#faramir x you fanfiction

[system-to-the-madness]

The Dark is But a Passing - Faramir x Reader

Pairing: Faramir x fem!Reader Genre: fluff Word Count: 1 265 Warnings: fear of the night, mentions of the war and Sauron Summary: Faramir finds you, late at night, keeping watch at a window

You got torn out of your thoughts by the sound of light steps on tiled floor. Even without turning, you knew it was no guard, too light the steps to belong to one of the armoured men guarding the citadel of Minas Tirith.

"I thought I saw light in here," the soft voice of the Steward spoke, as he stepped next to the window seat you had curled up in. "Why are you still awake, my Lady?"

"Sleep evaded me," you responded, finally looking up. Kind eyes met yours, crinkled with a soft smile. "What about you, my lord Faramir? A man as busy as yourself should value his sleep, shouldn't he?"

The look in Faramir's eyes grew distant for a moment, the light in them fading as a dark shadow pulled over his beautiful features. 

"The darkness seems deeper tonight," he answered slowly, "just as it did in the days of the war."

You watched him, as he stood next to you, dressed in a light blue tunic with silver stitching around the hems. His hair fell in soft locks past his shoulders and his water blue eyes carried a deep sadness you could not even begin to understand. The war had taken his beloved brother, and his father, driven mad from the pain had not only taken his own life, but also tried to take Faramir's.

Before you were quite aware of what you were doing, more instinct than anything, you reached over, closing your fingers around Faramir's. His skin was warm in your hand, and his fingers flexed, before he closed them around yours, taking them in a gentle hold. The darkness seemed to fade from his face and the light returned into his eyes. Giving you a small smile, he sat down in the nook next to you, directing his eyes out past the window.

"What drew you to this window of the many in Minas Tirith," he asked almost absentmindedly as he tried to spy what lay within the dark of the night past the glass.

"The view," you answered, tearing your eyes away from him and looking out as well.

"The view," Faramir echoed questioningly. "What view is it you see in the darkness?"

"Not the view I see now but the one I'm waiting for. The sunrise over the mountains in the east." You inhaled deeply, as if to take courage to speak the next words. "It is the longest night of the year, and tonight more than any other night it feels like the sun might never rise again. Like the shadow in the east is reborn in the long darkness of the night and if I were not to sit here, waiting for the sun, it would feel no need to try to fight the night anymore. It is stupid, but…"

"You're scared," Faramir concluded, his voice soft, as he pulled his own feet up into the nook, sitting more comfortably, mirroring your posture. "I understand that fear. It is still unusual to see the sun rise where once nothing but clouds and shadow dwelled. It feels as if tonight the world of men holds its breath, waiting to see if light once again will drive out darkness."

"It feels colder, this night," you mumbled. "I know it's but the winter air carrying the first snow but-"

"It is cold tonight," Faramir nodded. "But sitting against a cold window won't warm you up much when you are tired."

You knew the implication in his words, the unspoken question if it would not be wiser to retire to your bed and sleep under the warm covers to wake up to the sun over the mountains in the east. 

You were about to speak, about to explain that you just could not give in to the urge of sleep and comfort if it meant leaving the dark unattended, but before you could open your mouth, Faramir let go of your still intertwined hands, and reached for a blanket that had been stored in a basket next to the window and threw it over both your bodies.

With wonderment you watched his face as he busied himself with tucking the edges of the blanket into place. You had admired the Steward of Gondor for a long time, your heart tucking you towards his presence with a sweet ache and moments like tonight, not uncommon in the past months, made you wonder if your heart was not the only one that felt such affection. 

Faramir's eyes met yours, a glimmer sparking in them as he saw how softly you regarded him. 

"I would also go fetch a pillow if you wished so," he offered with raised eyebrows, making you shake your head with a smile.

"I should fear falling asleep if I were any more comfortable," you laughed quietly. 

"Then sleep," Faramir encouraged you, "I shall wake you when the horizon starts to brighten. Should it not be enough if one of us kept watch of the dark?"

"I cannot expect you to sacrifice your sleep for my irrational fear of the night," you protested, sitting up on your knees, alarmed Faramir would even offer such a service.

"You wouldn't," he disagreed. "Rather you would do me a favour, if I knew you rested comfortably."

You stared at him for a moment in disbelief. You could not take such an offer, could you? He was an important man, maybe the most important man after the King. He needed to be awake and have his wits together for his daily work. And still, he would offer his sleep for your comfort? But he was a proud man, and even though he would not show it, he would be disappointed if you rejected the offer.

"I wish I could," you answered slowly, still kneeling in front of where he had pulled his knees to his chest. "But I fear the cold of the dark will not let me find sleep."

"We might yet wither it together," Faramir offered, opening his arms invitingly.

For a moment you hesitated, uncertain whether the gesture meant what you thought it did, but when you carefully shifted towards him, he smiled with a nod and opened his arms further.

Settling into his side, between him and the window, Faramir adjusted the blanket over your bodies and gently pulled you closer so you could rest your head against his chest. Your heart was thundering against your rips so loudly you feared he would hear, as you shifted so you could look out of the window, but then you felt Faramir's heartbeat of equal speed, and a smile tugged at your lips. It was comforting to know his heart was just as excited as yours.

"Sleep now," Faramir encouraged, pressing a lingering kiss against the top of your head. "The darkness is but a passing. I shall keep watch and wake you before the first rays of the sun meet the white walls of the city."

"Thank you," you whispered, already lulled in by the warmth his body radiated, and a few moments later sleep had claimed you.

Faramir made sure you had fallen asleep before he inhaled deeply. It felt right, sitting here with you resting against his chest, as right as everything felt any time he got to spend time with you, although he had to admit he had not dared hoping you would welcome his affection. And as he sat staring out into the night, willing the sun to soon lighten the sky with her ascent, he felt the darkness brighten with you at his side.

[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.”

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[jinx-s-things]

Who wants to live forever

Faramir x reader

You awoke to Faramir not being in the bed with you, ever since he saw his brother, Boromir’s body floating in the elven boat. The captain hasn’t been sleeping well, if he he’s not yelling in his sleep he’s pacing the floor.

You slowly get up still half asleep going to find Faramir. You didn’t know Boromir for very long before he left for Rivendell but he seemed an honourable man.

Faramir sat In the near dark, his face only visible by the light of the candle. He looked deep in thought, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. His facial expressions changing slightly as more thoughts crept into his mind.

The sight of Boromir’s body floating past him haunts every waking moment. Something about the lifeless corpse of his only Brother stripped Faramir of something deep inside. He’s avoided everyone and being captain is exhausting he just wants it to disappear, the pressure from his father is becoming unbearable and he’s sure Y/N is mad at him.

You finally found Faramir after ages, you couldn’t see him very well in the dark only a silhouette. You got up closer to see him properly. He looked exhausted, you felt bad for him and wished there was something you could do. You gently put a hand on his back and sit down, Faramir jumped a little but relaxed when it was just you.

You could see a tear rolling down his face, he tried to look away but you stopped him

He crumbles in to your arms unable to stop the flow of unshed tears, grief and stress.

“You do not need to pretend in front of me” you say. Faramir looked away from you focusing on the ground before taking “I am not pretending, I don’t know what you mean.” He replied, his voice as quiet as a mouse

You could barely hear him.

You sigh and slowly place a hand over his cheek and wipe away the tears that slowly rolled down his face. “You’re obviously not fine I know it” you whispered.

He gazed into your eyes, all he could see was concern. His gaze felt like it lasted forever. It was silent for a while before Faramir spoke “am I a burden?” He asked. He sounded miserable, more tears falling down. ‘I will never live up to Boromir especially in my father’s eyes.’ He thought to himself.

You stare at him in shock “A burden? I hope you’re not serious, you could never be a burden. The men respect you, you’re the best captain they have known. That man you call father certainly has filled your head with rubbish, your father is a bitter old man who doesn’t deserve your love”

Faramir stares you for a second a small smile twitching the side of his month. “Let’s get back to bed”

Instead You curl up beside him

“From what I saw of your brother I know he was a man of great strength and valour, I would have much liked to know him”

Faramir nodded his head in agreement.

You both sat embracing each other until the first light shone over the horizon, it felt nice to finally clear the air. He knew he could always rely on you, as well as you felt the same way about him.

Thanks to @izzyrose565 who helped me write this, I struggled a lot with it since I’ve never wrote any lord of the rings stuff. This is my first ever Lotr fanfic and I’m planning to write some more!!

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 6 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Epilogue

Summary: In the dawning hours, Éomer confronts a reality he never anticipated.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Warning: Light NSFW passages in the beginning, but no smut.

Word count: 8,430

Read it on AO3 here.

‘You are not Éorhild.’

Éomer fixed the freckled young maid with a guarded gaze as she set the breakfast tray before him. Effluvium of scorched bread had awoken him with a start, its odour having offended his nostrils and disrupted his dreams. A sense of unease had stirred within him, and his instinct already heralded that something was amiss in Meduseld.

Éorhild would never have allowed the yeast to scald. She knew his tastes better even than her own, and if a dish had gone awry, she would have swiftly replaced it with something far more fitting. Yet here it was, this imperfect offering, placed upon his lap as though nothing differed from the ordinary course of his day. Something was wrong.

The girl curtsied, her awkwardness apparent as she stumbled upon her own feet. As he blinked away the last remnants of his slumber, recognition dawned. It was Wídrid, one of Edelmer’s newest recruits, whose arrival Éorhild had announced to him on one of their regular meetings by the hearth. The sight of her — so unsteady in her duties — gave him pause. The chamberlain must have been caught well unawares to assign such an inexperienced pupil to serve the prince.

‘G-Good morning, your Grace,’ she stammered, her voice barely rising above a mumble. ‘Indeed, I am not she; my name is—'

‘Wídrid,’ he cut her off coldly, regretting his attitude towards her within a heartbeat. ‘I have heard of you. Tell me, why is my chambermaid not attending to me today? Is she busy?’

The servant, not older than fifteen by the look of her, twiddled with a loose thread from her apron, her eyes downcast.

‘I reckon she’s fallen ill, sir — I mean, my lord. I think. Edelmer… he wouldn’t say.’

A glacial wave washed over him as Wídrid’s words sank in. Ill? Had he, in his unknowing eagerness, caused her more harm than he had assumed? The thought tightened around his bleeding heart like an iron band, and for a moment, the world around him began to spin.

He had seen little of the realm of the female body, had scarcely understood its fragility, its delicate composition. What if his ignorance, aggravated by the lustful impatience of an enamoured lover, had already brought her suffering?

The weight of the unknown bore its weight on him, curling his shoulders beneath its mass. Air eluded him, and he sat there, bewildered and suffocating, wrestling with the unsettling idea that he had been too reckless, too impetuous in his desire. Another eventuality presented itself to him, far more dreadful.

Could it be? Could he have already rendered her heavy, so early? His breath faltered. His stomach churned. Late at night, it had oftentimes occurred to him to imagine the two of them raising a bright little girl in the countryside. Their daughter would have been the jewel of Rohan, with her mother’s eyes and his nose. He would have Éorhild name the child, listened to her listing names while rubbing her sore feet, secretly hoping to find that she considered Olwyn or Widwena — his favourite choices. He would have cradled her all the way through her painful labour, held her up to aid with the delivery, whispered words of encouragement and reassurance into her ear. And he would have been proud — oh, so proud — to see the woman he loved above all else, weeping with joy while she held the fruit born of their union to her heart.

The beauty of the image turned sour at once. A child in their circumstances would constitute a threat — a precious but dangerous vulnerability. It would expose them, unveil their secret to the prying eyes of the court, and the consequences would be swift and unforgiving.

Théoden would not hesitate. He would strip Éorhild of her dignity and banish her as though she were but a discarded garment. And if the child was born, he would be no less cruel. He could see it so clearly — his uncle, with his icy glare on her, tearing the child from her breast, condemning her with a finality that left no room for mercy. And for Éomer, if he were lucky, he would only endure the king’s disapproval and the scorn of Éowyn’s reproaches.

But if the worst came to pass, if the full extent of his actions were to be discovered, if it reached the king’s ears — then no punishment would be sufficient to mend the ruin he had caused. The defence they had crafted to justify their joining would not change a thing. Her life would be forfeit. He would lose her. Lose everything.

And the bairn? It would be thrown into the arms of the guardians of an orphanage, far from Edoras, so Éomer would never find it, should his folly lead him to wish to raise it. Or, it would be abandoned, somewhere, to fend for itself and die from the cold, or devoured by a beast.

His mind spun in a whirlpool of terrifying eventualities, each one darker than the last, as he sought to quell the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Were the consequences of this forbidden, consummated bond, too much for them both to bear?

‘Are you not hungry, your Majesty?’

Wídrid’s voice lured him back to reason. Surely, it could not be that — Éorhild was not with child. The prospect was too far-fetched, and much too soon. No, this had to be something else. Something common, that he could explain.

Perhaps her excursion through the halls of Meduseld clad in naught but a worn-out shift and a thin robe had made her susceptible to the usual winter afflictions that plagued anyone exposed to them during these harsh months. That was it. She had awoken in pain, gathered her clothes, and returned to her quarters to preserve him. That was an attentive thing she was most capable of.

He let out a sigh and begrudgingly stirred his fork into the unappetising mush on his plate.

‘I am. Thank you for, um… breakfast.’

‘I will pour you a bath while you eat.’

The girl had barely finished talking before she turned swiftly, heading towards his private washroom. Caught off guard, Éomer dropped the fork into the plate, its loud clank stopping her in her tracks.

‘There is no need,’ he said, struggling to pass the raw meat down his throat. ‘You may take your leave. I shall first pay a visit to Éorhild to enquire about her state.’

‘Are you sure?’

His insistent stare dissuaded the maid from proceeding, and she bowed.

‘Very well. Please do tell us when you need something.’

Without further ado, the servant exited, her nonchalant footsteps echoing down the hallway. Éomer, vexed, spat out the disintegrating and bland food, its taste now bitter in his mouth. With a frustrated grunt, he shoved the tray aside and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. Stretching his fatigued limbs, he gathered the discarded clothes from the floor and draped them over his footboard, his mind still reeling. Much to his relief, he caught a glimpse of the garments he had taken off her when she was still unconscious after her journey to Master Guthláf’s office. He would bring them to her, he decided, when he would pass by her chamber.

As he dressed, his eyes lingered on the disordered bed, with its sheets untucked and ruffled. The vivid memories of the previous night rushed back to him — the warmth of her body, the caresses of her hands along his spine, the cautious clawing on his shoulders now marked with red, the refrains of her moans. What a delight it had been.

By merely glancing at the disarray of his bed, Éomer could envision the two of them once more. The crumpled linens still bore the imprint of their entwined bodies, their lingering whispers woven into every fold and crease.

A startling clarity was unfolding in his mind’s eye, and he could view himself, inebriated from the astounding velvety warmth that enfolded him when he first joined her. The sensation had been so profoundly arresting that it had momentarily disarmed him. His initial, unpractised movements had been erratic and clumsy — yet she had guided him with a hand cupping his buttocks, as if to remind him of the same confidence he wielded astride his steed.

It was then, with her soothing encouragement, that he had reclaimed the poise of a seasoned rider. Éorhild had taken her turn to lead him, too, for a brief moment — briefly mounting him with an elegance that left him awestruck, she had offered him the privilege to witness her abandon, to revel in her unguarded delight. He had traced the contours of her silhouette, explored the places his earlier attentions had overlooked, savoured every curve.

But it was as the commander of this unbridled dance that he had finally surrendered to her. He had come undone with a force he had not suspected, spending himself while desperately chanting her name against her lips. He had cradled her in his arms, holding her head as though she were the most precious treasure on Arda, even as they both trembled in the aftermath of the tempest of their own making.

Then, she had nestled against his torso, her golden head resting tenderly upon his heart, her delicate fist loose upon his sternum. He had crowned her silken tresses with reverent kisses, his fingers tracing soothing patterns upon her upper arm. They had remained in silence, the weight of words unnecessary, basking in the stillness infused with the afterglow of their earthly and spiritual union.

The quiet had stretched on, planting a seed of doubt within him. Though her warmth against him spoke of contentment, he dreaded the unspoken. Fearing that the first words to break this solemn moment would be an expression of regret, he had been the one to speak first, seeking to shield her from the burden that loomed over the pair.

‘I wonder what it is that lovers typically discuss after they…’

The candour of his observation had drawn forth unrestrained laughter from them both, a sound as pure and liberating as the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon. She had buried her smile against his chest, the succinct spurts of her mirth the sweetest alleviation of all of his worries. Her joy had become his solace, and he felt their complicity strengthen with each pleasantry they shared afterwards.

‘It must be said,’ he had suddenly remarked after they had conversed for a minute or two, their gazes lost in each other, ‘minstrels and bards do not sing the praises of earth-coloured eyes often enough.’

And she had blushed. And she had kissed him.

‘I love you, Éomer,’ she had murmured, mere seconds before her body surrendered to sleep.

Once more, a grin graced his lips. How extraordinary it felt to be cherished so ardently by one as pure as she. His heart swelled with the power of his love. All he could wish was to prove himself worthy of her by attending to her every need while she was ailing, with the same tenderness and dedication she had shown him for sixteen years, whether he saw it or not. If she lay unwell in her solitary bed, he resolved, he would not leave her to suffer alone. The world and its expectations could be damned, and the king could grumble all he wanted. It was his turn to care for Éorhild, and he would see it done. Duty could wait one day longer.

Éomer collected the clothes she had left behind in her haste, folding them again with care before departing his quarters. Each step he took closer to her lonely bedchamber was accompanied by a storm within him, a mighty swarm of butterflies thrumming and fluttering with the strength of a dozen spirited stallions. As the distance between them dwindled, their fervour only grew, his heart hammering against his ribs in anticipation.

At last, he stood before her door, the polished wood gleaming in the torch-lit corridor. He paused, smoothing the folds of his tunic and brushing a hand through his hair, a futile attempt at taming both his nerves and his appearance. With a deep breath, he raised his knuckles and gave the door a knock.

No response.

Assuming that she might still be asleep, he pushed the latch in a slow motion, not wanting to startle her, and the door opened. But as he peered into the room, the garments he carried slipped from his grasp and collapsed to the ground in a muffled thud.

The chambermaid’s chamber was vacant, its bed stripped bare. Éomer entered with urgency, his boots thumping upon the stone. His hands darted to the nearest drawer, flipping it open with little regard for decorum — but it was filled with nothing but neat and perfumed linens. He moved to the modest wardrobe, wrenching his doors apart and finding naught but bare hangers and folded head coverings, their pristine arrangement mocking his search.

No gowns, no personal tokens, no trace of Éorhild remained.

Only what had remained upon his chair.

A frost settled inside his chest, sinking deeper with each empty compartment he inspected. Bearing it no more, he fled the room, neglecting to even shut the door behind him or take her belongings with him. As he took the first corner in the hallway, he collided with Wídrid, who was on her way to bring him fragrances.

‘Your Majesty!’ she gasped in sheer shock. ‘I apologise for not looking where I was going.’

‘Where is Éorhild?’ he barked, grabbing her by the shoulders, barely refraining from shaking her.

‘I-I do not know, my lord, honest!’

The girl’s cry prompted him to release her. He buried his face into his hands and drew in a deep breath to steady himself. If Éorhild was in danger, he had to keep calm for her. He would be of no use to her if he lost his mind.

‘I am the one to apologise, Wídrid,’ he said, suppressing a sob.

‘That is quite alright, my lord. Come. I will pour you a bath.’

‘No. Take me to Edelmer.’

‘But—’

‘Will you not cease questioning my every command?’ he roared, losing his footing in his restraint. ‘Am I not your prince?!’

Frightened by his outburst, she gave a hasty nod and led him towards the hall. Her trembling hand dabbed at the tears pouring from her youthful eyes. There would come a time for him to offer her a sincere apology, but that was not this day. Urgency overshadowed contrition.

Servants leapt out of their course as they passed them by, celebrating his passage with respectful curtseys. Even as he entered the kitchens, where the royals seldom would set foot in, the maids and cooks were startled into dropping pans and brooms to bow in a cacophony that exasperated him to the highest extent. Among them, one figure stood, hunched over a ledger, his quill scratching away at a piece of parchment.

‘Edelmer,’ Éomer called out, drawing the chamberlain’s attention, ‘may I have a word with you?’

Edelmer dipped his quill back into its pot and dragged his chair against the gravel to rise. He acknowledged the prince’s presence with a single nod of his head and turned to the expecting personnel.

‘Now, now, do not stand rooted to your stations,’ his nonchalant yet firm voice ordered them, ‘back to work!’

As the raucous activities resumed, Edelmer, with the flick of his wrist, grabbed a single rolled-up scroll from his desk, and motioned for Éomer to follow him out. The prince obeyed, his eyes flickering around him, hoping for a glimpse of his lover. But there was, again, no sign of her.

Since neither Théoden nor Éowyn occupied the great hall, the chamberlain chose to take the conversation to the refuge beneath the lofty arches, where the light barely reached, and ears could not pry.

‘How may I be of service, your Grace?’ he enquired, although there was a glint in his grey eyes that the prince took for recognition.

‘Perhaps you could clarify an unfortunate situation for me, Edelmer,’ Éomer started. ‘This morning, it was not my chambermaid that brought me my meal. Why? Has Éorhild not fulfilled the expectations of her position? I would have preferred to have discussed it with you, first, considering that I appointed her myself.’

Edelmer let out a long, drawn-out sigh, his gaze fixed on the prince for an uncomfortable amount of time. His lips were pinched and twitched every few seconds, caught in a nervous tension that tightened and released with each passing thought. Éomer knew that look all too well — it was that of a man at war with himself, weighing his words in fear that they might breach a trust or cause offense, or spill out against his will before they were fully formed and crafted.

‘Your Majesty, Éorhild left Meduseld at dawn.’

‘And when is she set to return? Why not send another servant in her stead for whatever task you gave her? Surely, somebody else could have gone into Edoras. She would not have ruined my meal the way Wídrid did.’

The chamberlain leant heavily against one of the intricately carved columns, with a furrowed brow digging deep creases into the ageing skin of his forehead. His voice dropped to a whisper, cautious and measured, as though the very walls were prying.

‘You do not understand, my lord,’ he interrupted himself, his eyes darting to the three maids bustling past them. Each carried a chair fit for the king’s breakfast, their chatter and hurried steps resounding within the Golden Hall. Edelmer’s fingertip traced idle patterns upon the varnished wood, his tension most obvious as he braced for the prince’s reaction to what he would next unveil. ‘She left Edoras altogether, of her own volition.’

Éomer staggered back, his strength deserting him as the wall behind him cushioned his collapse before it occurred. The bitter tang of his ill-fated breakfast clawed its way up his throat, mingling with the violent churn of his stomach. Cold sweat broke over him, trailing down his spine and temples in icy rivulets. His quivering fingers curled tightly into his palms to stave off the urge to heave. The hall narrowed down upon him, his mind a battlefield of shock and horror.

Why would she leave him? The questioned hammered at his skull, slurring the distant blather of working servants. Its seething venom poisoned every drop of his blood, rotting him from the inside. All the light that had enlivened his gaze vacated it, rendering him hollow, an empty carcass that he no longer wished to fill.

Had the demonstrations of his adoration proved insufficient to anchor her to his side? The festering thorns of doubt snaked around his heart. Perhaps, as he feared, he had been too brutish in his ways — as the man of the saddle and the sword that he was, unskilled in the finer touch that love demands. Had his passion, raw and unrefined, overwhelmed her, leaving her to feel caged rather than cherished?

Or worse, had his hold upon her, born of desperation and yearning, been so fervent that he had bruised her in both body and spirit, proving to her that he was incapable of the gentleness she deserved?

Had the ecstasy they experienced betwixt the sheets been a mere figment of his longing heart? Two of his fingers pressed against his shoulder blade and there it was — that faint ripple of pain, a souvenir of her passion. Her nails had carved this reddened mark, left when her cries of delight crescendoed with the accelerated pace of his thrusts. And her scent — flowery and salty — still infused his hair, testifying of the hours she had spent nestled against him. No dream, however sweet, could have conjured this evidence. It had been real. Without a doubt.

Yet, what force could have compelled her to flee the capital at sunrise? Could he, unbeknownst to himself, aggrieved her spirit so profoundly that she could no longer bear to remain in his vicinity? Had she seen for herself no other path than that of a fugitive?

His chest cramped, a knot of bewilderment and sorrow constricting his breath. No. It could not be as simple as his shortcomings. She loved him — he knew it, as surely as he knew that the sun would set for the moon to rise. Her every word, the tenderness of her caress, and the unconcealed devotion in her gaze had spoken for her in ways that words would have failed to convey.

If she had awoken forlorn enough to relinquish her sanctuary and livelihood, then something far more harrowing than his clumsiness must have befallen her. His mind, frantic in its quest for truth, circled one looming spectre — something that had shadowed their bond from the very start.

The crown.

The realisation struck him like a hefty mace’s blow. The very thing promised to give him power and status was the shackle that had bound them to secrecy. If his inkling proved right, then her departure was not a rejection of him but an act of self-preservation — a desperate flight from the peril their love had burdened her with.

After all, she would have been the only one to truly suffer its consequences. While he might endure scolding from Théoden or Éowyn’s sharp tongue, judgement from his peers or disgust from the other servants, their transgression would have fallen squarely on her shoulders.

Society would not have seen her as the woman he loved, but as the temptress who had overstepped her station to corrupt the prince’s attention from matters of state. They would have branded her as a schemer, a filthy whore, a manipulator. No one would care that their union had been forged in love instead of ambition or depravity. For her, there would be no reprieve, no tolerance. Her livelihood stripped away, her reputation destroyed, and her safety imperilled. While he, as heir to the throne, would emerge unscathed.

So, he reckoned, the forecast had pervaded her and forced her to leave him.  

Unless…

Somebody had had a hand in her disappearance.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Éomer hissed, ‘was it by my uncle’s decree?’

‘No, it was not,’ Edelmer replied earnestly, hardly raising an eyebrow. ‘As I do every morning, I arose in the dark hours still and came to the hall to craft my usual list for task distribution. I had yet to complete the first column when she appeared to me, dressed hastily and with her hair dishevelled.’

The prince exhaled a breath of relief, his shoulders sagging. Éorhild lived. The haunting vision of her lifeless body, executed in secret and concealed from him so he would have no grave to mourn or flowers to lay, dissipated like a shadow chased by the dawn.

‘How did she seem?’ he intoned.

‘Terrified beyond belief. I had never seen her in such a state, not even in our exile to the Hornburg.’

The chamberlain turned his scroll between his hands.

‘All she did,’ he continued, his voice subdued, ‘was return her uniform. She was crying, apologising to me that she could not bring herself to continue in this task — or that of a servant — for a moment longer. I swear to you, my lord, that I did try to draw more from her, to understand the root of her anguish. But her weeping… it had stolen all coherence from her words.’

His eyes lifted, clouded with a deep sorrow that aged him beyond his years. Éomer had never witnessed such a disturbance within this steadfast man, the eternal voice of reason in Meduseld.

‘It was as if madness had struck her. That brilliance in her eyes, that spark that I have seen in her since she was a child under Hilda’s care and mine… it was gone. I no longer recognised her. That radiant and trustworthy woman was but the ghost of herself.’

A single tremor in his voice betrayed his grief and confusion. It was not only Éomer’s loss, but a tragedy striking Meduseld as a whole, echoing into the small, interconnected lives within its walls.

‘My lord,’ Edelmer spoke again, ‘I will say this out of the deep respect and paternal fondness I bear you too — too often have I watched my girls bestow their hearts and fancy upon the wrong men, and my boys waste their emotions on uncaring women. And it pains me beyond compare to witness Éorhild, my brightest pupil I thought immune to such folly, and yourself fall for the oldest trick of the heart.’

 ‘I know not of what you speak,’ Éomer dismissed his accusation, steeling himself for whatever questioning he might be subjected to.

‘I am not blind, your Majesty.’

‘All I did — I will confess — was to order her to share my bed in a bout of loneliness. But there is nothing in our laws forbidding a master to enjoy his maid’s body when he so desires.’

‘FALLACY!’

For the first time in his life, the prince saw the chamberlain’s composure shatter beneath a surge of rage. The greying man, who had always carried himself with ceremonious dignity, now stood rigid, clenching his fists. He straightened to his full height, his weary frame brimming with a defiance that was rare for one of his station addressing his lord.

When Edelmer cast him a glare, as frigid and cutting as a northern gale. It was not that of a mere attendant reprimanding his master; it was the expression of a man driven to his limit, the pain and fury behind it no longer bearable. For a moment, Éomer felt himself falter under it, as its sharpness rooted him to the spot. Even as the heir to the throne, he dared not challenge it.

‘She was not the wrong woman,’ he sobbed, his own vulnerability emerging. ‘She was the best of all. And I want her with every ounce of my being, Edelmer.’

The two men stared into each other’s eyes, shaken to the core and dropping their shields.

‘Every day, I awake with the wish that I had not been born with the privileges of my rank, or that she, too, had been granted them, so our love could have blossomed without restraint. If only you knew how far I would go for her. I would gladly forsake my throne for even a single second in her presence.’

‘I know all about it,’ the chamberlain whispered, his earlier defensiveness dissipating into a resigned tone. ‘From the start, it was plain to me how smitten you both were with each other. You were never subtle, no matter how much you may have tried. As I told you before, I have seen enough maids break their vows to recognise the signs.’

‘Has it truly occurred that many times?’

‘More than Éorhild cared to believe,’ he laughed bitterly. ‘She was too naïve to notice — she was not one to fathom the betrayal of promises, especially in the royal household. Most times it bears no consequence, I am here to swipe the evidence under the rug, and if courtiers are involved, I do hold the king’s trust, and I could unleash his wrath upon them. Rarely does a royal come to fancy a servant, however.’

Éomer buried his face into his clammy hands. Unburdening his heart to somebody who bore him no harsh judgement despite his actions proved much more of a relief than he had presumed. Better the chamberlain than the king, he thought.

‘Have you encountered others like us?’

‘Yes,’ Edelmer admitted, coming to lean against the wall beside him. ‘I remember your cousin, Théodred, in his youth — flirting with Ealida, if you can recall who she was.’

‘The maid who had shrunk Éowyn’s favourite gown,’ the prince snorted. ‘My sister was so furious that I thought she would set fire to Meduseld! And I was the one to commission a new one for her to stop her wailing.’

‘Precisely. Well, that incident had been caused by Ealida’s distraction. Théodred had sought her at the wash house to present her with a bouquet of flowers he had plucked on his return to the city after a patrol. That dress had soaked in the cold water for far too long, and the wool had shrivelled.’

The two men shared a brief smile at the recollection, before Éomer drew a long sigh, the conversation’s weight crushing him like a sodden cloak. The knowledge that he was not the first to have succumbed to the charms of a servant in Meduseld offered a strange solace to his gashing wound, but it came laced with an unsuspected sting.

Never had his cherished cousin confessed to such a liaison. They had shared much over the years, their confidences unshaken by the disparities in their ages and responsibilities. Edelmer’s admission now planted a seed of doubt within Éomer — perhaps he had not known Théodred at all.

While he understood, from experience, why the secret had been buried with him, the omission left Éomer with a hint of resentment. Much heartbreak could have been spared if the man he had admired most of his life had chosen to recount this shadow from his past.

Not that he would trade Éorhild’s presence in his life, not for all the wisdom in Rohan. Her disappearance did not make him repudiate her in the slightest. Every fibre of his being still yearned for her, an ache he would neither deny nor diminish. Yet had he been armed with his cousin’s cautionary tale, he might have protected her from the agony of their love. Her losses, her anguish — all would have been avoided had he not naively risked her life for a bond as doomed as it was precious.

Théodred could have taught him so much from his own missteps. And he had chosen not to.

‘No punishment befell them, I assume,’ Éomer reflected, focusing back on the core of the subject. ‘Théodred… he died beloved by all. His reputation was intact.’

‘Indeed, nothing,’ the chamberlain confirmed with a nod. ‘I ensured that the king knew nothing of it — treason, I suppose. But Lord Théodred was clever — he took the incident as a stark warning against his infatuation. He ended the dalliance and severed all ties with her. As for Ealida, she made her own choice — she demanded to serve the house of Lord Elfleth in Middlemead.’

‘Does she still serve him now?’

‘I was told that he forbade her from leaving his estate, fearing to lose his riches when the town came under siege during the war,’ Edelmer added grimly. ‘The town was razed, and she perished in the flames, scorched beyond saving.’

The image of the maid, her cries swallowed by the roar of the flames ravaging the estate, clawed at Éomer’s thoughts. He envisioned her silhouette, hands pressed against the excruciating heat of the barred windows, her voice hoarse from her desperate pleas no one would hear. The bile rising in his throat was more than just nausea — it was guilt, cold and unrelenting.

What if Éorhild met the same fate? Had his selfish longing set her upon a path leading to another master, one who might exploit her or view her only as a cog in the machinery of his household?

Would she, in the absence of Meduseld’s rigid orders, thrive in her new life? Would her wit and her diligence win her the favour she deserved, or would she toil unnoticed, her talents wasted?

Perhaps she was right to leave him. Without him, she might find the happiness he could never have provided her. What did he have to offer her? A love cloaked in secrecy, a bond that could never be celebrated. Over time, it would have crushed her spirit — the constant shadows, the endless whispers, the perpetual vigilance.

The tears she would have shed in moments of loneliness, her laughter growing strained by the day, her light dimming under the pressure of their foreordained love — she would have fallen prey to each instance.

And he? He would have lived in agony, torn between the life that his crown demanded and the consolation he could not procure her. Even worse, the day would have come when duty would force his hand — his marriage to another, a union born of obligation. How could he have let her endure such humiliation? She would have lived bound to a man whose affection she could no longer claim. Their closeness would have become a curse, an ever-present reminder of what they had lost. And they would have had no hope to move on.

Indeed, she had been wiser than he, in fleeing before it had all turned bitter. But the idea of her absence, of a life without her smile, her care, her affection, was a wound he could scarcely endure.

Éomer pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, as though by applying force, he might dam the tide of tears threatening to overcome him. His lip quivered, trembling like a fragile leaf caught in the first stirrings of a storm in early winter. Deep within his core, his stomach twisted in a sickening knot, a vortex of anguish boring ever so further into his soul. His chest burnt from a laceration caused by Fate’s halberd, cleaved through his flesh and bone, but Death was too cruel to let him fade away. It would never heal, and he knew it.

Éorhild… His sweet, beautiful Éorhild…

He had lost her.

Would he behold her again, other than in his dreams?

He felt as vulnerable as a child, drowning beneath a misery too vast for him to comprehend, or for his fragile heart to sustain. At his age, there was no loving mother to run to, no lap upon which to lay his weary head and spill his grief. There was no gentle hand to stroke his hair, no soothing voice to quiet the storm within him as he wept. Théoden, though fiercely cherished by Éomer, was not the solace he craved in matters of the heart. Soon, Éowyn would leave for Gondor, leaving him adrift and untethered.

Alone.

For good.

Before the sob could claw its way free from his throat, Edelmer interrupted the storm brewing within him. The chamberlain nudged Éomer’s arm gently with the rolled scroll he had fetched from his desk in the kitchens, a subtle gesture that pulled the prince back to the present.

‘Éorhild wanted me to give you this,’ the chamberlain intoned. ‘I believe it is the only thing she has left behind.’

‘A note?’

‘She did not say, and I wished not to pry.’

Éomer dabbed at his tears with the rim of his sleeve and felt the parchment between his fingers — the final remnant of her presence, her farewell note. A brittle smile ghosted across his cheeks. These words, hastily scrawled in her hands in her rush, were all she had left for him to cling to, a fragile bridge between her absence and his mourning. This letter held the power to unravel the entangled threads of his tormenting speculations, to affirm or dispel what he believed to have prompted her to leave. It was a key to the locked chamber of her heart, a faint hope that the mystery of her departure would be elucidated. So, with a trembling grip, he unrolled the parchment, but what he found there left him speechless.

Arranged in three rows and two columns were six sinuous lines, identical to one another. Above each were squared dots, haphazardly distributed on various levels — some would appear higher than their predecessors, yet lower than their successors, in multiple combinations. He turned it upside down, sideways, eyed the reverse, but no words had been written for him.

‘Are you certain that it is what she gave you?’ Éomer cast a puzzled glance towards the chamberlain. ‘This is no letter.’

Edelmer responded with a brief chuckle.

‘Such passion and devotion to one another, and yet she had kept her illiteracy from you,’ he teased. ‘May I see it?’

Unlearned in letters… Considering her path in life, it did not surprise him at all to learn it. Such simple things about her he had never deigned to enquire — would it have enhanced their connection? Most likely not. While he enjoyed ballads, he was not one for poetry, and he would not have wanted to outrage her sight with mediocre verse.

Éomer presented the odd note to Edelmer, whose eyes instantly brightened up in recognition.

‘Now, that is something that I have not laid eyes upon in decades,’ he muttered.

‘Can you decipher it?’

‘Aye, I can. I hail from a musical family, you know? Let it be a lesson, your Majesty, for when your turn comes to sit upon the throne of Rohan.’

His well-groomed finger pointed at the first series of dots, following their irregular curve above the single line they hovered above.

‘This is a series of musical notations, characteristic of the communities residing near the mountains in the Westfold. Usually there would be a marker to denote the starting tone, but here, I see none. Each dot represents a note, ascending or descending, weaving together the melody.’

‘Why would she leave this to me?’ Éomer pondered aloud, his confusion growing by the second.

‘That, I cannot say,’ Edelmer admitted with a shake of his head. ‘She scribbled it right before my eyes as she was about to depart. Truth be told, I was surprised to see her pick up my quill at all.’

The prince peered intently at the improvised music sheet, his brow furrowing as he crossed his arms. The neat arrangement of dots and lines mocked him with their cryptic simplicity. Grasping at threads of reason — or at least desperately reaching out for them —, his mind whirred. Why this? Why now?

What are you trying to tell me, beloved?

A hushed vocalisation startled him out of his introspection. Beside him, Edelmer’s voice wafted between them with remarkable clarity, as it investigated for the opening pitch of the scripted music.

‘That should be it…’

The chamberlain hummed the last tone, then proceeded to follow the sequence on the parchment. With each rise and fall, his hand floated, retracing the combinations that Éorhild had marked onto the scroll, as though conducting an unseen orchestra. The chant, at first elusive like mist over the plains, came alive.

A language without words, it plunged Éomer back into a haze of grief. His chest constricted as recognition bloomed in his heart, scathing and nagging. This fragment was no idle gesture. It was his mother’s lullaby — his anchor through the impetuous tempests of his youth and the gravity of war. It was this same song that Éorhild had sung that fateful evening on the hillside to put his restless mind at ease. It was what had compelled him to brush his lips against hers and drape her in his arms for the first time. It had been the start of everything — the fragile, forbidden love they had nurtured in the shadows, even for such short a time — and now, it marked its harrowing end.

Wind in the willows, glimmers on the streams, Clouds against the moon, moss on the burrow, Bestow on my bairn the sweetest of dreams, Bring forth delight; away with his sorrow.

Through this lullaby, Éorhild was reaching out to him across the vast distance that now separated them.

‘She remembered,’ Éomer wept now without restraint. ‘She remembered my mother’s song.’

Edelmer ceased to sing and lowered the parchment, placing it back into the prince’s hand.

‘Then she must have known that it held meaning to you, my lord,’ he said with quiet compassion. ‘Perhaps it is her way of saying goodbye, or—’

Éomer did not wait for him to finish. He clutched the scroll tightly to his heart while his shoulders trembled, hoping that the notes would become his lifeline in the storm of his sorrow.

‘She is telling me that she loves me,’ he whispered hoarsely, his thumb caressing the parchment as though he could feel her presence through the ink. ‘She is telling me that no matter the distance, I will be in her thoughts as much as she will be in mine. And that both she and I will be alright.’

His gaze lifted to find Edelmer’s, but the light that once enlivened his own had been snuffed. His reddened face, drenched with tears, contorted as another sob wracked him.

‘But how can I be when she is gone?’

The chamberlain placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

‘Then that must truly have been love, my lord. Not even the wide expanse of Rohan nor the dangers that lie within it can take that away from you.���

He stood up straight, smoothing his uniform with gentle pats, then puffed up his chest. And when he spoke, despite his calm composure, his words had lost every ounce of his sympathy.

‘Éorhild was a good person — too good for her own sake at times —, but you must not let her be the woman to capture your heart. She is baseborn and thus unfit for marriage with the heir to the throne, and I believe that you seldom need my reminder on the matter.’

Edelmer offered him a ceremonious bow.

‘Forget her, your Majesty, for her sake and your own.’

And he disappeared through the door to the kitchens, leaving Éomer at the mercy of Melancholy’s fangs. They pierced through his skin with such brutal force that his bones shattered under their might, while its maw reduced his limbs to a lifeless mash. He writhed in agony, his howls subdued in his prison of secrecy. It left him without hands to drag himself away; without legs to flee; and soon enough without eyes to see through the bleakness. All he could hear was the horrid squelches as the beast feasted upon him, hollowing him out of everything that made him Éomer, and leaving behind nothing but the empty shell of the man he once was.

The one who, merely hours prior, had found peaceful slumber in the arms of the woman he loved. The man who, despite the variety of obstacles in his path, would have willingly worked to make Éorhild happy.

She was all that mattered to him. And now, he was alone, pushed to the ground, biting the dust.

When, after long minutes of mourning, Éomer regained a semblance of composure, he harshly wiped his cheeks and nose dry and staggered out from beneath the arches. Across the hall, he caught glimpse of one of the men he had ridden with to Helm’s Deep, one that he knew he could trust with his life, should it depend on it.

‘Erkenbrand!’

The soldier, alerted by his calling, turned and came to meet him, nodding his head in respect upon beholding the prince.

‘Your Grace. How may I be of assistance?’

‘I shall spend the day in my quarters and overlook the relief of the Fold, and I wish not to be disturbed,’ Éomer declared, firm and stoic. ‘Tell my uncle’s advisors that I wish to further delay my engagement to the Lady Lothíriel — I refuse to hold celebrations and regal affairs when our people are suffering and homeless. Our treasury must serve them first and foremost.’

‘What of Lord Imrahil’s patience, my lord? I fear that he might soon retract his offer.’

‘Lord Imrahil is a generous man towards his people, he will understand.’

Erkenbrand bowed and scrutinised his lord’s face, not out of defiance, but rather concern. Truth be told, he looked a mess — his hair, still tousled from laying on his pillow, was untamed, and his eyes had swollen from crying. He was not himself, and the chief lord of could tell — but he would not disobey.

‘I shall ensure that your will be done, your Majesty,’ he acquiesced.

‘One other thing,’ Éomer said sharply before Erkenbrand left, ‘despatch a group of riders to search our lands and every village and town for a woman. Her name is Éorhild, she was a maid here at Meduseld and I know that she left Edoras during the night. Bring her to me, unscathed and in good health. If I learn that any of the men displayed any aggressive, violent, or obscene behaviour towards her, he will suffer my blad. Am I clear?’

‘Clear as day, your Majesty.’

‘And I do not want to see them return to Edoras unless they have found her.’

Erkenbrand nodded and departed to carry out the tasks now bestowed upon him. Left alone once more in the Golden Hall, Éomer dragged his feet towards the door leading to his chambers, his shoulders sagging anew. On his path, he found himself face to face with the throne of Rohan, presiding over the grandeur of the palace between two smaller chairs allocated to him and his sister.

Upon beholding it, rage boiled within him. If it had not been for his birth and his rank, Éorhild would have never left. None of the sorrow that now befell him would have had reason to exist.

He fell to his knees at the foot of the steps that ascended towards the throne, his arms limp and his heart dejected at the sight.

‘You stole everything from me.’

Nigh on two years later, he found himself kneeling at the same place. Clad in black, groomed, perfumed — only his appearance differed. His desolation had merely been amplified over time.

Théoden had died. After battling a terrible disease for a little under a year, the king who had led his impoverished army at the Hornburg, ridden to the Pelennor Fields and renewed the Oath of Eorl between Rohan and Gondor, was gone. The realm mourned their beloved king, and those who had the means had come to Edoras on a pilgrimage to pay a last tribute to one of the mightiest kings in their history. And that day, they had buried him beside Théodred, for father and son to rest for eternity under a canopy of simbelmynë.

And Éomer was king of Rohan.

His coronation awaited, not yet arranged, but inevitable. From that moment forward, the life he had known, the relative freedom he enjoyed, were forsaken for the welfare of the Rohirrim. He would lead his people, as was his duty, whether his heart willed it or not. Théoden had been a king whose wisdom and valour, although compromised at times, inspired men to follow him into hopeless battles and turn the tides. Éomer was determined to lead with that same fervour despite his fear and doubts, to uphold his uncle’s legacy and that of his forebears. The people of Rohan deserved a monarch who would brave the most tumultuous storms and ride at their head through peril for the promise of peace and sunshine.

He knew that to be king entailed sacrifice — not just of his desires, but himself. And yet, his heart did not yet belong to his people in its entirety — it still ached for Éorhild.

Beyond the doors of Meduseld, a solemn chatter of voices reached his ears, but he did not move. When it died down, the guards pushed the gates open, and slow and irregular steps made their way towards Éomer. They stopped behind him and a gentle hand came to rest upon his shoulders.

‘Rise, Éomer,’ Éowyn whispered, ‘and find your bed. I have seen the last guests out. Tomorrow will be unbearable if you do not rest.’

‘If anybody in this city deserves to find their bed, it is you, beloved sister,’ he scoffed. ‘Faramir should have helped with the mourners and let you rest. One more step, and your bairn will be born right here on the stone.’

He lifted his gaze up to behold Éowyn. Grief and exhaustion marked her delicate traits, and the pallor of her complexion was most alarming. She placed a hand over her round belly holding her and her husband’s heir, soon to enter and brighten up her life.

‘Do not be harsh towards Faramir,’ she scolded, flicking his jaw. ‘He did help, tremendously. Only, in your grief, you did not see it.’

‘Very well.’

At the same moment, Lord Fréaláf, one of Théoden’s chief advisors and now in Éomer’s service, appeared by their side. He bowed to the siblings and fidgeted with a scroll in his hand.

‘Your Majesty, I wish not to trouble you at this sombre hour, but there is a matter that can no longer wait.’

‘Speak plainly, Fréaláf.’

The advisor handed him the parchment, which he seized begrudgingly and unrolled to read, allowing Éowyn to read above his shoulder.

‘Prince Imrahil will no longer wait for the engagement to his daughter,’ he spoke softly, almost in fear that a regular volume would disrespect the memory of the deceased they had just buried. ‘Rohan does not only need a king, your Grace. Your line must be secured, now that you and Lady Éowyn are all that is left of the House of Eorl.’

‘What of the woman?’

Éowyn tutted and forced herself to look away to contain her nerves, at least for the sake of her unborn child. Fréaláf shook his head.

‘It has been over a year, your Majesty, and none of our men has found her. They have searched the whole kingdom under your orders, to no avail. Abandon the search, your Majesty, I beg of you! It is a folly to pursue it — it could jeopardise Rohan’s alliances.’

Being king entails sacrifice, indeed. And it was high time that Éomer dedicated himself to the task from which he had recoiled for so long.

‘Very well, tell the men to return to Edoras.’

Éowyn nodded her approval, her eyes sustained by the advisor’s.

‘And tell Prince Imrahil that he needs no longer wait,’ Éomer said, rising from the cold ground. ‘I shall marry Lady Lothíriel and have her crowned queen.’

Without awaiting the acknowledgement of his declaration, his first as king, Éomer bowed one last time to the throne, as though the phantom of his uncle still sat upon it. Then, he turned and proceeded towards the doors of Meduseld, each step bringing him closer to his destiny. His path had been set, and though it was steeped in uncertainty, Éomer resolved to walk it with unshakable purpose. For Rohan. For its people.

And for Éorhild.

Tag list: @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras

If you wish to be tagged (or no longer tagged), don't hesitate to let me know!

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Stars - Faramir X Female Reader

Title: Stars

Faramir X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's father (Mentioned), and guards (Mentioned)

Requested by Anon!

WC: 1,018

Warnings: Oblivious Reader, friends to lovers, slight angst, and fluff

The stars, they shine down at you and Faramir just as they did when you were children. It's like their magic never left them - that you're still part of this beautiful universe. And you were beyond happy to be in the same universe with Faramir. You can remember every star from the sky. You know what the constellations meant because you've studied them for so long that you could recite them backward by now. They calmed you, as did Faramir beside you. His hand was in yours as the grass softly tickled you as you lay under the stars. You remembered when you were both kids, running around the courtyard together, dancing together, and pranking the guards. You remember laughing so loud that your throat hurt, and most of all… You remember how happy you felt, and what a great day it was until your father called you back home. 

Your friendship never died as the years went on if anything... You grew closer. So much closer, you began to fall for your life-long best friend. The only problem was that you knew Faramir would never feel the same.

And, yet, you were wrong... So wrong.

Faramir was head-over-heels for you. And you had completely missed his obvious signals. Every. Single. Time. When he brought you flowers. No, they were just a sweet gesture from a friend. And that necklace he got you for your birthday? Yeah, what a sweet and caring friend thing to do! And when he told you basically every day that he loved you. Yeah, I love you too, best friend! You were that oblivious. 

And yet, Faramir never stopped trying. He would confess to you every day until you realized his true feelings for you. And yet, here you both were, staring up at the stars above, and he was speechless. He didn't know what to say. What could he say? Everything he had tried left him in the same place he started at. Only a friend. Only a confidant. 

"Y/N," He finally spoke up, tilting his head to the side to look at you, "You know I love you?"

You turned your own head, a smile on your face, "Of course, I love you too. You know how important our friendship is to me."

He nodded, looking away again, a blush rising up his cheeks. He then turned back towards you with a hopeful expression in his eyes, “Remember when we used to prank the guards? Tossing pepper in their armor?”

You let out a laugh. “Of course, I remember. It was the best day of my life.”

Faramir hummed, looking back at the sky, “The best day of my life was when I met you.” He confessed, making you blush as you smiled warmly.

“Well, I take my statement back then. The best day of my life was when I met you too.”

Faramir sighed, anxiously shutting his eyes as he listened to the breeze and the crickets. "Will you marry me?"

"What? Faramir? What are you saying?" You asked, as Faramir sat up and you followed.

"I wish you weren't so oblivious, Y/N. For years I've been in love with you. Yet..." Faramir sighed, running a hand through his hair, "You never truly understood that when I said 'I love you,' I meant it romantically."

"But I'm your best friend! I understand everything!" You insisted, shaking your head.

"No, you do not. You do not understand how I feel," He argued, pulling out the box from his pocket before handing it to you. Your fingers brushed against each other as you reached out to take it, finding a small wooden box.

"You were serious?" You looked up at him with wide eyes, "How could I have been so blind? For years?" You looked into his eyes, tears gathering at your eyes, "This is why I thought there must be something else going on with you! You're always so nice to me and I was too dense to realize!" You took a deep breath and wiped away the falling tears, "I am in love with you too, Faramir. I have been since we were children."

"Oh, thank goodness," He said, sighing in relief as he leaned forward and pulled you into an embrace, "It's so good to hear you say those words."

"So good to hear you say those words, too," You smiled against his shoulder, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry I couldn't see it sooner. I’ve been so blind. I thought about all those gifts and kind words… Were just that… Gifts and kind words. Deep down, I was so upset, knowing you probably would never feel the same for me as I feel for you, but I was wrong. And I am so sorry I didn’t see it sooner."

"Don't apologize," He said, smiling softly at you as you separated, "There's no need for apologies. We'll sort it all out later." He then took the wooden box from you, opening it to reveal a ring. 

"Are you not supposed to court me first?" You asked and Faramir blushed, frowning slightly.

"Uh, well, um," He stammered, "If you desire so, we can start courting. I'll save the ring for later." He laughed nervously and you giggled.

"Well, alright then," You replied, reaching out and taking the offered hand on your own. "Let's make the most of it. Together." He squeezed your hand firmly and kissed your knuckles lightly.

"Together," He agreed, kissing your forehead. You grinned and held onto his hand tightly, letting yourself enjoy the warmth and comfort radiating off of him. You were glad that you had finally realized, feeling so foolish about missing his hints, but at least you could admit it now. Yes, you were blind, but Faramir made you see… Though you did regret all the time you and Faramir had lost in your obliviousness, you were glad you had the rest of your lives to spend together. Faramir was a wonderful man, one of a kind. A prince among men. A man of true quality. And you loved him. 

[elvish-sky]

A Queen in Body, Mind, and Spirit Part 2

A.N: Guess who did the writing? Me! So sorry this took an unimaginable amount of time but here you are! Hope it's worth the ridiculously long wait (seriously tho if I was a reader of my own writing and had to wait this long I would have murdered myself thu my screen y'all are angels).

Word Count: 1,574

Chapter 2/2.

Read on Ao3 or Wattpad!

*****

At the banquet, it was all you could do to sit there without fidgeting. People kept coming up to the high table to congratulate you, and you were so nervous all you did was smile and nod. It took Legolas coming up and wishing you well before leaning down to whisper something to Aragorn and pinching your arm at the same time to make you remember you knew how to speak.

Aragorn, thankfully, seemed equally nervous. He’d clearly thought more about this hairbrained scheme in the time since proposing it to you, and that thinking hadn’t done his confidence in it any good. But he was the one who’d gotten the two of you into this mess in the first place, so he had to deal with it. 

“You know…” you said, leaning over to Aragorn, “I’ve been thinking we should do some sort of performance. Or an announcement. Something to make this seem extra official.”

He looked at you like you’d sprouted a second head.

“You want to do something to draw even more attention to us? Why?”

You shrugged. “It seems like something we should do? But honestly, my ass is starting to hurt from sitting down for so long.”

He snorted, and quickly tried and failed to conceal it with a not-so-elegant cough.

“Fine. Let’s dance,” Aragorn said, before rising and offering you his arm. 

“I had something a little more along the lines of sneaking out of the banquet and going to sleep in mind, but I guess dancing works too?” 

You grabbed his proffered arm, letting him help you down the steps from the raised dais where you’d eaten onto the dance floor. As you walked to the center, you saw Legolas rise and tap his spoon against his goblet. 

“The king and his betrothed would like to dance!” Legolas declared. 

With that, every eye in the room that wasn’t already on you—which was admittedly few— looked at you. And you stood in the center of the room, alone except for Aragorn, waiting for the band to start playing.

The band began, strings of notes floating down to your ears as Aragorn placed one hand on your waist and clasped your own in his other. Your other hand rested on his shoulder, careful not to crush his cape. You began to move together, stepping slowly until your feet started to remember the pattern and you picked up speed. You spun around each other, all the other dancers on the floor falling back to simply watch the two of you move in complete harmony. 

Aragorn whirled you around the dance floor, spinning you out with arms always there to bring you back to him. Neither of you really knew what specific dance you were doing, you just let the music take you with the other. The music swelled to its apex and you began a circle of spins on your own, your only point of contact your hand clasped with his above your head, his other arm always there to catch you. Revolving only through the light touches of your feet on the ground, the exact right touch happening almost as if by magic to propel you through. And as you finished the twirls he clasped your waist once more, steadying you as you danced with him again. 

As you moved together his hand crept from your waist to rest on the small of your back, drawing you in closer to him. Your own hand traveled up to rest on the back of his neck, bringing his head down until your foreheads pressed together. You looked into each other's eyes as you slowed your movements, breathing in unison as you pulled apart to silence from those watching. 

Until you saw, out of the corner of your eye, Faramir’s hands raised to clap and then the noise of applause bombarded your senses. You heard a wolf-whistle and knew without looking that it was Legolas. 

You felt a hand on your waist again, and Aragorn guided you back up the steps. People were starting to move back onto the floor as the first strands of a new piece began to trickle through the air, but you didn’t notice. Your eyes were locked with his as you reached your seats, your body knowing that you were supposed to sit but your heart keeping you in place, one hand resting on his shoulder, his still on your waist, poised almost like the beginning of another dance.

And then the moment ended—his eyes broke from yours and looked over your shoulder as Legolas bounded up the steps behind you.

“Aragorn, we cannot have you taking all her time the whole night! The kingdom needs to see their soon to be queen mingle!”

Aragorn seemed surprised for a moment, before dropping his hands and nodding. 

You turned, and took Legolas’s offered arm, gliding down to the floor with him, and spent the rest of the night making small talk with various nobles, none of whose names you would remember the next day. Your mind just kept flitting back to the way Aragorn had looked at you, like you were the only person in the world. It had confused you, because that was the way you felt that you looked at him. But he was not in love with you, so it didn’t make sense. 

Much later that evening, after having excused yourselves from the banquet, you found yourself walking down the torchlit halls, Aragorn alongside you. You reached the door to your rooms and pressed your hand on the handle, ready to open it and say goodnight, but then Aragorn took your other hand and spun you around to face him. 

You stood there for a moment, breath unconsciously held as he simply looked at you.

And then he moved, and held you by your waist and spun you around until you felt the cool wood of the door against your back. He hesitated for a moment, looking at you before slowly kissing you. And then he deepened it, pressing your body against the door as your hands tangled in his hair and you melted into his touch, kissing him in return as you marveled at his actions. You didn’t know how long you spent there with him, kissing each other for the first time, not quite realizing what this meant but knowing it was bringing you delight to be with him.

Later, you stood on the balcony outside your room together, gazing down at the city before he turned to you. Your eyes didn’t move from his as you mirrored him, gazing at the picture he painted. He practically glowed in the moonlight, dark clothes not drowned out by the moonlight but instead set apart from the rest of the world. The silver thread looked like liquified moonlight, and in that moment, even without the crown that had doubtless fallen off somewhere inside, he looked every inch a king.

But he didn’t seem to care. He was simply drinking in the sight of you. You were sure that your cheeks were flushed, eyes bright and hair mussed but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. And he was right not to do so—however much the moonlight made him glow, it was nothing compared to the vision before him. It practically set you aflame, bright colors burning in the night sky as the white light caught the shimmering threads at just the right angle

And then his eyes left you as he moved, suddenly.

“My queen,”Aragorn said, bowing his head.

You stood there, shocked for a moment. 

“Aragorn—”

He looked up, meeting your eyes once more. “I was ignoring what I felt for you in order to make both our lives easier in some way. But I cannot ignore it—I suspect it was this that made me suggest this inane plan in the first place.” 

He laughed then, a small, wry chuckle.

“But I do hope that in doing so we may have found ourselves right in the place that I, at least, was trying to deny in the first place.”

You tilted your head, deep down knowing where he was leading but your heart pounding in your chest was too nervous to follow. 

“Where might that be?”

“Love,” he said. “For me, at least, I have been in love with you for a great deal of time. I am not so presumptuous as to assume that you return my affections, however I must tell you that I dearly wish for us to be betrothed in truth. I want to spend every next step, every coming spin, with you.”

As he spoke your eyes widened, hardly daring to hope but knowing that these words were real. You could tell by the depth of emotion held behind his eyes now, the softness but sureness with which he spoke. And you realized then that you had somehow always known—this was who you were meant to spend all the joyful moments, all the sad moments, and every moment with. 

He took your hand as you opened your mouth, searching your eyes as if bracing himself for your answer.

You laughed, nearing giddiness in this moment, standing on a balcony that overlooked all of Minas Tirith, flaming in the moonlight as the man you loved looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world. 

“Well, then. I believe we should make this betrothal official.”

******

everything taglist: @entishramblings @itgetsatadhazy @boyruins @anjhope1 @kumqu4t @katbby16 @thewhiteladyofrohan @kirstenscaffeinateddisaster @beenovel @shethereadinghobbit @guardianofrivendell @hey-its-nonny @errruvande

[not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl]

I kinda need advice on a fanfiction I'm writing, I'm like halfway through and very pleased with how it's coming along but I struggle with the ending.

So to summarize: it's Aragorn x ofc where the OC is a human sorceress and they have some shared history, kinda like a situationship years ago. He meets her again in Rohan and they rekindle their spark, along the way he realizes he's in love with her BUT she has no noble blood to speak of and she cannot have children so she cannot really be a queen (doesn't help that people are really distrustful of sorcerers) and he's going to be king. So that's the main conflict of the whole fanfic. And it brings us to two endings:

a) Aragorn takes up the throne, he cannot let his destiny go. The OC just leaves, and then years ago she simply dies, her grief and sadness kinda pushing her into doing stupid things that end up tragically. Her friends bury her and inform Aragorn, lot of angst ensures.

b) Aragorn the hopeless romantic gets crowned king, but after years he just realizes he did all he could for Gondor and he is still hung up on that one situationship. So he just steps down as king, Faramir becomes a steward and Aragorn fucks off to find his girl. They end up together, really fluffy ending. In my opinion this one is more rewarding after the whole story, but I don't know how faithful to Aragorn's character it is.

So I would gladly take some advice, which ending do you prefer, what do you think about them, would you read that etc.

[freakynote]

ABOUT ME ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

eighteen years old | she her hers | intj-t

THINGS I WRITE

( favs are also written in purple )

female oc x male character

female oc x female character ( depends on the request )

different types of headcanons

oneshots

fanfictions

how characters would react to

nsfw alphabet

sfw alphabet

—> request are open!

FANDOMS / CHARACTERS I WRITE FOR

I also write for other fandoms and characters, just send a request <3 My favorite fandoms are written in purple!

death note — l lawliet ,light yagami ,near ,mihael keehl ( mello ) ,teru mikami ,mail jeevas ( matt ) ,misa amane

alice in borderland — shuntarõ chishiya ,ryõhei arisu ,suguru niragi ,daikichi karube ,morizono aguni ,õki yaba ,sunato banda

game of thrones — jon snow ,jaime lannister ,robb stark ,viserys targaryen ,oberyn martell ,tyrion lannister ,podrick payne ,eddard stark ,bronn ,petyr baelish ,ramsay bolton ,daenerys targaryen ,sansa stark

house of the dragon — daemon targaryen ,aegon targaryen ,aemond targaryen ,jacaerys velaryon ,cregan stark ,lucerys velaryon ,benjicot blackwood

vikings — ragnar lothbrok ,bjorn lothbrok ,ivar the boneless ,ubbe ,rollo ,harald finehair ,hvitserk

the last kingdom — uhtred ,sigtryggr ,aethelstan ,edward ,aethelred ,finan ,sihtric

gladiator I & gladiator II — commodus ,maximus ,lucius ,acacius ,emperor geta ,emperor caracalla

cobra kai — miguel diaz ,robby keene ,eli moskowitz ( hawk ) ,kwon jae-sung ,axel kovačević ,sensei wolf

karate kid — daniel larusso ,johnny lawrence ,terry silver

the walking dead — daryl dixon ,rick grimes ,negan smith ,carl grimes

lord of the rings — aragorn ,legolas ,boromir ,faramir

the hobbit — thorin oakenshield ,bard ,thranduil ,legolas ,kili ,bilbo

the boys — homelander ,the deep ,soldier boy ,billy butcher

troy — achilles ,hector ,paris

true beauty — han seo-jun ,lee su-ho

squid game — thanos ( player 230 ) ,salesman ,hwang in-ho ( front man | player 001 ) ,lee myeong-gi ( player 333 ) ,hwang jun-ho ( policeman )

RULES

Do not copy ,translate or modify my content without my permission! All rights ( except for the original characters and plots ) belong to me. Everyone who does one of the things above will be reported and blocked!

I have the right to deny or ignore requests I am not comfortable writing

I won’t write specific kinks or themes and nsfw content ( for some characters ). It depends on the request. If I am not comfortable with your request ,I‘ll decline so you don’t need to wait unnecessarily <3

Do not interact with me if you spread hate and disrespect towards me or any other creator / user, or you will be blocked!

If I accept your request ,give me time. I am still going to school and don’t have much free time. I am just writing for fun ,so please respect that

English isn’t my first language ,so you might find some spelling or grammatical mistakes. You have been warned

MASTERLIST

[absentmindeduniverse]

I'm so emotional 😭, it's so good.

The way he was described in the movies makes us think his passive acceptance is kindness but just as you said he is feeling deeply (I'm sure of it).

The bittersweet notes are what makes it what it is. If not for the nostalgia and the years apart both of them would not have been able to recognise this as love and would have regretted it.

They get a chance at this because they have grown up. You made that very clear to me, I think.

Thank you for this, it's very pleasant and sweet to read ❤️.

Once More (With Feeling)

Prompt: Faramir invites an old friend back to Minas Tirith

A/N: It's a little different, just slightly, to how I usually write. It's a rollercoaster, and it's long, so get yourself a hot beverage and prepare yourself for 6k words worth of brainrot.

Faramir x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

6.2k words

---

You paced the lavish sitting room, throwing irritated looks at all the doors. Faramir was a busy man, you knew, but he had always been punctual. With a groan you sank into the cushioned bench and stared out of the tall, pointed windows.

Minas Tirith had changed since you were last in the city as a girl. Gone was the heavy atmosphere, the distant encroaching darkness on the horizon, The Dead Tree, its gnarled branches cold and bare, the darkened halls, haunted by Denethor’s bitterness.

The city had thrived under the new king’s rule and the new steward’s management. The white stone glowed in the sunlight, vines grew across walls and flowers blossomed in window boxes, there was chatter in the streets and laughter in the halls.

It was no mystery then, why Faramir wrote to invite you back into the city, now renewed and reborn. No, the mystery was why he wrote to you at all. 

You had only known him for a year, more than ten years ago. Just two young teenagers, bickering with each other over readings while the tutor tried to calm the both of you. He had been a scrawny thing then, growing taller, but not broader. Not quite a man, like his brother was growing into, not quite a boy, like the other children in the Citadel. His hair too, had been at an awkward length, shaggy around his ears, falling about his forehead and into his grey eyes.

But while Boromir might have been the bolder of the two back then, when it came to academics, Faramir was just as eager. He had been relentless in his pursuit of knowledge, hounding the tutors and dogging the librarians, and, more than once, your spirited debates with him had drawn a small crowd of curious onlookers in the Citadel. There was even a time where you had to race him to the library to get your hands on some coveted book before he did.

But perhaps, the most infuriating thing about him was his kindness. 

How he would smile softly after an intellectual argument, as though consoling you, if you had lost, or congratulating you, if you had won. How he would share his notes with you if you had missed lessons, or gift you with chocolate in return for a peek at your own writings. How he would walk you back to your rooms after classes, showing you shortcuts and asking about your day. 

How he had offered you his handkerchief and wiped your tears away the night before you left the city with your uncle. 

Your heart clenched and you blinked yourself back into the sitting room. 

There were voices in the corridor now, and hurried footsteps. You stood and straightened yourself, smoothing the creases in your dress and schooling your features into something neutral. 

The door swung open and a man walked in.

He was tall and broad with the build of an archer, with steady legs and strong arms. His light brown hair fell in gentle waves to his shoulder, and his beard was short and well-trimmed. You took in his sharp jaw, his pink lips, his face, handsome, noble, familiar somehow.

His grey eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light and a jolt shot through you. 

Faramir. 

You stared at him and his barely-there smile grew.

“You’re late,” you blurted. 

His eyes widened in shock before he shook his head and chuckled. “And I was told you arrived early.” His voice was low and rich, inviting and warm.

Faramir. This man was Faramir. Solid, handsome, real. 

“You have my apologies,” he continued. “There was a meeting that ran over. I did not intend for you to wait so long for me.”

“It’s no matter, I was just admiring the city. A lot has changed.” You turned away from him, scolding your racing heart and chastising your rapidly flushing cheeks. You sucked in a breath and straightened your spine. It was just Faramir. 

He came to join you by the window and you kept your eyes fixed on the plains beyond the buildings. “Your letter surprised me,” you said. “I hardly thought I ever crossed your mind.”

A laugh escaped from him, short and sharp. “You’re still the same.”

Your head snapped towards him and you narrowed your eyes. His easy, unfazed demeanour rankled something in you. “It is quite a slight, being told one hasn’t changed in so many years.”

Did he still see you as that awkward, graceless girl? Someone who had not filled out her dresses yet, who made ill-timed comments in conversations, who battled with her skin, her hair, her sharpening mind and her rapidly fading childhood.

He blinked at you, jaw agape. “I did not mean… I simply meant…” He laughed again and gave you a rueful smile. “Forgive me. What I should have said, I suppose, is that I am glad to see you again.”

That strange, foolish feeling was rising in you, like you were fourteen again and you had said the wrong thing at the dinner table. You fought the urge to cross your arms and you nodded slowly. “I am glad to… to be back. Thank you for your generous invitation.”

The words felt strange in your mouth. So formal and distant. Polite. You gestured woodenly at the view. “My uncle would have been pleased at how well the country is doing.”

“I am sorry to hear about your uncle.”

“It has been a few years now.” You hazarded a look at him. His eyes had melted into something soft. You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I am sorry about your father and,” your breath hitched, “and Boromir.”

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “It has been quiet in the Steward’s House of late.”

Your chest constricted and you wanted to reach out, to lay a hand on his arm, to say, I too have been left alone by all who loved me.

He cleared his throat and nodded at the door. “Has anyone shown you to your rooms yet? I thought that the one on the second floor, that faces east, would be best. But if you’d prefer your old room, I’m certain we can —”

“No.” You swallowed and flashed him a smile, burying the discomfiting feeling. “I mean… No, thank you. I’m sure what you have prepared will be suitable.”

A bell tower somewhere chimed the hour and he grimaced. “I’m sorry but I have another meeting, the last of the day, in a few minutes. Would you be happy to join me for dinner? It would not be anything formal. We could even dine outside, if the fine weather holds. There is so much I wish to discuss with you.”

It was jarring to hear those words coming from Faramir’s lips. Invitations to dinner were something said between two adults, not adolescents.

But you were no longer fourteen, and Faramir was a man now. A friend.

A stranger. 

“Yes, dinner outside would be lovely,” you said. “I look forward to it.”

He broke out into a wide smile. “I shall send someone to show you to your rooms, and please, if there is anything you should require, just ask.”

“Of course, thank you.”

He reached out and took your hand, large fingers enveloping your own, and gave it a light squeeze. “I shall see you in a few hours.”

He withdrew with a smile and closed the door behind him. 

You stared at your hand for a moment, heat rising to your cheeks, before scowling and scrubbing it against your dress. 

-

The evening breeze swept through the open doors and the candles on the table flickered. The temperature had dropped with the sunset, and in the end Faramir had settled for dining in one of the rooms that opened up to a courtyard. Trees rustled and crickets chirped and music from another part of the Citadel drifted over the walls. The warmth from the lit fire licked at his back and he belatedly wondered if he should have offered you the warmer seat instead. 

Faramir caught his eyes wandering from some vague spot behind you to your face again. You were focused on the last bit of roasted meat on your plate, cutting it into dainty pieces before lifting it to your lips. He let his eyes trail over your hair, braided and pinned, to the softness of your cheek, the angle of your jaw. 

When he had seen you that afternoon he could scarcely believe his eyes. He did not expect you to stay the same, of course, and yet… the sight of you, grown, beautiful and striking, made his pulse jump. 

Where was the girl he had known? Who had picked up her skirts and clambered up walls with him, whose quick wit had both frustrated and delighted him? Was she gone, suppressed by etiquette lessons and laced up gowns, washed away by time and tempered by misfortune?

But then you had opened your mouth and bluntly stated his tardiness and he couldn’t help but laugh. No, your spirit was still unchanged, your fire still undimmed.

You looked up and his eyes skittered away. His palms grew clammy and he exhaled. Valar, he was acting like a silly boy, sneaking looks at you across the table, filling his mouth with food instead of conversation. 

“What is the matter, Faramir?” 

“Nothing.” He smiled. 

You had an inquisitive look on your face, half-curious, half-challenging. The same sort of expression you used to wear before launching into an argument. “You were looking at me.”

Heat started to creep up his neck and he dropped his eyes back to his nearly empty plate. “I was just thinking.”

He heard your intake of breath and he prepared himself for an onslaught of words, ready for the cajoling comments and prodding persuasions that you always used to coax him to speak.

Instead, he heard the clatter of cutlery and he looked up to find you arranging your fork and knife at the side of your plate. You glanced towards the open door and, something in that small action, so intensely familiar, made the words tumble from his lips. 

“Would you like to go on a walk?”

“I…” Your astonished look morphed into one of suspicion. “How did you know?”

“You used to walk after meals, if I remember correctly.”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. Boromir had once pulled him aside, warning him that if he did not get his looks and glances under control, their father might start getting ideas for future marriage matches. He had wondered if your uncle had realised this and that was why he had whisked you off to the family estate back in North Lebennin when autumn arrived once more.

In truth, Faramir never found out the reason; he was never told, and he never asked. 

He grinned and stood. A walk would be good. Dinner had been pleasant, with the usual, banal questions asked and answered. Proper and polite. A far cry from shared smirks and ceaseless chatter you once shared with him. Perhaps some movement would ease the atmosphere. “Shall we walk? Is there any place you would like to see first?”

You paused for a moment, biting your lower lip, before a sly smile crept onto your face. “The old lookout tower. The one that overlooked the Houses of Healing.”

“I do hope you won’t chase me up it. I do not think the excitement would agree with the food we just ate.”

“I won’t.” You looked out at the courtyard then back at him, eyes now dancing with mirth. “Are you becoming old and decrepit?”

“More like sensible and wise.” He walked over to the hooks by the door and reached for the two cloaks that hung there. “Here, you are welcome to borrow one of mine. It is cold out.”

He offered you the thicker one and watched as you ran your fingers over the soft wool before throwing it around your shoulders. It fell past your feet, pooling on the floor, and the sight of you swathed in his cloak stirred something in him. 

He led you out into the courtyard and then onto the open ramparts. Hundreds of little lights flickered in the city below. It was quiet, save for the distant bustle of the kitchens and the rustle of the guards shifting on their feet. The wind carried your perfume to him and he inhaled the sweet scent of lilies.

“I have always wondered,” he said, “why you left Minas Tirith.”

“My uncle was worried about me growing up in court. I think he wanted to avoid any pressure that might have befallen me. Marriage offers and gossip and the kind.” You looked away, towards the plains. “I was sorry to leave, but I am glad that I had gone.”

His heart dropped. Had he been selfish? Writing to you and asking you to visit the city when you were clearly happy out in the country? Had you not thought of him once in all the years? He swallowed. “Does it bring you pain to be here?”

“No, not at all.” You shook your head and laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. “I simply meant that I think he made the right decision. It might have been a little boring, but I grew up unrestrained.”

“I do hope you will enjoy the excitement of the city.”

“The change of scenery is refreshing. And I will confess that a break from my responsibilities back home is welcome.” 

He noticed then, the shadows under your eyes, the weary tinge in your smiles. 

Yes, the both of you were no longer children.

The old, crumbling tower neared and your steps quickened. You paused at the base of the steps, throwing a mischievous look over your shoulder, before vanishing up the stairs. He chuckled and hurried after you, taking the steps two at a time. “You said you would not race me!”

“I said I would not chase you up it!”

He caught sight of the edge of his cloak and the flash of deep purple silk underneath it as he rounded the corner. “So you’ll have me chase you instead?”

Your laugh echoed in the narrow stairwell. “I have no doubt that you’ll catch up. You were always the faster one.” 

“And you always the cheater.”

“It is called levelling the playing field.”

The gap between you and him rapidly narrowed, and as the both of you emerged at the top, his hand closed around your shoulder before he could stop himself. You turned, flushed and giggling, eyes alight. Laughter rose in his chest and he chuckled, breathless and buoyant. “You’ll get me into trouble. Like before.”

“Faramir, you are the steward. There is no one to get in trouble with.” You grinned at him before striding towards the merlons. “In any case, I have no plans to lob mushy apples from here so you need not worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens.”

“I always have to worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens. It is no easy feat, running a city like Minas Tirith.”

“I can imagine.” Your voice was soft, sympathetic.

He strolled towards you, and you glanced behind at him, shadows from the flickering torches dancing across your face. Your eyes were intense, searching. Valar, he could never stand to hold your gaze when it was like this. It was as though you saw through him. 

“Faramir, why did you ask me here?” 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling boyish and clumsy. “I was… clearing some of the rooms in the Steward’s House when I chanced upon our old classroom. I found one of your old essays.”

“A beastly thing, I’m sure.”

He slowed to a stop beside you, close enough that your cloak fluttered against his legs when the wind blew. “It was rather good, actually. I’m certain you would have made a valuable advisor if you had stayed in court.” 

“Well,” you scoffed. “I do not think the court missed us much when my uncle and I left.”

“Boromir and I did.”

 “You did not write.”

“I was not certain I was allowed to. Father refused to  tell me anything, and then there were other matters. Training, classes, scouting missions.”

He felt a pang in his chest. In truth, he had thought of you over the years, but there were always things to attend to. His father’s growing resentment, his strange prophetic dreams, city matters and trade routes. 

The War. 

It had been a sleepless night when he had wandered the empty halls, opening old doors and peering into neglected rooms, when he stumbled upon the old classroom. It was still and dusty, books stacked by the window and sheets of paper on one of the tables, abandoned as though someone intended to come back, but never did.

He had been hit with an intense loneliness, a hollowness, an aching. 

When he had seen your familiar scrawl on the sheets of paper, along with an unflattering sketch of the tutor, the memory of your playful smile flashed into his mind. And then there was a comforting warmth in his chest, and then for the first time in weeks, he had laughed. 

“Faramir,” you said, and he shook himself out of his thoughts. “I am sorry I did not write either.”

“It is no matter.” A smile tugged at his lips. “We are here now.”

-

“Faramir, if you wobble the ladder I will drop these books on your head.” You gripped the polished wood with one hand and clutched a stack of books to your chest with the other.

“If memory serves, you were the one who had a habit of rattling stools and ladders.”

You glared down at him, scoffing at the grin on his face. He was leaning against the shelf with his arms across his chest, relaxed and languid. That night on the tower had shattered the stiffness between the both of you, and the last week and a half had been filled with nostalgic adventures. 

Between his duties, Faramir had shown you the changes in the Citadel, walked with you to the markets and shops, even challenged you to a slingshot contest which he won. There had been dinners on balconies, and picnic lunches in gardens, and midnight snacks in derelict towers.

He had told you about his experience in the war. His heartbreak at finding Boromir’s cloven horn, the near-fatal Osgiliath charge, recovering in the Houses of Healing. And you told him how you had to manage the family estate, the scramble to build temporary houses for the refugees, how many of them chose to settle and work the land instead of returning to the ruins of their villages.

He had smiled at you in that soft way you knew, had given you the unbroken strip of apple skin he peeled, had discussed new theories and topics with you by the light of the fire.

“Are you coming down?” Faramir smirked at you. “Or are you going to add to that dangerously heavy pile in your hands?”

You shook your head and started down the ladder, feeling the rungs with your feet. 

The library was empty, the librarian having gone home for the day. Light rain pattered on the windows and a fire crackled somewhere in the room. The library, of all places, had remained the most unchanged. There was something comforting in that, in the musky smells of books and paper, of the plush chairs and rickety stools. 

As you neared the bottom, your foot slipped, misjudging the distance to the floor, and you stumbled. Instead of hard stone, you were met with a firm chest at your back and a hand on your waist.

Had Faramir always been this warm and big?

“Are you alright?”

You felt the rumble of his chest, his breath by your ear. 

His hand, large, heavy, burned through the thin silk of your dress.

“Yes, thank you.” You stepped out of his touch and fumbled with the books in your arms, rearranging them into a neat stack. Valar, what has gotten into you? It was just Faramir. You shoved the books into his arms and turned away. “Next time you can go up on the ladder.”

“I think I would flatten you if I fell.”

“I’ll be sure to step out of the way.” You forced a laugh and wandered down the aisle. You heard him follow after you, his steps slow and steady. 

How could such a simple thing affect you so? It was not as though you were so wholly inexperienced; there had been one or two sweethearts in the past, though most of them were short lived.

 Had there been anyone for Faramir? Some pretty thing with a perfect education who could recite poetry and embroider and dance?

Your stomach churned and the twisting feeling in your heart squeezed the traitorous words up your throat. “You know, I am surprised you have not found a partner yet. I would think that the offers must be pouring in.”

“Why would you think such a thing?” He was closer now, just behind you, and you could hear the dismay in his voice. 

“The maids, they love to gossip.” You laughed, but it sounded hollow to your ears. “I spoke to a couple of them when I went down to the kitchens two nights ago.”

He fell in step with you and you glanced at him. There was a small smile on his lips but his eyes looked clouded. “There have been offers, yes, but I have declined them all.”

“Unable to find a suitable one?” You arched an eyebrow at him.

“It is not a question of suitability. There is no need for me to choose a partner for their station or standing. Such things never mattered to me, even more so since my family’s passing. I would much rather have someone’s genuine love and affection.”

Of course he would say something of that sort. You smiled to yourself, heart warming at his words. They would be lucky, whoever he loved. 

The rain fell harder against the glass and thunder rumbled. You glanced at the window, a memory coalescing in your mind. “Is the little alcove still here? The one behind the curtain?

Faramir grinned and inclined his head towards the back of the library. “I believe so, though it has been some years since I have sat in it.”

He led you to the back of the library where a narrow velvet curtain hung in the corner. He drew the fabric back to reveal a cosy space with a wooden bench built into the wall by the window. The lantern that hung from the low ceiling was dusty and unlit.

You padded over to the bench, bending and inspecting the corners. “It is still here,” you breathed, tracing the two sets of initials carved into the wood. “I cannot believe it.”

He leaned over you, so close that you could inhale his scent. Sandalwood and something, paper perhaps, or mild soap. “So it is.”

You looked up and Faramir’s face was mere centimetres away. Were there always so many yellow flecks in his grey eyes? And his lips… did they always look so soft and inviting? 

All you would have to do would be tilt your head, and your lips would connect…

You stepped back and waved stiffly at the lantern. “Shall we light this? We could read here. If you’d like.”

He glanced at the narrow bench. There would be no doubt that the both of you would have to be pressed up in some way to fit. 

“If you would like. I think there are might be some oil on the librarian’s desk, and a lit candle, I could —”

“I’ll go.” 

You turned around and marched away, pressing your hands to your hot cheeks when you were safely hidden by the shelves. You took a breath. It was just Faramir. You would find the oil and the candles and sit and read with him, and think nothing of lips or kissing or how solid he had felt behind you.

-

Faramir was in a hell of his own making. Truly, it had been all his fault. For the first time, he cursed his gentle nature. If he had chosen not to speak and steered you away from the instrument shop…

How could he have forgotten that he was not the only friend you had made in your youth?

Elphir, the boy, no, the man who made lutes and drums had been one of them as well. And how could Faramir have denied you when you had lit up at the sight of the old shop and nearly tripped over your feet rushing to the door? And when you had asked if Elphir could come to the Citadel in the evenings to teach you how to play, he could not find it in himself to refuse you, even as discomfort settled deep in his stomach.

In some fantastical lapse of judgement, or perhaps in some foolish notion to watch over you, he had offered the sheltered courtyard below his sitting room to you and Elphir, and now music drifted into the room. Teasing, taunting, tormenting in the way it would mingle with your laughs. 

He strode over to the window and slammed it shut.

For five evenings now, you had rushed off after dinner to Elphir, returning to your rooms after your lesson without seeing him. The pot of tea you usually shared with him in the evenings sat unfinished and cold on the table each night. Faramir sagged against the stone pillar and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. If Boromir was alive, he would call Faramir a fool and insist that he go over and chase the man away. But what right did he have? 

He was not your lover or your partner, and even if he was, it would be unreasonable to get upset over you spending time with another, especially for something as innocent as music lessons. Faramir was your friend and… 

He was your friend. 

His breath hitched as the thought rippled through his body. Somewhere in the past three weeks he had forgotten that. 

When he had written to you, inviting you to the city, he had only planned to reconnect with an old friend. Someone who got along with him, who understood what his family had been like, who was not a soldier or a subordinate. 

He did not intend to be run away with his feelings.

He had grown used to you in the Steward’s House. Your shawl was draped over a chair, the table was always laid for two, you wished him goodnight in the evening before you retired. He had even considered clearing the set of rooms next to his own for you so that you did not have to walk through two corridors just to visit him.

But alas, you were not his.

“Faramir!” You burst into the room with a wide smile on your face and he startled. You slowed your steps, tilting your head and lowered the arm that held your lute aloft. “Is something the matter?”

He shook his head and tried to smile. “I was just deep in thought. How was your lesson?”

“There is something I want to show you.” You wandered over to the cushioned seats by the fire. “Will you sit?”

He nodded and sat in the lone arm chair instead of sharing the bench with you. Your brows creased for a moment before you shook your head and positioned your hands on the lute. 

A haunting melody began to fill the room. It was simple, no more than five or six notes that changed subtly every few bars. It tugged at something in his mind, a dream perhaps, or a memory. 

A woman humming, a gentle hand on his cheek, the comforting scent of beeswax.

“My mother,” he whispered, frozen where he sat. “She used to sing this to Boromir and me. To get us to sleep.”

Your playing petered out and you looked up at him. “You used to hum it when we were younger, when you thought no one could hear.” You laid your lute to the side. “Elphir taught me the basics of playing. I taught myself the song. In the night, after my classes.”

He felt the corners of his eyes start to burn and he glanced away. How could he not love you now? 

“I am sorry, if I shouldn’t have —”

“Please do not apologise. I…” He shook his head and dabbed at his eyes. “ She would be happy to hear these rooms filled with her music once more.”

You came over to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, your thumb soothing the tension in his muscles with its idle strokes. His eyes focused and unfocused on the decorative ribbons on the bodice of your dress. The crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sound of breathing filled the space between your bodies. He felt your hand drift towards the side of his neck, your thumb just grazing the edge of his jaw, and he slowly, slowly looked up at you.

Your eyes were soft and half-lidded, your lips slightly parted.

He did not dare move, did not dare breathe.

“Faramir.” He shivered at the sigh in your voice. “I—”

A knock sounded on the door and you jerked away from him. Cold air replaced where your heated hand had been. 

A muffled voice came through the door. “I have your tea, sir.”

“The tea,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Would you like to…”

“It has been a long day,” you said, snatching up your lute and striding to the door. “I… Goodnight.”

You flung the door open and he heard the startled squeak of the maid followed by the rapid patter of your footsteps. 

-

You slammed your room door shut behind you and leaned against it. Your breaths came short and quick, chest heaving and skin searing. 

 What had you almost done? What words were going to spill from your traitorous lips? 

It was just Faramir. 

Just… a friend.

You shook your head and slumped to the floor. There was nothing decidedly friendly about what had just passed between the both of you. And… and what? What could possibly happen between you and him? You had an estate waiting for you in Lebennin, there were people who needed your instruction and leadership. And Faramir was the Steward of Gondor; the people needed him as well.

Your trip to Minas Tirith was supposed to be nothing more than a visit to an old friend. You had forgotten yourself. For so many years you had run the estate on your own, had resigned yourself to quiet meals in the day and lonely nights in the study. There was no time, no place, to entertain such ridiculous notions like love.

And yet…

You stared at your hands, hands that had held him for just a moment, had felt the coarseness of his beard and the beat of his heart. 

Want burned in you. 

Want for his lips, his hands. For his gentle smile, for his joyous laughter. For a permanent seat at the table, for space on his shelves for your books.

-

Faramir stared at the tea tray on the table. Two cups, two saucers. A full pot of tea. 

He stroked the side of his jaw, his own fingers feeling indelicate compared to your touch. There was no mistaking the look in your eyes, desire mixed with tenderness. Perhaps it was not so ridiculous to think that you might return at least a fraction of what he felt for you. 

His stomach swooped and a strangled laugh burst from him. 

But was it just a flash of fancy, borne from the moment? A reckless action in the dim of the night?

Were you going to slip from him, retreat back into your shell of polite distance? He would not be able to bear it, to hear your stilted words, to have you shrink away from his casual touches. To have you vanish again, taking your laughter and your light away with you.

Should he go to you? Would that be impertinent? But he had lost you once before with his inaction, and only a fool would not learn from their mistakes.

-

You tugged the borrowed cloak on your shoulders closer around you. It smelled like Faramir, like sandalwood and that evasive something, ink perhaps. Mist had descended on the Citadel and drifted across the parapets like sheer curtains. Your steps were soft on the stone and you wandered from torch to torch, veering closer for warmth, roaming further for the cover of shadow. The guards paid you little attention, and the stars overhead twinkled unbothered. 

Twice you had tried to walk to Faramir’s room, twice you had turned on your heel and fled back to your rooms. In the end, your room had become stifling and you rushed out into the open air. 

Your blood had cooled and, now in the starkness of the open night, you felt foolish. 

You paused by the old watchtower, leaning on the cold stone and staring down at the Houses of Healing. You would apologise when you saw him next, and then perhaps it was time to return to the family estate…

Muffled footsteps approached and you turned. 

Faramir emerged from the mist, still in his day clothes, his hair mussed and his eyes tired. 

“Faramir,” you whispered, arms falling to your sides. You opened your mouth to speak, but your rehearsed speech refused to leave your lips.

He came to a stop in front of you, a disarming smile on his face. “Somehow, I am not surprised to find you here.”

“Were you looking for me?”

He nodded, and amusement coloured his smile. “I suppose, in a way, I have always been looking for you.”

“Is there something you wanted from me?”

His twinkling eyes grew serious. “I wished to speak to you.”

You turned away, suddenly unsure, but his hand reached for yours. His thumb caressed your knuckles and you lifted your eyes to him. “What about?”

“I think you already know.”

You swallowed and tried to speak, but the words stayed lodged in your throat, and your eyes fell to your joined hands. 

“I have never been good at disguising my feelings,” he said, voice soft and low. “I am sure you must be aware…”

Aware? Aware of what? His feelings? That he only viewed you as a friend, and that perhaps you had taken advantage of his kindness, mistaken it for affection and…

His fingers skimmed your chin, gently urging it up. His grey eyes were alight, burning almost, with an open passion so rarely seen in him. You scarcely dared to look away. Your heart pounded in your ears. 

“Perhaps I have always loved you, even before I realised what that word meant. I was too young, too naive.” He cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “But we are older now. And I can say for certain that I… I —”

You surged forward and pressed your lips to his. They were pillowy and soft and carried a trace of bitterness from the tea. He deepened the kiss, pulling you flush against him. You laid a hand on his chest, fingers splaying across his heart. He sighed into your lips, his exhale hot on your skin. You felt him grin and you nudged his nose with yours. 

“I think,” you muttered, “I have wanted to do that for a long time now.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You are welcome to do it any time you wish.”

“Faramir, why me? And after so many years since we last saw each other.”

“Can such a thing truly be explained?” He hummed to himself. “I suppose the simplest answer I can give is that you bring me joy. And perhaps also, I think we make good partners. We have always made good partners.”

You sobered at his words. “Faramir, we are not children anymore. My estate… I cannot leave it unmanaged. And I have neglected my duties already these past weeks.”

“We will find a way,” he assured. “It is only a full day’s ride from Minas Tirith, is it not?”

“Less, if one has a good horse.”

“Less, I think, if you had the reins.” He chuckled. “We are not children anymore, yes, but that only means that we can truly do as we wish. As we choose.” 

You mulled over his words. “And you would choose to have a busy bride, to have to make trips out to the country with her?”

“I choose to have you.” He stroked your cheek. “And you, my love? What would you choose?”

“I choose, I think,” you said with a smile, “to remain where I have always belonged.”

“In Minas Tirith?”

“With you.”

He grinned and wrapped his arms around you. He laughed into your hair and you tucked your nose into his neck. You inhaled his scent, thinking of the unknown, familiar note in it that always eluded you. Thinking of how it smelled like rain and books, of apple peels and bitter tea.

Thinking of how, perhaps, it smelled like home. 

---

If you made it this far, holy shit thank you for reading.

I characterised Faramir a little bit differently here. I think I have a tendency to conflate kindness with passivity when it comes to him, but I think he can be pretty intense if he wanted to be.

And also, I feel like this entire piece is tinged with the bittersweetness of growing up, but I hope that it veered more sweet than bitter. To you young'uns out there, truly, I promise you, it is not terrible to grow up ❤️

Taglist: @sotwk

[novelmonger]

Faramir x Éowyn, Fëanor x Nerdanel, Anakin x Padmé for the ship ask game?

(those are all canon couples, but I assume that's what you're mostly asking for?)

(Feel free to ask about any ships, but it's true that canon ones are most likely to be ones that I ship ^^')

Farawyn - Ship It

What made you ship it?

Then the heart of Eowyn changed, or else at last she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her. 'I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun,' she said; 'and behold! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.' And again she looked at Faramir. 'No longer do I desire to be a queen,' she said. Then Faramir laughed merrily. 'That is well,' he said; 'for I am not a king.'

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

A love that heals. The way Eowyn turns from despair and her hopeless infatuation with Aragorn (or rather, the life that she might have with Aragorn), and instead of longing for glory and death in battle, she sees a future full of light and hope and growing things, a future where she settles down in a garden with a man who is not and never will be a king. The way Faramir looks on her, understands her, and is touched by her despair, rather than turning away from it.

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

Hmm...I don't think so? Farawyn seems to be a pretty popular ship, at least in my circles. Maybe my unpopular opinion is that I ship it, but I'm not feral about it XD

Fëanor x Nerdanel - I ship it,

but I have literally no thoughts about them, sorry ^^' Other than that Feanor is a jerk and Nerdanel deserves better (because just about everyone deserves better than Feanor). I ship it because it's canon (and obviously it must have been a functional marriage, see: seven sons), but I don't, like...have strong feelings about it. (Does that go against the definition of "shipping"?)

Anidala - Ship It

What made you ship it?

This is another case of me mostly shipping it just because it's canon ^^' While I find a lot of their interactions kind of cringey in the movies (more due to the writing than anything else), I've found that they can be very sweet and wholesome in fanfiction. So the moral of the story, I guess, is that these characters work really well together in the right hands, and I'm more or less excited about shipping them depending on who's in charge.

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

What Baby Novie couldn't see, back when the prequel trilogy was first coming out and she was too busy gagging over just about every romance she came across, was that Anakin and Padme are actually very well suited to each other. Yes, they end up in a very problematic place, but that's exacerbated by Palpatine's influence. I guess we'll never know for sure what would have happened without that, but it would at least have given them more breathing room to actually work through their problems with communication, Anakin's fears of losing those important to him, etc.

All that's to say, when the Dark Side isn't mucking things up, they make a very good team, bringing very different insights and experiences to the table as well as a lot of compassion and support for each other. I think that's sweet.

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

...I've been wracking my brains, and I honestly can't think of any. I don't have a whole lot of opinions on them to start with, and most of those are fairly generic.

[kylobith]

Last updated: 9 January 2025

Greetings, traveller!

Since I am planning to write more from now on, having retrieved a bit of creativity over the past few months, I thought it would be handy to create a masterlist to make it easier to find them here.

At the moment, my writing is focused on Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings in general, so brace yourselves for quite a few of those, even if they're just drabbles! I am currently working on a five-part story on Éomer, but I expect to write a bit more on my favourite character, Faramir.

I do expect to write some drabbles centred on the characters of Baldur's Gate 3, probably centred around Astarion, Karlach, Gale and Halsin.

Eventually, I might dabble in The Boys as well for obvious *cough* Karl Urban *cough* reasons.

I will add some of my old ones on Stranger Things as well, some of which I must admit I don't think I will finish (just lost the inspiration for those I'm afraid!)

If I have enough time to write in the future (it's tricky for now), I might even accept some commissions for short stories, but we'll see about that in time, no promises haha

Expect to find fluff and angst, but also some smut from time to time. Everything will be properly tagged.

Note: Some older fanfictions with multiple chapters will only contain the Ao3 link. I don't know yet if I'll really post every single chapter on here.

Anyway, if you take the time to read my stuff, I'm extremely grateful and I hope you will enjoy whatever I put out there! If you wish to be tagged on new releases, don't hesitate to ask and I'll make sure to do so :)

Everything is available on my Ao3 account

Enjoy!

Tolkien/Lord of the Rings

Engraved On My Heart

(Éomer x FemOC) Éomer unexpectedly bonds with Éorhild, a maid in his service. Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Epilogue (Note: Part 1 was published on my sideblog, but the other parts will all be posted on this blog instead) In progress

Long Live The King!

(Faramir x Éowyn) Faramir supports Éowyn as she mourns Théoden. Completed

By the Blade

(Boromir x FemOC) War prompts Boromir and Nauriel, the daughter of the master-at-arms, to rally under the same banner despite a lifelong rivalry... but swords are not the only things bound to cross. Part 1 In progress

Lord of the Rings Week 2023

Event organised by @lotr20 to celebrate the 20th anniversary of The Return of the King. One to three prompts per day. Day 1: Home (Poem - Merry, Pippin, Faramir, Éowyn, Sam, Rosie, Éomer, Lothíriel) Day 2: Language | Culture | Beauty (Faramir x Éowyn, Éomer) Day 3: Fear | Courage (Éomer, Merry, Pippin) Day 4: Friendship | Loyalty (Legolas, Gimli, rest of the Fellowship except Boromir) Day 5: Loss | Despair (Boromir, Faramir, Denethor) Day 6: Triumph | Healing | Hope (Sam, Frodo) Day 7: The Return of the King 20th anniversary (The Fellowship, Arwen, Faramir, Éowyn, Elrond, Théoden, Éomer, Théodred) Completed

Lord of the Rings Week 2024

Event organised by @lotrweek. One prompt per day. Day 1: The Road Goes Ever On Day 2: Histories and Legacies Day 3: The Green Earth in the Daylight (art instead of writing) Day 4: Gifts, Burdens and Choices Day 5: Here With Me Day 6: Songs and Tales Day 7: Free Day - Hobbit Day! In progress

Baldur's Gate 3

The Little Tiefling

(Gale of Waterdeep x Tav) While Tav is resting, Gale seizes the opportunity to bond with his daughter by reading her a story. Completed

The Trick

(Gale of Waterdeep x Tav) In all his life, Gale never imagined undertaking such a difficult task. But he must. Short prequel to The Little Tiefling Completed

Under the Oak Leaves

(Halsin & Gender-neutral drow Tav) After the Tiefling party, Tav feels melancholic and isolates themself from the camp. Halsin finds them and is set on alleviating their pain. Completed

Little Town Tails

(Halsin x Fem!Tav) After saving up for years, Halsin settles and opens his veterinary practice in a quaint little town. Beyond patients, he finds friends and love, but also trouble. When a business mogul agrees with the mayor to buy local shops for the implementation of his coffee chain to make Heawick more touristic, Halsin's practice is threatened. It will take more than a good word to save his lifetime project. Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 In progress

Memory Lane

(Astarion & Gender-neutral Half-Drow Tav) Astarion is submerged by a desire to recover memories from his past. Before Cazador, before his transformation. And Tav is determined to help him. Could it be that there is somebody out there still waiting for him? Completed

The Unwanted Saviour

(Rolan x Fem!Tav) A restless night turns into a tacit confession. Upcoming

Star Wars

The Inner Battle (Ao3 only)

(Kylo Ren/Ben Solo & OC Bounty hunter) One year after the destruction of Starkiller, the First Order still dominates the Galaxy. Kylo Ren ventures in the Mid-Rim territories, tracking a target on Ord Mantell, whom he knows will help him achieve a secret mission he has been planning since the beginning... In progress - Editing Note: Chapters might be eventually posted on Tumblr, but for now it's a bit tricky due to the fic's size (I have about 50 chapters written!)

Stranger Things

Swords and Hoops

(Steve Harrington x Reader) Steve meets you at the Palace arcade after you come back from your holidays in California. Completed

Steady (Ao3 only)

(Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington) As they recover from the final confrontation with Vecna, Eddie and Steve bond and realise that they bring out the best version of each other. But not only... Completed

Time After Time (Ao3 only)

(Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington) Sequel to Steady. Steve and Eddie start over in Seattle, yet a new obstacle comes to stand in their way: coming to terms with their queerness. In progress

The Holiday Fling (Ao3 only)

(Eddie Munson x Fem!OC) Summer of 1987. Arwen Lewis spends her holidays in Arkansas after moving to the USA from Wales. One night, she meets Eddie Munson, who turns what was supposed to be a camping trip into the best summer of their lives. In progress

Rock You Like A Hurricane

(Billy Hargrove x FemReader) [NSFW] [Smut] Billy pays you an unexpected visit when you're home alone. The night ends quite differently than you thought... Completed

[justsomerandomfanfic]

the fanfic friday releases are great 💖 im looking forward to the faramir story! if another faramir request is ok, can i request a faramir x f!reader with a friends to lovers trope but reader is oblivious at first? ty 💖

Thank you for requesting and requesting Faramir! I'm simply Mclovin him right now ;) I'm sorry it's a bit short, but I hope you love it nonetheless! Feel free to request anytime! <3

[starsofjewels]

Request Conditions (The Info)

Do you have dreams of questionable fanfiction? Do you not want the shame of having said questionable fanfiction attached to your person? Well, that's what my request button is for!

In honour of my requests being officially opened, I present this list to you. Please read carefully so I don't have to reject you!

Who do I write for?

I will usually only write in the x reader (second person) format. It's just what I find fun to write.

Though I am willing to TRY with a male and/or POC reader, I am neither of these things, so they may not come across as well as they might if a male or POC author wrote them.

I will write any relationship (straight or LGBTQ), but I am most comfortable with a male character x reader.

What do I write? (Fandoms and Characters)

Because my autism brain likes giving me hyperfixations, here is a list of fandoms I am willing to write for: (shocker, it's not very long)

Game Of Thrones/ House of the Dragon

Harry Potter/ Fantastic Beasts

Lord of the Rings/ the Hobbit

Star Wars

Disney Villains

Horror Villains

NEW!! - DC Villains

I prefer writing for villainous / questionable characters, because it's funny. If you aren't sure, if you're thinking 'hm, I don't think she'd want to write for this character, they're weird and gross'- Then I'll probably write for them. This is my whole schitck.

EG- I probably won't write for Boromir or Faramir, but I'd 100% do a Denethor fic. (#Denethorisasmash).

When do I write?

As much as I love and appreciate everyone's ideas, being both in college AND having a job on the side means this is my side project (I also run a TikTok edit account, but we don't talk about that). So, requests are done on a what I feel like writing basis- Please don't feel bad if you don't see your request, I promise it's not at all personal!!

What do I write? (Content)

As we've seen with some of my current fics, I'm not afraid to go into some dark and disturbing stuff- A taboo is only a taboo if you make it one. That being said, there are some things I'm not comfortable with, and some things that aren't okay. Here is what I will NEVER write for:

Paedophilia in any form. This includes writing an aged-up version of a child character (excluding near-mature teenagers written as adults).

Note: I don't consider ageplay/ a mommy/ daddy kink in this bracket- Which I know some authors do.

Shit. No further comments.

Insects/ bugs (yes this includes arachnids)

'Proper' gore (I just can't give it the respect and proper treatment it deserves.

SH or suicide

Cool?

Cool

[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

[morwen-elf]

REST MY KING | ÈOMER KING OF ROHAN

SUMMARY ➪ THE KING COMES BACK HOME FULL OF DIRT AND BRUISES, SO Y/N DECIDES TO TAKE CARE OF HIM

WARNINGS ➪ MENTIONS OF BATTLE, INJURIES, AND FLUFF

NOTES ➪ THIS IDEA IS FROM @anyoneseenadam I HAVE HER PERMISSION TO USED IT, AND ALL THE CREDITS GO TO HER, AGAIN, THANK YOU SO MUCH, ANGEL!

Night had fallen in the kingdom of Rohan and with it, the cold had enveloped the inhabitants, most were in their houses sitting together by the fire and enjoying a cup of tea, while others were clutching the blankets of their beds, looking for heat.

The case of Y/n and Eowyn was similar, both women were near the fire, holding their cups with a delicious liquid inside, eagerly awaiting for the return of the warriors, especially Èomer's.

The Rohirrim had left the village a week ago and there was still no sign of them, their fighting qualities were great, some would dare to say that they are perfect, but tragedies come when no one expects them and that terrifies the girls. Eowyn was afraid of losing her big brother and Y/n the love of her life.

“I'll leave these in the kitchen,” Eowyn said, taking the two cups, now empty, in her hands

The golden-haired girl walked silently through the castle, trying not to wake the others. Y / n was left alone for a few seconds and decided to walk through the doors to enjoy the fresh air. Her head was full of questions and full of worries, sleeping became more and more difficult and she had to admit that some days she felt pathetic. Were she and Eowyn exaggerating everything?

Her eyes wandered through the far meadows of Rohan and a light caught her attention, the visitors never arrived at the hours of the morning and that managed to upset her, did they take advantage of the fact that the king was not there to attack Rohan? Y/n was ready to go in search of her sword when she managed to see the green flag with half a sun and a horse

The Rohirrim were back at home.

“It's them?” Eowyn asked staying by her side

“Yes, they returned” Y/n replied, folding her arms, as she watched the group ride up the castle stairs

They all got off their respective horses with a heavy jump and slowly took their things, their steps were clumsy and climbing had been difficult for all of them. The presence of both women caught their attention and the group stopped in front of them, removing their helmets from their heads.Y/n and Eowyn let out a strong sigh of relief when they looked at Eomer's face and body, it was selfish to only worry about him, but they just couldn't help it.

“You shouldn't be outside and the castle gates shouldn't be open” Eomer rapidly reminded them

Hearing his voice again caused them girls joy and neither of them could hide their smile.

“We're sorry, my king” Y/n murmured feeling him scan her from head to toe

Eomer had missed the sweetness of her voice.

“You guys come in, you all need to rest” Eowyn indicated taking some warriors inside with her

Eomer seemed to be paralyzed and Y/n took the moment to check him up, his face had traces of orc blood, as did his body and sword. Several cuts adorned his arms and one crossed his right cheekbone, his eyes were full of fatigue, but also reassurance in knowing that he was at home and that he had the adorable company of his girlfriend and, hopefully, future wife and queen.

Their relationship progressed slowly but surely, neither was determined to speed things up and they preferred to enjoy every moment they were together. Eomer was not a person of many words and that is why he showed his love and affection with other details, sometimes they were gifts, other bouquets of flowers, also kisses and caresses, plus the delicious nights they spent together, and finally, they talk about the future.

“Let's go inside, you are exhausted, my love” Y/n commented, clasping their hands and leading him to the warm of his home

The walk to their room was silent, but the force with which Eomer squeezed her hand, let her know that he had missed her and that he did not want to be away from her in the days to come. The wooden door was opened and Y/n was in charge of closing it behind their bodies.

“You haven't been sleeping, have you?” Eomer asked noticing the bed perfectly made and the same way as when he had left.

“You know that it is difficult for me to sleep when you are not here” before her answer, the king noticed the dark circles that inhabited the lower part of her eyes

“I will prepare a bath for you, there is no way you are touching the bed in that state” Y/n scoffed, making him smile, something that she had wanted to see for days

Eomer watched her enter the bathroom and heard how the water tap was turned on, Y/n began to regulate the temperature and then let the bathtub fill up a little above half, she added a pinch of soap to form a small layer of foam on top. The king carefully began to undress, letting all his dirty and destroyed clothing fall to the ground, along with his shield, sword and helmet.

Bored of being alone, Eomer followed in his girlfriend's footsteps and had her within his visual field again, he did not hesitate to hug her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist, placing a kiss on her shoulder. She smiled and turned around to him

“The bath is ready” Y/n reported, stroking his cheek as Eomer closed his eyes and leaned into her touch

At the moment of separating, the king turned his back on his bride and entered the warm water, immediately feeling discomfort in his wounds. Y/n smiled to herself having a perfect view of his body and is that, despite being dirty and hurt, Eomer was still an incredible sight for her beautiful eyes.

Immediately, she took a seat next to him, staying out of the water and with her sponge began to wash his body, beginning with the arms and shoulders, revealing in him the cuts and blows that he had obtained hunting a large group of orcs. The water quickly turned a dark red color and the sponge was the same.

“They were more than we thought” Eomer confessed in a low tone of voice, “We lost some of our own”

Y/n sighed and let him continue speaking sadly, the king was a person who did not express his feelings, but she knew how much it affected him to lose his warriors, they were not only the defenders of the people, they were friends and family. They grew up, trained and fought together watching each other's backs. It was understandable that everyone was down with the losses.

The sponge passed down his back and quickly began to wash his chest and torso, a bruise inhabited his left side.

“Close your eyes, babe” Y/n indicated, gently passing the sponge over his face, removing the remains of blood, sweat, and dirt, “I only have to do your hair” she murmured calmly, kissing his lips

The girl went in search of her shampoo and spread a little in her hands, to then run it through his golden hair. Eomer threw his head back and let his body relax, while enjoying the treatment his girlfriend was giving him. In the end, Y/n removed all the product and got up to go in search of a towel, Eomer took the opportunity to get up, letting the water run all over his body.

“There you go, love” Y/n speak, handing him the soft white towel, watching him wrap it around his waist

When they got out of the bathtub, both of them were facing each other and Eomer smiled at the height difference, Y/n was a girl of commonly normal height, but Eomer was a quite tall person, and not even when she was wearing heels could reach him.

The king placed a kiss on her lips, before walking to his room and flopping onto the bed, not bothering to wear his pajamas. Y/n laughed when she saw his actions and it didn't take her long to undress, to lie next to him, being wrapped in his strong arms.

“I miss you, doll” Eomer muttered sleepily, hiding his face in the space of her neck

“Me too honey, but it's time to sleep. Rest my king”

[lilyofthesword-writes]

Continue - Part 5

Summary: You have been ripped away from your world and tossed into one that is supposed to be pure fiction. You know the stories, how they are supposed to go. Despite your knowledge, you are unable to change the fates of the Fellowship you had grown so close to.

Pairing: Legolas x Modern!Reader

Word Count: 1,522

Warnings/Disclaimers: Other than the curse coming into play, none.

A/N: This was a long time coming. Had to figure out how I wanted to go with this part. It only came to me five minutes before a meeting at work. Needless to say, there are some near indecipherable notes on the scrap paper I found. Hope you all like it!

Masterlist

Hugging your arms, you watched Legolas join the others at the front gate. By this point, Gandalf had finally shown up, boldly waiting rather impatiently. When it did open, horses had been gathered just outside the gate, all adorned in their own armor and awaiting their riders. Legolas gifted you with one last parting look before Aragorn led the charge to the Black Gate where the final, fateful battle for Middle Earth would commence. It was an addition to the unspoken promise between you — He would return, and there was nothing in any realm that would stop him from doing so.

It was only when the front gate was closed that you turned away, the thundering hooves and steel gaits now muffled and growing silent, that you found Eowyn and Faramir not far off doing the same as you. Before you had the chance to look away and allow them their moment, Eowyn met your gaze. She was surprised but the joy in her overtook her features as she realized you were well after the last battle.

“My friend,” she called out to you with a smile as she made her way over while Faramir gently lent her support. “I did not expect to see you outside the healing houses.”

“I could say the same for you,” you playfully chided.

Something wasn’t right…

A lumped formed in your throat as she laced her arm with yours, pulling you along back up hill, Faramir in tow. “With you being up, I am surprised you did not join Aragorn and the others.”

“Yes, well,” you chuckled softly, unable to laugh like you normally would. “We came to an agreement. It was better if I stayed here.”

You tried to inconspicuously take in as deep a breath as your lungs would allow. That tight feeling was coming back. But why? It had to be your exhaustion. This was your first time out of bed since you had woken up, and your body had not yet healed. The uphill climb certainly wasn’t helping. That was it. It had to be the extra strain.

“That sounds oddly familiar,” Faramir teased Eowyn.

The youngest former Steward’s son was close behind, arms slightly outstretched as though anticipating that one of you would stumble. Eowyn turned to scowl at him, but her lips curled into a bashful smile when their eyes met, cheeks dusted pink.

Your heart skipped a beat as your chest squeezed in on itself again. Okay. Maybe you couldn’t blame it solely on your body. Then, the thought hit you like a freight train.

“Are you alright?” The blonde clutched your arm as you sucked in a breath and betrayed your own mask to conceal just how bad things really were. “You look faint…”

Faramir’s hand met your upper back when your traitorous body swayed. The ever compressing coil had found your throat.

“I think I’m just a bit tired,” you answered. Not too distant, you spotted a stone foundation jutting away from one of the buildings with just enough space for a person to sit. “I’ll take a rest over there. You two go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

You plucked yourself away from the couple and headed for the stoop.

“Are you sure?” Eowyn followed, reaching out to make sure you didn’t fall. “What if—”

“I’m alright,” you interrupted. Spinning around to placatingly take her hands, you looked both her and Faramir in the eyes. “I just need to catch my breath. I’ll be back at the healing houses in no time.”

The longer they stayed with you, the more your lungs burned like hot coals had been placed on your chest.

“If you insist,” Faramir jumped in, preventing Eowyn from arguing further.

There was a particular knowing glint in his eyes. He knew something was wrong and it was not your injuries. He didn’t truly understand, but he could feel the change. His hands found purchase on Eowyn’s shoulders, guiding her farther up the path.

She stopped him for one last word. “Please, come find me after you’ve rested,” she pleaded.

“Of course,” you promised, settling on the stone with a smile.

It was once both she and Faramir were out of sight that the curse released its hold. Your head bumped against the wall as you slumped back, finally able to fill your lungs to capacity with oxygen. You stared up the crackled stone building across from you. Your eyes followed the lush vines trailing through and around the crevices, intermingling and curling off from each other at various intervals, until you found yourself staring up at the clouds.

This part of the curse just didn’t seem fair. You hadn’t done anything… Well, nothing intentional. Would chatting with Eowyn a little longer really have caused any issues?

Darkened, thick clouds peered out from behind the rooftops, spying the wispy cotton candy clouds enjoying the bright blue sky and quickly swirling around to snuff them out.

Yeah, it probably would. This was the time for the couple to get to know each other. If you were the acting third wheel… You shook the possibilities from your head and with another deep breath, hopped to your feet. The aching and burning tightness had mostly subsided by now. Climbing uphill wouldn’t be such as much of a problem. You would just take it slow.

“Meleth?” you heard as you blearily opened your eyes.

The bed shifted and the soft warmth of the sheets was pulled up to your neck. Legolas’ fingers skimmed across your cheek to gain your attention.

“Rest well?” he asked with an exhausted breath, still managing to gift you a teasing grin.

Your clothed toes wiggled against the sheets as you sat up. When did you take your shoes off?

“I guess so…”

The last thing you could remember was plopping on the bed, passing out the moment your head hit the pillows that Legolas was now helping you rest your back against.

“You had not even removed your boots before your slumber,” he chuckled.

You couldn’t help but mirror his infectious smile. Then, you started to notice the state he was in. Dozens of stray hairs. Dirt and sweat matted to his skin. The darkening mud caked onto his armor bled into the sheets. Although there were no bags under his eyes, fatigue had seeped into his irises.

Shooting forward, you captured one of his hands. “What happened?”

Momentarily shocked by the urgency in your voice, the prince recovered quickly. He soothingly cupped your cheek, pulling you just a hair closer so he could rest his forehead on yours.

“All is well, Meleth nin. Sauron has been defeated,” Legolas answered.

“And wha—”

“Gandalf requested the aid of the eagles. Frodo and Sam have been rescued. They are on their way to Imladris now.”

“Are they alright?” you nearly choked.

His thumb soothed the worried lines of your face. “Their journey was taxing, undoubtedly as much as ours if not more. They will soon be in Lord Elrond’s care.”

That unsatisfying answer did nothing to quell the anxiety brewing in your stomach. You were fairly sure the lack of food wasn’t helping either.

“We will be leaving for Imladris the moment you are able. We all wish to see them as soon as possible,” he continued.

You finally breathed a sigh of relief. It was like he could read your mind. Then again, with how he could sense the curse, he could probably read the change in your emotional energy no matter how hard you try to hide it. That’s pretty close, right?

“Well, let’s get going then!”

The sudden surge of energy had you pull away, ready to leap from the bed. Legolas was the only obstacle. He merely laughed at your transformed demeanor and called your name, gripping your shoulders to keep you in place.

“Please,” he urged and gently led you back to rest on the pillows again. “We will leave in due time. You still need more rest.”

Air puffed out from your pouting mouth with a perturbed groan. “How am I supposed to do that knowing our friends need us?”

Legolas’ hand was back to your face, its warmth permeating the reassurance to calm your frazzled nerves.

“They will be in good hands with Lord Elrond. For now, you need to take care of yourself,” he breathed. “And I will stay by your side every step of the way.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to argue. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, he was right.

“Oh alright,” you huffed. “But. If I am to remain in bed, I need you to do something for me.”

The elf took both of your hands in his, giving them a quick squeeze. “Anything, galad nin.”

Oh. That was new…

You extracted your fingers to push away his stray, golden hairs from his face. “You need to take care of yourself, too,” you grinned.

His jaw dropped a fraction before he could pull himself together, and his shoulders shook with laughter. “Of course, Meleth. How could I be so foolish as to not follow my own advice.”

Translations: Galad nin -> My light

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