#faramir fic

[cauliflowertree]

faramir - kiss me like you want to be loved.

summary: a long-awaited confession.

word count: 2.4k

fanfic no. 041

a/n: boromir lives because i say so.

it was a difficult farewell between the close brothers of gondor. but both were optimistic they would reunite not too far in the future—both were astute and praised warriors, trained from the day each of them could hold a sword upright.

between you and faramir, the cautious goodbye was somewhat tainted in awkwardness. neither of you were brave enough at the present moment to admit the feelings that plagued you both, effecting judgement, sleep and the completion of even minor tasks for many years now.

“farewell, y/n,” he spoke softly, a hitch in his breath, hesitantly raising an arm, wondering if he was crossing the delicate line of propriety.

“farewell, faramir,” you replied, abandoning predetermined notions of decorum as you finished what he had started, pulling him into a quick embrace, the first you had ever shared. and perhaps the last.

when you released him from your hold, his gaze was fixed upon you, awestruck from the emotions that arose within him from such a simple gesture, beginning to regret that he could not take his brothers place and curse the father that did not trust him with the task. with his mouth agape, and eyes almost sleepy, and heart in torment, he watched you back away from him, stepping into line with his older brother.

he was the last citizen of gondor to remain at the city’s uppermost region, watching you and his brother ride off into the horizon. as such, he felt an abyss form within his stomach, guilt rousing it all the more from the words he left unspoken. he had waved his brother off jeopardy, but of his life he was not as concerned as he was with yours. all his youth and adulthood, he had admired you from afar, shadowed you everywhere you ventured, unstable when he was not near you.

and now, you crossed middle earth without him, courage and bravery in your heart as you promised to fight for those who could not, if the task should fall to you. he had failed to seize the opportunity to reveal to you the object of his desires. and now, as you disappeared into the distance, he feared it was too late for another opportunity to present itself.

he may see no tomorrow, what with the armies of mordor inching closer to minas tirith, each time leaving gondor with fewer men to defend its borders.

but he hoped, he let himself hope.

｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡

the trials of the fellowship had taken much of your spirit, only to be stressed by the fall of gandalf the grey. the elderly wizard had provided you with much wisdom and a perfected skillset, and his absence was dearly felt, but by no one more than yourself, someone he might have considered his family.

frodo and sam had begun the disbandment of your company, leaving you behind to pursue a trickier path, but one they must face alone. boromir had been seriously injured, almost fatally, enough that merry and pippin had been captured by an orc pack. but they had now returned, safe and sound where they belonged. though, dear pippin could not stay out of trouble for long.

and gandalf, it seemed, could not stay fallen for long.

“what’s going to happen to me?” asked pippin gloomily, kicking pieces of hay in the barn as you waited for gandalf.

“nothing is going to happen to you, dear pippin. you are safe from sauron if you remain with me and gandalf,” you assured him, ruffling his loose, curly locks.

“how long have you known gandalf?” asked pippin curiously.

“oh! a long time now—since my infancy. he took me under his wing long ago, and i have much to be grateful for,” you smiled fondly.

“i don’t think he likes me,” pippin frowned. “but then, i suppose, i am very accident prone.”

“i think sometimes you do without thinking. but you are young, and gandalf knows this. but he has lived many years, and can sometimes forget what ails the youth, such as yourself,” you explained, and added: “he cares for your safety, otherwise he would not get so angry.”

pippin seemed to accept this truth with a sunny disposition, his mood greatly improving upon hearing your explanation, taking it for nothing but the truth.

“merry!” he cried, rushing off to greet his friend.

“y/n,” called boromir, offering you a full water canister, in addition to your own. “do send my brother my well wishes.”

“of course, boromir. i am sure he will be delighted to hear of you.”

boromir laughed lightly. “yes, a brother’s bond is strong. though, i am sure he will be much more inclined to be delighted with your return.”

you smiled bashfully, turning away as heat crept into your cheeks. a hearty laugh sounded from behind you, and boromir clapped your back. “i see much,” he reminded you. "safe journey!" he called as he exited the barn in search of aragorn.

with a weepy send off between merry and pippin, you, gandalf and pippin set off for minas tirith. a flutter in your heart arose at the chance of seeing faramir again, barely entertaining the thought that he had fallen to an orc’s sword or axe. faramir was the best of his ranks, no doubt he was alive and well. and boromir’s encouragement did little to settle your nerves—the thought of reciprocation was almost too much to bear.

three day’s ride felt like nothing, despite the tribulations you’d been through these past months, for faramir awaited at the end of your journey. as the white city peeked above the distant horizon, shaded with hues of pink and orange, you pushed faster through the expanse that kept you from your destination.

pippin slept against gandalf’s chest, somehow unbothered by the erratic journey. and before long, your two horses were climbing the streets of minas tirith, warning passersby of your coming. the white tree in pippin's vision stood strong, undead—a ray of hope remained for frodo and sam.

you were home.

some hours had passed in gondor, no faramir in sight, and within that time the steward had made perfectly clear he would not call for aide, nor would he accept the ranger as king. but it all temporarily came to naught as the cries of nazgûl sounded from beyond the city walls.

hundreds of horses raced from osgaliath across the grassy expanse, fleeing from the fight they could not win against such forces. the winged beasts took them from above, grasping several men and horses between their talons and launching them through the air.

your sank through your chest, palms instantly bearing sweat as you feared for faramir’s safe return. he was, quite clearly, outnumbered by many, though he had proved to make a rational decision in the midst of war by ordering his men to fall back. still, the terror that gripped you was all-consuming, almost enough to bring you to your knees, for you could scarcely bear to watch.

you turned to gandalf in silent, desperate worry, and he understood the urge you felt to flee the castle walls and help in some way if you could, if it meant they would be saved.

you and gandalf rode out. a light from gandalf’s staff, bright and unrelenting forced the nazgûl away and brought the army of men to safety, faramir included. you could see him, almost clearly in the ranks of his men, riding fast to the city gate. he dared to turn and meet your gaze. the fear had subsided, though the adrenaline remained, and you breathed a heavy sigh of relief, closing your eyes and letting the wind whip through your hair as you silently thanked silent forces for this fortune.

when the danger had slipped away, faramir dismounted his horse and wasted no time in approaching you. he was breathless, tired, but alert. it was a quick, silent moment you thought he might break with a laugh or a welcoming embrace, but instead, questioned you of his brother, to which you informed him of his safety and health. he turned to pippin with a start next, filling you and gandalf with unbridled hope as he revealed he had seen two halflings alive and well not so long ago.

and afterwards, with as much decorum between the two of you as distant strangers, he walked with you and gandalf to meet his father. quietly, he fell back in line with you, conversing with you rather formally, despite that not ten minutes before he almost deserted decency to embrace you without hesitation. but he restrained himself, for what reason he could not quite remember.

entering the castle, feeling, finally, much safer now that he was deep within the city, he let himself look at you. you seemed well, and he hoped that was how you truly felt too. he thought of you often in your absence, though over time, little details and intricacies of your features had slipped away from memory. but now that they were before him again, he smiled familiarly, admiring you for all that you were.

“i must replenish myself,” faramir informed you, hoping you might follow him so he would be blessed with a moment alone with you.

“yes, of course,” was your meek response.

he hesitated slightly, unaware if you had caught onto his subtle indication and were politely refusing or whether it had passed over your head completely. and so he left without another word, jaw clenched and shaking his head at the fool he had made himself look.

“well, aren’t you going to follow him?” asked pippin in disbelief when he was far enough away that his little comment would go unheard.

“whatever do you mean, little one?” you asked with a scoff.

“that is clearly a man who wishes to be followed!”

you trailed his gaze, catching faramir looking behind, but laughed it off instantly. “i- no. you’re mistaken.”

“i am not!” replied pippin, looking to gandalf for approval.

you looked to the old wizard yourself too, hoping for assurance on your behalf, but found nothing of the sort as he smirked at pippin and raised his eyebrows. with nothing leaving his lips, you understood perfectly the meaning of his silence.

most embarrassed by the scene, you hurried off in pursuit of the gentlemen who had left you behind in the hopes that you would follow. but for all your desires that he might wish for you the way you wished for him, catching the signs of this reciprocation was much more complicated than you might have imagined.

you turned down many passages, walked through several corridors, completely in the dark as to where he might have gone. you were so caught up in looking for him, in fact, that you missed him completely, and only found yourself face to face with the man when he called you back.

he had been staring at an old piece of art in the castle, one he must have seen and admired a dozen times before, but had needed something with which to occupy himself as he waited and hoped to see you.

“i was looking for you,” was all you spoke, unsure of how to begin.

“you found me, it seems,” he laughed. “with a little aid.”

he let his smile fade slowly, searching for the words in his crowded mind so that he might perfectly convey all that he thought in regards to his feelings for you. he gestured to an empty bench before the painting that hung tall, sitting close beside you.

“i have been meaning, for some time now, to tell you that which i have kept from you,” he began, keeping you on the edge of your seat. “from our youth, though i did not know it then, i have felt for you something i have never felt for another. and…” his breath was trembling, his eyes fixed to his hands. you took them warmly into yours, and this forced him to meet your eyes, where he found the utmost encouragement. “and when you left those weeks ago, i have regretted every moment since that i did not tell you then exactly how i felt.”

“and how do you feel?” you asked him, needing to hear it after so long.

“i feel…i feel as if- as if you- no. when i am in battle,” said he, “and my sword is kicked from my grasp, the enemy bearing down upon me, it is not, though perhaps it should be, for my men that i find the strength to stand again, to fight with my bare hands if i must. it is not for the approval of my father, nor even for my brother. when i am an inch from death, i find my strength in you, i find my courage in you. my hope, in the thought that i would see you again.”

“faramir,” you whispered through a breath of disbelief, that an honourable man such as he would care for you so deeply, a wayward soul under the influence of a wandering wizard. “i could not wish for a better man to have said these words to me. you are the best i could hope for, and truly i did hope for you,” you laughed through your tears, struggling to find breath under the weight of this joyous revelation.

“my y/n,” he chuckled, his teary eyes following the down-turn of your head as you pulled his hands up to your lips.

cupping your jaw delicately, he raised your eye-line to meet his, gazing upon you like a revered work of art. softly, he brushed your tears away with the pad of his thumb, leaning in cautiously but eagerly for something which the both of you had craved for an eternity. his mouth brushed yours tentatively, opening your lips to accommodate his own. and the pair of you were set ablaze, suddenly and feverishly reaching for each other as if you were not close enough already—his tunic gripped between your fingers, your hand over his neck while his arm snuck around your waist and fingers tangled into your hair.

distantly, he heard his father’s bellows, and it pulled him from you reluctantly. resting his forehead against yours, he regained much of the breath he had lost in your shared embrace, taking a moment to recover.

“i must go,” he said lowly, the baritone in his voice causing you to shiver.

“come and find me when you are done.”

“i would not think to do anything else,” he whispered, kissing the crown of your head before stoically marching towards his father’s inevitable disapproval.

though his approval, in comparison to yours, was trivial.

🏷 @velvetcloxds @entishramblings

[aesthetic-bbyg]

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

[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?

[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.

[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 ✨

[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

[anghraine]

this is entirely unprompted on your end, but i love your darcy and faramir takes and wanted to get your opinion on aragorn/faramir as a ship.

i'm salivating over it and nobody. cares. but i just love how it can show the possibilities of book faramir being a "threat" to aragorn's kingship in a way that nobody else is...how they can relate through their shared ancestry but the entirely different ways it impacted them in their respective lives - something about aragorn being the heir of isildur, growing up surrounded by elves, arnor. something about faramir being distinctly aware of the legacy of the stewards, his numenorean heritage and how it's fading away in the world of men, gondor (my fav world in lotr, you are so under-appreciated, gondor.) i personally adhere to the stewards-were-most-likely-also-royalty headcanon because of that extra juicy tension. throw in the i-knew-your-father-as-a-young-man aspect, the whole steward-quite-literally-serving-in-wait-of-the-true-king aspect? it's everything.

i dunno. the natural cause and effect of "return of the king" & "departure of the steward" is so interesting to play with in a romantic context, especially if it keeps both of them in the limelight when naturally, it should only be one of them? i think it's the aragorn ship that pushes his character and ambition the most, and in the same way, it can push faramir to show more machiavellian traits, more of him utilizing his political power and/or personal strengths. especially since his canonical fate is extremely satisfying but also...very conclusively an *ending* if that makes sense.

i might just want to see faramir clashing with aragorn wanting to wage more war. let him cook! let the man speak about "queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves"!!!!

also must admit that it's my contrarian ass wanting to rebel against the fanon "aragorn never ever wanted to be king" + "faramir is a pathetic meow meow" headcanons. the existing faramir x aragorn fics i've read all adhere to it which is frustrating.

anyways, any thoughts on this ship i randomly latched on to?

Anon, this is my #1 Tolkien ship and actually one of the only m/m ships I've ever been super into. I used to guiltily sneak-read Aragorn/Faramir as a teenager because I grew up in a conservative community and hadn't come to terms with my own queerness at the time, and was still figuring out how to get by in that community just as a Democrat, much less a lesbian.

Anyway, I got a huge kick out of your ask because it's basically point-for-point my own feelings about them. If you haven't seen it, I even wrote a ship manifesto for them over ten years ago.

And unfortunately I do also agree that the (very PJ film-inflected) fanons around both characters have made it very difficult to find fic for the ship that isn't deeply OOC for the original versions of the characters (tbh the last time I looked, it was hard enough to even find F/A fics where Faramir had black hair, much less his deeper canon characteristics). Add in the fanon depictions of Gondor and the Stewardship, and a lot of what appeals about the pairing is lost for me. I read some good ones a longggg time ago, but wouldn't begin to know where to find them now.

(I know I should be the change I want to see and write some myself, but apart from the AU f/f and m/f/f versions, I think the closest I ever came to it was this post about a mostly-the-same-as-LOTR AU only with Faramir/Aragorn and this feeling explosion about "Faramir actually does accepts the dream-visions obviously intending him to be the one going to Rivendell but also it's Faramir/Aragorn.")

And if you haven't found it yet, my ship tag is #otp: love was kindled.

I hope you enjoy <3

[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

[cauliflowertree]

—oneshots

kiss me like you want to be loved

[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

[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

[vsnapdragon]

Why would you be loved?

My second fic is finished! Please read the warnings before reading :)

Why Would You be Loved? (7380 words) by v_snapdragon Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Tolkien), Boromir & Faramir (Tolkien), Aragorn & Faramir (Tolkien) Characters: Éowyn (Tolkien), Faramir (Tolkien), Aragorn (Tolkien), Denethor II, Gandalf (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig, Imrahil (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Grief/Mourning

[essenceofarda]

OF BLESSED THYME & THISTLE | Chapter 1 | Page 4

Masterlist of Pages

Faramir’s cousin, Lothiriel, comes to Minas Tirith to become a companion of his new bride, Eowyn, something that he hopes will ease Eowyn’s rough transition into Gondorian Society. Eowyn, for her part, decides her new companion would in turn make the perfect bride for her brother, Eomer King of Rohan. Matchmaking shenanigans ensue 😏

Page 4! Hmm... face the witch king again? Or spend your days with Faramir's female relatives (on his father's side) who are non-too-pleased (and make their displeasure very known) with the fact that Faramir wedded one of those "uncouth fair-haired northerners" 🤔 the witch king would be a welcome reprieve from these ladies!!

Thank you to Konartiste (won't let me tag you for some reason?) for making this page happen by donating to my Ko-Fi 💗🥰

I feel kinda bad that this page is non dialogue, so I'll try to get the next page up by sometime this weekend if i can!

[spindlesaurus-rex]

@konartiste Oh look what happened by accident (Jean wrote the first few Agatha Christie Au chapters and actually posted them, good god will she ever be this productive again??) 

Summary:

Eomer Eadig, Eddie to his friends, is the newly minted Earl of Meduseld. He does not particularly want to be this. He wants even less to be dragged into a murder investigation, particularly not an impromptu one. It suits him even less to have said impromptu murder investigation spearheaded by a woman he best remembers as a little girl on a too big pony. But Lady Lothiriel is little Lola no longer. Her mind is sharp, her flapper skirts are short, and she's not averse to taking the wheel when she has to. Literally. Perhaps, when the hand dragging you into intrigue is as dainty as hers, all of us might stumble and fall. The question is, perhaps, just what have they fallen into - and can they solve a murder without allowing it to distract them?