On (Eowyn x Fem!Reader)

Forgotten - Alt. (Platonic Faramir x Fem!Reader)

Reopening Wounds (Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader)

Shivering - Alt. (Tauriel x Fem!Reader)

Regret - Alt. (Eowyn x Fem!Reader)

Stitches (Platonic Faramir x Fem!Reader)

Nightmares (Galadriel x Fem!Reader)

Voiceless (Arwen x Fem!Reader)

Denial (Tauriel x Fem!Reader)

Fatigue (Arwen x Fem!Reader)

"What have I done?" (Platonic Boromir x Fem!Reader)

Asking for Help (Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader)

[balrogballs]

✨ happy holidays / schöne feiertage✨

as a present from Balls, please enjoy this characteristically scatological comedic outtake from the 4th Age Elrond & Faramir Buddy Cop Rhûn AU that I am clearly destined to never finish, featuring my OC Shah Rostam, the flamboyant non-binary monarch of a city-state in Rhûn, who has zero time for Westerly nonsense 💕

much like all the best ideas, the one for Elrond suffering from fantasy-version Delhi belly and needing charcoal tablets, was cooked up in the DMs, this one by @hastyhobbit ✨

[gloomwitchwrites]

An Unexpected Catch: Boromir x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical violence

Word Count: 3.1k

Chapter Two

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

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

Boromir

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir is in Osgiliath.

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

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

It might never be.

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

“What was the original report?” asks Boromir.

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

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

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

“No pattern?”

“None that’s been revealed.”

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

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

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

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

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

Boromir raises his fist, and the group halts.

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

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

“Looks like smoke,” replies Brennan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain,” murmurs Brennan. “Look.”

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

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

It’s a woman.

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

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

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

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

“Touch nothing,” whispers Boromir.

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

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

A brief shout—quickly cut off.

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

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

More shouting. The ringing of metal striking metal.

He sidesteps a beam and comes up short.

“Come out! We know you’re in there!”

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

Most are down.

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

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

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

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

“Put your sword down. No use fighting.”

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

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

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

Boromir is alone. Utterly alone.

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

Until he isn’t.

Until there are far too many to fend off.

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

Boromir glances down.

Impaled.

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

Red comes with. Surprisingly dark.

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

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

Reader

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

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

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

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

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

Right now, it’s loud. Angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tulip baas a sharp reply.

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

It’s misty out. A bit chilly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything moves. Turns. Creaks loudly.

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

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

But there is nothing.

Not—no.

Not fish. Something…else.

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

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

It’s a man.

There is a man in your net.

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

There are no fish. Just him.

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

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

The man tumbles out. Unresponsive.

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

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

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

Waiting.

Nothing.

And then—

It comes again. Soft, but there.

He is alive. This stranger is alive.

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

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

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

A stranger in your net.

An unexpected catch.

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

You don’t dare touch him.

“Do I behold an angel?”

You blink, stunned. “A—what?”

Eyelids fluttering, the stranger slips back into unconsciousness.

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

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

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

Slowly, you pull it up.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Uinen. Help me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least the blasted bell isn’t ringing anymore.

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

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

You fall right on your butt.

“Angel,” murmurs the stranger.

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

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

But he does.

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

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

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

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

Already, he shivers.

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

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

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

taglist:

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

@singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @glitterypirateduck @miaraei @cherryofdeath

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

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

[southfarthing]

Eowyn tells Faramir it isn't necessary to write all of Rohan's songs and legends in a book lest they be forgotten. The Rohirrim do not read and write: they are oral storytellers, and they have great respect for their minstrels and their history. They will not forget anything.

She says it to reassure him and save him the trouble, but it does not seem to soothe his mind.

He smiles quickly at her before turning to the window. He looks out at the hills of Emyn Arnen as though watching for a storm on the horizon, and then Eowyn understands.

She grasps his hand.

At his touch, an image rushes through her mind: a grey, mutinous sea; and among the froth and the fury – sodden books, orphaned heirlooms, and a tapestry that will never again be seen or re-made, with both story and skill lost to the devouring waters.

The water washes over them both before slowly receding, leaving only a mist that she blinks away, and the distant glint of the Anduin to the west as it flows down to the Sea.

'Have I ever told you of Eorl the Young?' she says. Her voice is rough; she clears her throat.

'We know much about Eorl in Gondor,' Faramir says softly. 'His friendship with Cirion and his aid in our time of need was great.'

'And what about after?' she asks. 'What does Gondor know about that?'

Faramir turns to her with a wry smile. 'Very little.'

'Would that you had someone to teach you a little history.'

The mirth in Faramir's eyes mirrors her own.

'Would that I did.'

[essenceofarda]

The Three Eowyns from my 1920s Middle Earth au, "A Dance at the Palantiri"!! The White Lady of Rohan, Dernhelm, and a flapper dancer!

aka the three personas of Eowyn that Faramir falls in love with simultaneously without realizing that they are all, in fact, the same person LOL

Fic Summary: It's the 1920s in Middle Earth, and Éowyn just wants to get away. Just for a week, to be able to truly be herself, not just an esteemed Princess of the Riddermark. When she escapes under the disguise of a man named Dernhelm to Osgiliath, by fate she crosses paths with Lord Faramir, an infamous playboy and partygoer, who manages to rope her into becoming a bartender at his equally, if not more, infamous club and bar, The Palantiri. The Palantiri is more than meets the eye, same as its owner, however. Éowyn quickly realizes that the club is not just for people to lose themselves, but to lose their secrets too. There's more than meets the eye of Faramir, too, she finds. Suddenly, Éowyn finds herself neck deep in a years old secret operation in the war effort, and must do so while keeping up the guise of a man.

Trying out and having fun with a different to my usual style "very stylized" style :D

Also should I update this fic?

[anghraine]

I've been trying to write 500 words a day (or an hour of editing, but 500 words is typically easier when I'm tired) and succeeding, rather to my astonishment (I've already written more in January than I did in all of December). However.

Last night, I was so exhausted that my usual projects weren't speaking to me and everything I tried to write just felt dead and flat. But there's no rule about what the 500 words needed to be for, so I was like... okay, we might need some maximal self-indulgence to get to 500 tonight. I tried fanfic about my favorite D&D character. It still was a miserable slog. I finally stopped and just thought ... okay, what would cater to my specific preferences on this specific occasion more than that?!

The answer, obviously, was confused genderbent f/f Farawyn pining/fantasizing about a queen/lionheart AU life in a specific f!Faramir AU I haven't written anything for in years:

Éowyn, to her great surprise, did not mind seeing Fíriel enthroned in majesty in the hall of the kings. She hadn’t been sure if Fíriel would rule as her fathers had, from the seat of the Stewards; it was still there. But Fíriel sat on the high throne, gazing down at the lords and ladies of Gondor with her grey eyes that were somehow nothing like the blue-grey of Éowyn's, but instead too colorless and too brilliant all at once, even from a distance. Éowyn did not see the great sceptre that Aragorn carried as his badge of office anywhere, though; the sceptre held loosely in Fíriel’s hand, resting on her lap, was a simpler, smoother one. She wore no crown, and her elaborately woven hair would not have allowed for one; instead, a silver-bright jewel blazed from a fillet over her brow, gleaming in the not-quite-natural way that Fíriel’s eyes did: the same jewel that Aragorn often wore in place of the tall, formal crown of Gondor. The truth was that Éowyn did not look at her and long to displace her from the throne, wish the blazing jewel rested upon her own skin, wish for either the White Rod of the Stewards or the Sceptre of Annúminas. She wanted armor. She wanted to stand to the side of the throne with a sword in her hand, prepared to strike down any threat to the queen. She wanted to see Fíriel sitting as she did now, but with all that hair unwoven, loose, hanging to her knees in a glossy raven mass while the crown did sit on her head. Éowyn wanted to see her as queen in her own right, and kneel before her in the gear of a marshal of the Eorlingas, and hold up the sword and swear an oath as sacred as Eorl’s to Cirion. She wanted to feel Fíriel’s clear, clear eyes piercing her as she swore herself to Fíriel’s service, to stay here forever, guard her as she slept or read or ate, and kiss her hand as any of these lordlings might. They were very tall men, all of them, but nevertheless there was something so small about them, too small for Fíriel. But not so Éowyn.

[eri-pl]

Those of you who are Polish or linguistically similar (Czech, idk what more) probably noticed, but Boromir would be a perfectly legit Medieval Polish (Slavic in general?) name, meaning more or less "peace in the forest". Faramir is a bit trickier and needs some anachronism, but "fara" is a type of a church, so "peace in the church", or to make it more setting-appropriate, "peace in the hall".

Let's translate those back to Sindarin using that one instruction for name-making. So, as the wise the dictionary says:

forest = taur hall = There's nothing I can find in sindarin, for etymological reasons let's go with gobel which is walled town / house, makes sense in the context peace = îdh

Surprisingly there's nothing to tweak according to the instruction, so Taurídh and his younger brother Gobelídh (both sound so dumb…)

…Now I need a fic where Boromir and Faramir go on a stealth mission using those as their fake names.

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 4 (19th Sep)

Gifts, burdens and choices — @lotrweek

The Elves have long stopped their lament, yet a cacophony lingers within Boromir’s mind. The others have gone to sleep, and even Frodo finally seems to dream again. Their snores fill their shared nook. He envies them, he does. Ever since his unsettling meeting with the Lady Galadriel, there has been nothing but turmoil in his soul. Will it ever end, the spiralling?

Exhaustion is there, though, he can feel it deep in his bones. Everything hurts, every muscle in his body. He, who has always been one for exercise and fighting, is not immune to the toll that the past days have taken on the fellowship, on both body and heart. He is no longer as young and fierce as he once was.

But that deeply rooted anguish within him… Ageing has nothing to do with it all. It would have been easy to dismiss it as a symptom of passing time, but that would have meant lying to himself and everyone who shared the weight of the task at hand. There have been too many lies as of late. He may not desire to instantly trust the first person he encounters, but he certainly refuses to continue this vicious circle of deception. What purpose would that serve? The world is a harsh enough place as it is, and the whole plan is to make it a better place.

Just a ring. Nothing but a silly, little ring. The very fate of Middle-earth rests in Frodo’s hands. Embodied by that tiny golden circle. He might not be as well-taught as Aragorn or Faramir are, but even he knows how disastrous the consequences would be should the quest fail. And it is nothing but a stupid ring.

How absurd life has become since his first puzzling dreams that his brother shared with him. Nothing is going according to plan either. It was all simple, though. Go to Rivendell, seek an audience with Elrond, find out the cause of these dreams and their meaning, educate himself on the broken sword, then return to Minas Tirith to inform Denethor on his findings and prepare against any approaching threat. Easy. But not so easy. Now, he is far from home, shivering in the night surrounded by his travel companions, burdened with a quest much greater than what he knows he can handle, and Gandalf is dead. Dead.

He can still remember the wizard’s occasional visits to Minas Tirith back when he was nothing but a boy. While he did spend more time with Faramir than with him — much to Denethor’s relief, after all, why should his precious firstborn’s time be wasted by the fanciful stories of an old man? — he did enjoy his presence, just like any other child did. When the fellowship was formed, he found solace in the knowledge that Gandalf would accompany them. That was at least one familiar element amid the blur.

But now the wizard is gone, and his companions seem to distrust every word he speaks. The Elves who welcomed them were not any warmer to him. He is an outcast where he has always fit in. Acting in teams, coming up with strategies, fighting, camping… None of it is strange to him. If anything, that is what his life has always been. So why, oh why does he feel so inadequate and insecure? Why do the others regard him with such disdain whenever he opens his mouth?

Merry and Pippin do not. Thankfully. Before tragedy struck, he quite enjoyed their company and teaching them new tricks with the sword. The carefree laughs, the games, the jokes… It all reminded him of the time when Faramir was a child and wanted his brother to teach him things, not just a regular teacher. For a moment in the middle of fear and uncertainty, he could slip back to simpler times and relive these memories from so long ago. But now that they have escaped Moria, nothing feels right anymore. The two hobbits hardly ever smile anymore. The innocent glimmers in their eyes have dimmed. Just like the wonder in Faramir’s eyes was snuffed by years of their father’s spite.

They are grown, now.

And all he can do is clutch his chest and muffle his crying. They all need proper rest, and Boromir will not be a bother to them.

Not this time.

[emyn-arnens]

That Which They Defend

@three-sentence-ficathon | AO3

Faramir points to the maps of old and traces with his finger the old, bloated borders of the kingdom, sustained by a tithe of too much blood, Gondorian and foe alike, and he reads from history books of the excesses of the kings of old, grown rich from conquest and yet spreading their kingdom thinner than the gauzy silks of the south, always seeking for more, grasping at it even as it slipped from their fingers, so like to the vanity that brought the end of the Sea-kings of old. “It begins with borders,” he says, his eyes grey and grave as he regards Boromir. The eyes of the Sea-kings, the eyes of the conquerors. Yes, he and Faramir ought to know.

Faramir points to the recent census—the numbers so much smaller than that of Gondor at its height, their people culled by the long years of war. “Shall we ask our people to spill yet more blood—and upon fields far from home?” he asks of Boromir.

He leads Boromir through the treasury, pointing to the emptied coffers, so recently poured out upon the war in Umbar, and he lists the names of the fiefs and towns in debt to the crown, still struggling to heave off the weight of the years of war. “Shall we ask our people to give yet more, to empty their purses for the acquiring of lands they shall never see?” he asks.

He takes Boromir through the wing of the citadel given to the hostages of Harad, the princes that while their days in the court of Minas Tirith, forgetting the faces of their fathers and mothers, their brothers and their sisters, whittling away the edges of themselves that speak of Harad until they become something more Gondorian. “Shall we fill our halls with the princes of foreign lands?” he asks.

“Wars ought only to be waged to defend,” Faramir says, and Boromir understands: There is nothing to be defended but the hope of regaining past glory.

And when Aragorn announces his plans for war in the East, Boromir stands at his brother’s side and counsels peace.

[lathalea]

Yes, it is finally happening!

Lathalea’s

💎 HUGE 💎

Follower Celebration

… is here!

Remember the poll from last week? The results are here! You have spoken!

Thank you everyone for participating! 💙🙏

💎 What happens now?

Per your request,

I’m going to write ficlets for you, my lovely followers!

And I can’t wait! 🤩

💎 It’s time for the Prompt Game!

HERE ARE THE RULES:

💎 To take part in the celebration, you have to be my follower before it starts!

💎 For the Prompt Game, I will have around 10 slots open. Maybe a few less, maybe a few more (it depends on boring real life stuff, sorry, I’ll try to do my best!).

💎 The participants will be picked on the "first come, first serve" basis.

💎 I’m going to write ficlets (300-500 words) based on Tolkien’s Middle Earth and the characters created by JRRT.

💎 Pick your favorite pairing, the prompt you’ve been dreaming of (or 1-2 prompt numbers from the list below), any additional details you want me to include (like your OC, quote, vibes…), and send me an ask! No anons please 🙏

💎 I will be happy to write about things like: canon x canon, canon x oc, canon x reader, oc x oc, oc x reader, textual ghosts, G-E rated romance (to request E-rated stuff, you have to be an adult), angst, gen fics, fluff, GIME, crack fics, Middle Earth locations, headcanons, imagines, worldbuilding… and much more.

💎 I’m not in the right headspace to write about things like: incest, rape, death, explicit descriptions of injuries/childbirth, themes/characters I’m not too familiar with.

💎 If you’re one of the lucky participants but I’m unable to fulfill your request because of some its content, don’t worry! You won’t lose your spot! I’ll ask you to submit a new fic request.

💎 Any questions? You know where to find me!

⬇️⬇️PROMPT LIST BELOW THE CUT ⬇️⬇️

If you’ve just ran out of fic ideas or there’s something here that speaks to you, please add one or two prompt numbers to your ask:

1. “I lost my way. Twice.”

2. Regency AU

3. "It was an... accident?"

4. Pirate AU

5. “You did this for me?”

6. Neighbor AU

7. “We could just stay like this, cuddling all night, if that is what you wish."

8. Forbidden Love AU

9. “Whose wedding is this?” “Ours.”

10. Soulmate AU

11. “Tell me what you see.”

12. Library AU

13. “Where am I?”

14. Best Friends AU / Friends to Lovers AU (you pick)

15. “Is anything you say to me true?”

16. Modern AU

17. “The stars are bright tonight, aren't they?" "Not as bright as you…”

18. Stranded AU

19. “This quest is yours alone.”

20. Room Mate AU

21. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

22. Fake Dating/Engagement/Marriage AU

23. “Make a wish.”

24. Amnesia AU

25. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

26. Hurt/Comfort AU

27. “What does your heart tell you?”

28. Meet-awful AU (funny!)

29. “How did you get here and what are you doing in my bed?!”

30. An AU of your choice

31. Surprise me, Lathalea! 🤩

Ready?

🎉 Let the Prompt Game begin!🎉

Good luck everyone! 💙

XXX,

Lathalea

[sotwk]

*boop boop boop* nothing to say just hello :)

Hello my lovely talented friend!!! How are you?? I'm always happy to see you around my dash, so I'm even happier for this random drop into my inbox!

Hey y'all, @minaturefics is a quietly famous writer in our LOTR circles--specializing in Faramir, Legolas, Aragorn, and Borormir! I pretty much learned the Art of the Romantic Reader Insert from her fics! I still reread them from time to time when I need inspiration.

If you haven't had the chance to yet, check out some of these gems:

SotWK's Favorite Minature Fics:

Though I Know My Heart Would Break (Legolas x Reader)

Once More (With Feeling) (Faramir x Reader)

Wrong Conclusions (Faramir x Reader)

Anything But This (Boromir x Reader)

Alive & Alight (Eomer x Reader)

*Note that I am not even a Faramir simp, but two of my favorites are Faramir x Reader, and that speaks volumes. Really, everything she writes is fantastic, so here, take the whole Masterlist.

Wishing you lots more New Readers, and eagerly (patiently) waiting for your next works! <3

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 13 - Multiple Whumpees

Platonic Boromir and Faramir x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: Faramir thinks he's cursed, Boromir blames himself for it, you comfort them both.

Warnings/Notes: Just some family trauma. Also the prompt "family curse"

Word Count: 1279

 “Am I a curse?”

  Boromir winced at his brother's heartbreaking words, shaking his head.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I do not believe father would agree.” Faramir mumbled quietly in response.

  “No… he probably wouldn’t.”

  After Faramir got… let’s just say he got beat pretty good in training with his brother, Boromir realized the consequences that would soon follow. If Denethor even saw the tiniest splatter of blood on Faramir’s skin, the poor man would be verbally harassed and beaten down once more for being weak.

  In reality Faramir’s nose only began to bleed after a striking hit took Boromir out but the handle of his sword bounced back and hit him right in the face. Boromir would never willingly hurt his brother and would feel awful afterwards if it were an accident, but this was worrying too.

  “Stop staring.” Faramir muttered, a rag still held to his nose. The blood was slowing down from its pour but the bruise was incredibly purple and blue. Anybody could see it. “It doesn’t hurt. I’ll be fine.”

  “Father will have your head.”

  “Then he may have it. I’m sick of trying to fight him, Boromir. No matter what I do, the blame will always be on me. I’m the lesser–”

  “Don’t say that.” Boromir stopped him, smacking his leg in warning. “Stop. Just stop. We’ll figure this out.”

  With a huff, Faramir’s shoulders sank. His head dipped forward but more blood came gushing out so he picked it back up. “There’s nothing to figure out. Just let me accept the ridiculing and get it over with.”

  Boromir’s brow creased with worry. There was nothing more he hated seeing than the way his brother thought of himself after so many days of abuse from their father. He fought against it but whenever he stood up for Faramir things only seemed to get worse.

  “Maybe I’m the curse.” Boromir wondered aloud. When he felt Faramir’s eyes flick to him, he turned his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m the one you’re always compared to… the only one father sees, and I hate it because of how it makes you feel. It’s my fault father treats you this way.”

  “Now you’re the one rambling.”

  “It is true. Is it not?”

  “Well… you needn’t word it that way. It makes you sound like a monster.” Faramir took his turn to punch his brother gently in the arm. “Maybe we’re both cursed.”

  “Maybe…”

  The brothers offered each other a sad smile, one shared often in times like this.

  “I have a plan but you won’t like it.”

  “Always the mischievous one.” Faramir’s little grin was happier now, earning a tilt of his head. “What is it?”

  “Punch me. Then we’ll both be hurt and it’ll look like you got me good.”

  “You’re kidding right?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not doing that.”

  “Faramir…”

  “No! I’m not going to bruise your face up just to save me from a scolding.” Faramir crossed his arms and stood up. His nose finally stopped bleeding, the rag discarded on the bench he was once sat on. He began to pace. “There has to be another way.”

  “Another way for what?”

  Both of the brothers looked up as you entered the training hall, sleeves pushed up and hair tied back from a busy day of… who knows what. Then they exchanged a glance.

  “How willing would you be to punch me?” Boromir asked.

  A small smirk tugged at your lips. You’d been friends with the brothers for as long as you could remember. You were all practically siblings at this point. Punching Boromir was something you often warned about but never actually did because he didn’t deserve it. But if you were being offered…?

  “What’s the reason?” You asked, sitting where Faramir had been. 

  “I got hurt. Boromir thinks that if he’s hurt as well then our father won’t scold me.” The standing man explained. Disapproval was written clearly on his face, but also the slightest bit of hope.

  “Wouldn’t you just get in trouble for hurting Boromir then?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Boromir joined it. “Would he really think that?”

  You and Faramir exchanged a glance. “Yes.”

  So, the idea was dropped. Although you were not at all opposed to it, you didn’t want to risk Faramir getting into any more trouble than he already would be.

  Eventually you all did head back into the main halls of Gondor and with one look at his wounded son, Denethor took him aside and wouldn’t let you or Boromir follow.

  You practically had to drag Boromir away from the locked doors. You brought him to Faramir’s chambers so the two of you could be there to comfort him after the inevitable… whatever would come from his father.

  You spent the time tidying Faramir’s things, though the room was incredibly neat, so your job mostly consisted of picking up the tiniest dust bunnies by hand and dumping them into the trash bin. Boromir made quick work of an old blanket he sat on, nails digging into the fabric like the claws of a kneading cat. He spoke not a word, eyes angled firmly on the ground as he silently took it out on himself.

  The silence was deafening. 

  When even humming didn’t help, you finally tried to strike a conversation with the suddenly reserved man.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Boromir didn’t lift his head, staring at a speck on the floor with such ferocity it should have melted by now. His fingers continued their rhythmic clawing at the blanket beneath him. “My whole family is cursed.” He muttered. “And it’s my fault.”

  “Elaborate.” You sat beside him, hand on his knee.

  “My mother was cursed with sickness… my father with madness. My brother is cursed with an unlovable father and it’s because of me. If I wasn’t here… there would be nothing for him to take out on Faramir. And when I stand up for him… it only gets worse.” Boromir whispered softly, voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. He’d clearly been thinking about this for a long time. The words began to spill out against his will. “There’s nothing I can do but sit back and watch my father destroy my brother and it destroys me too.”

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  “It is.”

  “It’s not.” You shook your head, squeezing his knee and then shaking it a little. “You’re not the one being cruel to your brother. You’re the opposite, you’re one of the reasons he’s still okay despite your fathers actions. If you were as evil as you seem to think, you would feel the same about Faramir as Denethor does.”

  Boromir looked at you, reading your eyes as though he was searching for any deception. When he found none, the anger in his gaze faded and he sighed, leaning his head against your shoulder.

  The two of you shared a few moments of peace when the door opened and Faramir entered.

  He was surprised to see the two of you in his chambers, eyes already red and lips tight from the encounter with Denethor. He hesitated at the doorway.

  You beckoned him over, patting the spot beside you.

  Faramir did as you said, settling at your side in the same position as Boromir. 

  “Neither of you two are cursed.” You murmured as you slipped your arms around their sides and pulled them into a gentle hug. “I promise. You just have an awfully shitty father.”

  This drew a chuckle from Boromir, and some sort of approving grunt from Faramir who didn’t trust himself to speak yet. You just squeezed them tighter and held them as close as you could. 

[musing-and-music]

Masterpost - My 2024 in fics

I didn't do my masterpost in 2023, but this year I decided to take the time to do so!

This was a very Jaime/Brienne year, with many exchanges, but I'm happy that I wrote some FMA fics (all of Royai week!), and even a Faramir/Eowyn one-shot along the way.

The presentation of this post will be like in 2022: fandoms, then the NSFW fics

I'm kind of sad that I haven't made covers for everything I wrote this year, but I'm still pretty satisfied with what I've done!

Have fun!

Fullmetal Alchemist

Royai Week 2024:

Day 2 - Silent gratitude: Rating T, 2524 words

Three times Riza and Roy help and support the other, who can't express their true gratitude for it

Day 3 - Expected news and unexpected announcement Rating T, 2239 words

When he finally entered the office, he already looked tired, although Riza couldn’t tell if it was because of their short night or the many questions of his soldiers. He greeted his men and asked her to come to his private office.

“Did they say anything?” was his first question as soon as he settled at his desk.

“Did the soldiers ask about the next commander of these headquarters?” Riza retorted.

Roy laughed. “Alright, Major, I asked for that. So, we wait for the end of the day, as planned.”

“As planned, sir.” Riza smiled back at him.

Day 4 - Building up her facade Rating T, 1026 words, Major Character Death

1954: Roy Mustang, former Fuhrer and President of Amestris, dies at sixty-nine of a heart attack.

Irene helps her mother prepare to face the world on the morning of his funeral.

Day 5 - Symbol of my love and loyalty Rating T, 739 words

Roy and Riza celebrate five years of shared love with perfect gifts

License for good behavior, Rating G, 1875 words

Edward decides he should learn to drive, and despite Winry's doubts about the use for a driving license, he goes to East City to ask the best person he knows to teach him

Part 29 of Amestrian chronicles

Mourning sun, joyful rain, Rating T, 642 words

As far as he remembered, rain had never been part of Roy’s grief.

So, the day it rained on a happy day of his life, Roy didn’t hate rain as much as he had during his life.

(Or 5 times Roy grieves while the sun shine, and one time he finds happiness in the rain)

25th one-shot in Royai : a OS Compilation

A Song of Ice and Fire

In a crowd of thousands Rating T, 3313 words

As Daenerys is crowned for good, great houses are called to swear fidelity to her. And Jaime is called to be judged

Still, he can count on Brienne's righteousness and support to protect him in a trial that… might not really be one?

Each step of the way Rating T, 744 words

When illness strikes, Jaime and Brienne know how important it is to stick together and support each other

6th one-shot in my collection A few nights in Westeros

You make me feel like I deserve this Rating T, 2447 words

"Who's there?" Brienne's voice cut across the mist, strong and wary. Jaime smirked.

"Someone who thinks Harren the Black never thought about the cold of the Long Night when he had his castle built. Is there some place next to you, wench?"

Aren't we oath keepers, sweetling? Rating T, 2702 words

“Ser! Ser Jaime!” At Podrick’s frantic cries, fear seized his heart. The boy was running between the trees toward him, panic written on his face.

"Podrick? What happened? Is it your lady?”

The boy stopped next to him, out of breath, and took a few seconds to recover. “Ser, lady Brienne is leaving,” he announced, grief in his eyes. “She said she was giving up the search for lady Sansa, that she’d marry ser Hyle and go back to Tarth with him.”

Through the fog, under the sun, in the light of the moon Rating T, 4553 words

The invitations to Robb Stark’s wedding came: one for her, and one for Jaime, since he was one of the only Lannisters the Starks tolerated. Catelyn insisted that if she didn’t bring a plus one, she would introduce her to some of her children and nephew’s friends. “It’s sad that you stay alone, Brienne, and I want you to meet some worthy men.”

Brienne talked about it to Jaime, expressing her desire not to be used for matchmaking purposes. Jaime’s immediate reply was “let’s fake it, then.”

The name was a knife, twisting in her belly Rating T, 23k words (on-going)

Brienne grows up in Tarth with the pain that Jaime Lannister's name inflicts her each time she hears it. She grows up hating her soulmate for his actions and for the pain she feels because of him.

In the dungeons of Riverrun, she finally meets him, and lady Catelyn charges them both with a quest that will change her pain into something different.

The Lord of the Rings

A few days wait Rating G, 785 words

Eowyn has just given birth to her first-born. However, not being pregnant anymore doesn't mean she can't immediately go run and ride around Emyn Arnen as she wishes

Faramir guarantees her that this wait will not be for nothing

“We won’t forbid you to ride in the hills and set broken legs again, my love. However, your health comes first. I do not wish to see you collapse because you will have overestimated your strength.”

Mature/Explicit fics

To conquer frustration Rating M, 5018 words

After a few months dating Jaime, Brienne feels ready to make love with him

Jaime is eager to do it with her

However, their friends keep getting in their way, until they do what's needed to be alone

OR

Four times friends and family interrupt Jaime and Brienne, and the one time they can finally have sex

Royai Week 2024: La curiosité est un vilain défaut Rating M, 748 words

Black Hayate wakes up to find Riza has a guest. Following his nose and the strange noises he hears, he opens her bedroom door…

Up for the long ride, Rating E, 23k words

During her first eventing competition outside the Stormlands, Brienne meets the infamous Jaime Lannister. After an explosive encounter, their relationship builds up on heated moments, whether it’s during the competition, with their words, or under the sheets (and other places)

Or

Five times Jaime and Brienne have a secret wild ride, and one time they kiss publicly

Bring the storm (all your love like a flood) Rating E, 2532 words

Inside Riza's official letter, Rebecca finds Jean's secret letter. It brings back the memory of that stormy night, and during another stormy night, Rebecca relives it in the safety of her room

Part 8 of Regency AU series

[hobbitwrangler]

Victory in Defeat

Summary: Éowyn discovers that sparring with Faramir is even more fun than expected.

Character(s): Éowyn/Faramir

Rating: T

Word count: 3k

“Oh well,” she said brightly, “there are some who say I am the greatest warrior since Helm Hammerhand. That is bound to impress some people.” The light in Faramir’s eyes told her that she had touched on exactly the subject he had hoped to broach with her. “In that case, would the greatest warrior since Helm Hammerhand do me the honour of sparring with me?” The question took Éowyn by surprise, although she now noticed the two swords slung over his shoulder. She had been expecting him to invite her to the stables, maybe to do some work with the young colt who had caught her eye, or to discuss some alteration to the plans for their new home. But sparring … In truth, it had been a while since Éowyn last picked up Wuhhung with any intent. The first six months of her time in Ithilien had been marked by a great deal of violence as the Rangers set to cleansing the forests of the Enemy’s servants who yet lingered. And then, with the first spring since her wedding, building work had begun, and with it the difficulties of planning for Ithilien’s displaced inhabitants to return. The skills of war that her brother and cousin had taught her had been replaced by the skills that her uncle had taught her and, when she had the time, the skills that Gwaedhon had taught her, helping with the construction of their hall. For those first months, there had been no need to spar and more recently, there had been no time. “Of course,” she agreed.

AO3 link - lovely dividers by @saradika-graphics