#outer gondor

[lotro-tooltips-daily]

[thewulf]

The Ranger Called Strider || Aragorn

Summary: Request - OK so this idea is for Aragorn. Basically he is king at this point and feels like it is time to find a queen(we are gonna ignore Arwen in this instance, we love her butttttt). So he does what his like advisors are saying for hosting a ball(kinda like Cinderella).... Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh I am falling in love with writing him! Love my human King. I just know he had the biggest heart. I am LOVING all these LOTR requests, please keep them coming, I'll sprinkle them in with my older requests I was working through. It's bringing the joy of writing back for me :) Thanks for he request as always @loving-and-dreaming !

Pairing: Aragorn x Reader

Word Count: 6,900 +

TW: self-doubt, Aragorn being hot af

“None of these women will do.” Aragorn muttered to his advisor standing next to him, “I’m going on a walk. Cover for me?” He asked as if he wasn’t the King of Gondor and could do whatever he pleased.

“Aye my King.” He bowed in reverence letting the King slip out behind him. Quickly, he changed into his old Ranger uniform wanting to take to the city streets. It was easier to go out not looking like the King. Less questions were always asked. He had walked further than he normally did before he took to rest outside a small shop far away from the city center. He had a lot on his mind thinking he would never find his Queen. It was not that they were all bad choices he just could not seem to connect with a single woman. He had met hundreds tonight and felt nothing but despair. He needed air and to step away.

“Excuse me sir.” You walked over to the man who was sitting on the bench with a distant stare. When he blinked back to the present looking over to your approaching figure you continued, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” It was not often you found people you had never seen before on the streets late at night. Especially the night of the grand ball the King was throwing.

He shook his head quickly, putting down the hood of his cloak so you wouldn’t see him as a threat, “Pardon me. I was simply lost in thought.” He stood from the bench. You bit back a gulp as he stood much larger than you. You got a good look at him as the moonlight hit his features. Your sudden courage to chat with the stranger had suddenly vanished as you took in the handsome man. He was intimidating. Incredibly handsome but terribly intimidating, “I am well, thank you miss.” He bowed his head gently.

You looked at him skeptically not sure if you truly believed his words. He may have been fine, but he also looked distressed. So, you did what you did best and offered the little help you might be able to manage, “Are you hungry? I have some leftover bread I can spare. And a place to rest if you need it…”

He put his hand up, but you noticed his gaze soften at your kindness, “There is no need. I am but a close walk home.”

But something told you to press on even being as intimidating as he looked, “What if I insist on the bread? You look like you could use it.”

“Very well. Then I simply could not refuse.” He held his hand out letting you lead the way back.

You led him back to you small, shared home in a comfortable silence. You weren’t far from home, but you hadn’t a clue what to talk to the stranger about. You usually weren’t one to get so tongue tied but he had you second guessing any question you might have thought of asking.

“May I ask you a question miss?” The man stopped as you walked him back toward your home at the outer edge of Minas Tirith.

You turned back to him, “Humor me.” Nodding at him you waited for him to ask whatever had been plaguing his mind.

“Why are you not at the ball? All fair maidens were invited, no?” He asked all to curious as to why you hadn’t made it a priority to attend like he assumed everybody in the city would. It wasn’t often the castle opened its doors to everyone. It amused his interests to think there were people who simply did not care. He was assured by his advisors that anyone of interest would be there tonight. Yet here you stood.

You gave him a bashful grin taken aback by the brazen compliment you so rarely received, “You are correct sir.”

“Strider.” He corrected you quickly.

You bowed, to respect his wishes, at him ever so slightly and continued, “You are correct Strider. I would have loved to have gone. However so be it my dear mother is not having the best bought of health at the moment. I need to make sure she is well enough until the morning. That is the earliest the healer can get here.”

He frowned, were his people having to wait for help? Why had he not been advised of this? He took a step closer towards you, “Forgive me miss. But you are having to wait for a healer?”

You sighed nodding your head, “Usually it’s not so long. I believe they had prior arrangements tonight. A ball or something like that.” A ghost of a smile graced your lips, “It’s all right. There are many far fairer of maidens available for the King anyway.” You gave him a sad smile as you finished out the excuse, “I am nothing but a lowly peasant girl. I have no place there.”

He shook his head quickly, “Do not say that. For I know for a fact that is not true.” His smile nearly took all of your breath away. He was so very handsome, strikingly so. You had never seen this Strider man in your parts of the city before. You were sure you would have recognized his face had you seen him before.

Your eyes softened in the slightest at the compliment, “It is all right. My mother is far more important to me than a night of folly.” You grinned before continuing, “No matter how fun it was bound to be. I am positive my friends are having a wonderful time in my absence. One of them seems to be convinced she can woo the King.” You giggled recalling the nonsensical conversation amongst friends earlier that day. She had looked rather striking before she made the trek to the center of the city to get to the Kings Castle. If any of them could capture his attention it was sure to be her.

He shook his head finding your rambling adorable, “I do not believe that to be possible miss.” He watched as your eyes studied him in confusion.

“And why’s that?” You looked him over curiously. He seemed to bd adorned in ripped and tattered Ranger clothing which was nonsensical clean appearance. His hair was a little tangled sure, but his skin looked as clean as could be. You imagined how striking the Strider man would be cleaned up and in more proper clothing.

“I have reason to believe he left the ball early.”

Your eyebrows rose studying his face for any hint of a lie, “How do you know that Strider? Are you the Kings personal Ranger?”

“Keen eyes.” He smirked for the first time in while enjoying the back and forth that had been going on between the two of you, “I am something of that sort.” The chuckle that escaped his throat escaped you. You left it at that as you continued walking back to the home you’d grown to love as you got older. It was precious to even own a plot of land let alone a home in Minis Tirith. You were thankful your father had secured it for you and your mother before he passed in the war.

“You are a Ranger then?” You asked as you neared your home.

He nodded contemplating his next words as the two of you continued walking, “I was. May I ask you another question miss?” Elusively he answered your question but diverted before you could dig in any further.

You smiled appreciating his caution. He very much wasn’t from this part of Minis Tirith being thoughtful. You were used to very brash men who hardly ever considered your feelings for you were seen to be beneath them, “You may Strider. Ever the curious one?”

He shrugged innocently, “Why would you offer a stranger your food and a place to stay? With an ailing mother?”

You opened your mouth to speak but paused as you thought about it, “I wish that if I were in the same position I would be afforded the same fate.”

He nodded while considering your answer, “That is a noble answer.”

“Or the truth.” You hummed stopping by a door, “This is it. Mother is upstairs so she will not be a bother. Bread and spread are on the counter. You may have as much as you like.”

“Will you keep me company for a moment? A know you must check on her but I have quite enjoyed this conversation miss.” He asked once the two of you occupied your family’s small living space.

“If you wish.”

His answer was quick, “I do.” You watched as he cut the bread and put the jam on top. He walked over to the table you had been sitting out and sat next to you. He didn’t try to talk with you, just sitting and eating in silence.

Not being able to take the silence you had to ask him what had been burning on your mind, “I have not seen you around here Strider. I am at the market every day. Where are you from?”

You had given him a hint, “Aye. Do you work there?”

“I asked you first.” You crossed your hands over your chest as you studied him this time. He was even more handsome with his cloak off and hair pushed behind his ears.

“Will you answer my question if I answer yours?” He quipped back not backing down. He had to come and find you again. He was having far too much of a grand time chatting with you. Sure, he thought it a bit immoral to not reveal his true identity for you clearly had no idea who he actually was. But that meant risk to the ease of conversation you may have felt with him. He quite enjoyed the easy bickering he had managed to find with you.

“You are quite stubborn Strider.” Your smile gave way to your answer though, “Yes, I will answer your question.”

“I reside near the north side of the city.” He answered giving you a soft smile, “I did not wish to attend the ball and thought it would be time to observe this side of the city.”

You believed him for why would he lie? “You are far from home Mister Strider. I have not even been to the north end. I thought you said you were a quick walk away?” You sighed knowing he was waiting for your answer now and wasn’t going to entertain your question, “I sell my uncles crops at the market. You get to know people when you are there every day.”

“That is no job for a lady.” You swore you saw his nose flare a little. He almost seemed, angry? Surely not at you but the situation?

“It is a good thing I am no lady then, is it not Strider?” A smirk toyed at your lips knowing you had him beat there. You weren’t a lady. Ladies resided in grandeur houses and had promised marriages. Ladies had class and couth that you could only dream of. Ladies got to paint and read instead of selling crops to other peasants. Ladies had promise, you did not.

Ignoring your question with a warned look on his face he asked you, “What is your name then?” He asked to distract himself. He was angry that you had to work every day to make ends meet. He wished he had a way to help people of his city. Help you. He was the King, there had to be a way.

You tutted turning your head to him, “You did not ask permission to ask me a question.”

A small flush rose to his cheeks, “Forgive me miss…” He trailed off with a small smile rising in place of the blush. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he needed to know your name. He was planning on finding you again. And hopefully many more times.

“Y/N.” You obliged the handsome stranger.

“Miss Y/N.” He gave you a head bow, “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

The second time you ran into Strider was at the market a few days later. He strolled up near closing time with a hood wrapped tightly around his head, “How much do you have left miss Y/N?”

Your eyes snapped up in recognition of the voice that belonged to the strikingly handsome man, “Too much, uncle is going to be disappointed we did not get more today.” You admitted in a sigh of defeat.

“I’ll take the rest then.” He put down a gold piece as if it were the simplest thing to come by.

You pushed it back into his hand, “Mister Strider I cannot accept this. It is far too much.”

He smiled seeing your kindness seep right through you yet again. Any other mortal would have taken the money without so much as a second thought, “I insist. Consider it a thank you for the other night as well.” He pushed it back into your hand making sure you were holding onto it before letting go once more.

“Strider, this is too much even for that.” You bit your lip trying to figure out what to do as he was clearly not going to take the gold piece back.

“Nonsense. Not for this fine spread. Give your uncle my well wishes.” He smiled collecting the rest of the produce you had yet to sell for the day. You had to wonder what he was going to with a random assortment of in season vegetables.

“Thank you. Did you come all the way down here for this?” You handed him the rest of what was left on your table before packing up for the night.

He shook his head, “I was hoping to see you as well. I quite enjoyed our conversation the other night and was hoping you could spare some more of your precious time?”

You flashed him a quick smile as you gathered the rest of your personal belongings, “I enjoyed it too. Your much wiser than the men down this way.”

And that was how it went for the next few weeks. Strider would come and find you at the market on a random weekday, sometimes every day, making sure to buy whatever you had left. Somedays he left you with a gold piece, sometimes a bronze knowing you wouldn’t keep taking from him.

He had admitted to himself he had grown quickly attached to the pretty naïve girl with a big heart. It did not take long for his like to turn to love as you teased him relentlessly. You treated him as Strider and not King Aragorn. He loved how you always managed to catch him on his toes and make him laugh harder than even his best of friends had managed too. You had managed to hook your finger around him and pull him in without you even realizing it.

Before you knew it he was coming around almost every night. The routine was simple. He would find you at the market not fifteen minutes before it closed. He would purchase the remaining bits of produce no matter how much. He would then walk you home making sure his meleth was as safe as could possibly be. He shuddered at the thought of someone hurting you on your walk home as he sat in the castle. He would have none of that.

He usually never came inside, not wanting to intrude. But one evening it had begun to rain harder than even he had anticipated so he came inside at your pleading. You really did not want Strider to catch a cold because he didn’t want to intrude. He would never be intruding. You had grown to love the man just as much as he had grown to love you. Neither of you were great at speaking it out loud but you were sure it was being conveyed through your eyes every time you saw him. He made you feel things you were sure you were going to miss out on.

You cursed when you saw your mother sitting down at the table reading a book you had recommended she pick up. You really just wanted to keep Strider your little thing separate from your actual life. You had told your mother about him but never actually wanted the two of them to meet. For some reason

“Mother, I’ve invited Strider inside. It is pouring too heavily for his journey home.” You spoke blocking her view of the man behind you.

She smiled and nodded looking back down at her book, “That is quite aright dear. We have plenty of stew to spare. Are you hungry mister Strider?” She asked this time setting the book down and actually looking for him behind you.

Your mothers eyes went wide as Strider stepped out from beside you. It never dawned on you she had never seen the man called Strider you had grown very fond of over the few instances the two of you had spent time together.

“Are you alright mother?” You asked walking over to her. She was staring right at your new stranger turned friend that you hoped would blossom into something more. You never wanted to assume but you had to think he enjoyed you if he had come around so often.

She ignored you and stood from the table in a rush, “My King.” She bowed before pushing the chair into the table.

“Mother, are you well?” You placed a hand over the back of her forehead, “The healer said you were better.”

“I am well child. You did not tell me your friend is The King of Gondor.” She had a more than irritated expression as she stared at you, bewildered. You just stared back with the same bemused expression. Had she gone mad? Strider could not be the King of Gondor. No.

You shook your head quickly before turning back to Strider, “I am so sorry Strider… I do not know what has come over her.”

He put his hand up to have you pause like he had the night he met you, “Your mother is not wrong.” He said with so much passiveness in his voice you weren’t sure if you heard him correctly. He looked at you like he had lost a battle as a look of utter confusion flashed across your features.

“King?” You sputtered out as you stood straighter and turned to him trying your hardest to blink back your surprise of this newfound revelation.

“Aragorn will suffice.” He looked terribly nervous, just as bad as you felt. You had been so casually conversing with the King of Gondor prior to knowing of his elevated status. Had acted like the peasant you really were. He must have found something charming in it as he kept coming back. The King was visiting you in his limited time? Your head suddenly felt like it was going to explode with all of the questions you had.

Your mother spoke up a little horrified by your mistake, “I apologize for my daughter. She meant no harm for her mistake King Aragorn.” She bowed her head once more and you followed suit. Heat rushed to your cheeks in embarrassment. How had you been so blind?

“There is no need to apologize. It is I who kept this information from her.” He spoke directly to your mother letting her know it was not your fault in the slightest. He did not want you to come under the ire of your mother when he left for the night thought he knew at some level you would get a scolding from her. He watched as you kept your head down in shame. Not having the will to look the King in the eye at the moment.

Instead of speaking to you he walked up with purpose to where you were standing. What he was most afraid of was playing out in front of him. You could not even look him in the eye. He had no idea what was going through your mind, but he knew it was certainly a lot. You were an overthinker just as he was. Maybe that was why he found such solace in you.

It had only been a few weeks since you ran into him on the bench that fateful night. The night he had all but given up on love. Arwen had chosen the immortal life instead of staying with him and Eowyn was engaged to be wed to Faramir. Nobody had intrigued him like those two until he met you. A kind heart who was willing to give more than you had made him fall for you faster than he had wanted. He craved to spend time with you. To get things off his chest. To feel your warmth and comfort you so effortlessly provided for him. Only a few of his advisors had known of your existence. He wanted to keep you his little secret for as long as he could. He knew that time was ending now that you knew of his true identity.

He placed a gentle hand under your chin forcing your eyes back up to his, “You do not bow before me. You need not even call me Aragorn. Call me Strider. I am still just the Ranger called Strider. Please.” His voice wavered at the end forcing your eyes to his. He was being genuine?

“But my King…” Your eyes frantically searched his face now. How could you have been so daft? You had been to the coronation not even that long ago. You were sure you would never forget a face like his. It was funny how his tattered clothes and messy hair disguised him so well. No wonder he never wanted to stroll around in the daylight hours though. Surely, somebody would have recognized him then.

“Please Y/N?” He hardly used your name as it came out in a pleading whisper. You were sure your mother was as confused as ever. How had her daughter run into the King of all people. And why was he looking at her like that?

“As you wish Strider.” It was quick but you gave him your word. It still stung a bit though. How long was he planning to keep it a secret from you? Was he planning to disappear one day on you?

“Take a walk with me?” He asked wanting to get away from your mothers prying eyes.

For the first time you thought you should reject his request. You needed a moment to get your thoughts together, “I do not think that is a good idea Strider.”

His eyes stitched together in confusion, “No?”

“I need the night to myself.” You whispered almost afraid he’d be mad by your request.

A quick nod came from him as he stepped back giving you the space you needed, “Aye. Can I come see you tomorrow?” He hopped he wasn’t pushing his luck with you. Your expression of distrust wasn’t lost on him. His intentions were never to deceive you he had just grown to adore being treated like a human again. You weren’t caught up in the politics of it all. You had become his breath of fresh air that he needed more and more of.

“That will be fine my King.” It slipped before you could stop it. But he corrected you, nevertheless.

“Strider. I will see you tomorrow. Good evening ma’am. You have a lovely daughter.” He spoke to her before ducking out of the front door and vanishing off into the dark night. You frowned seeing the rain still pouring down. You had pushed him out before he even got the chance to prepare for the storm.

“You are upset with me.” He spoke as he caught your vacant expression. It was becoming a common site to see Strider sitting at your table after a long day at work. His days were much longer than yours you were sure of that now. Being the King and all.

You shook your head, “I am not upset... just embarrassed. I feel like a fool.” You spoke freely not being able to hide your true emotions from him. He just seemed to have a way of getting you to spill all your feelings without seeming to have to try. You still seemed to trust him although he had lied to you for the last few weeks. But then, could you blame him? There had to be a reason he kept coming back for more. He had to have enjoyed it for a King wouldn’t waste his time on somebody so trivial.

“Why?” He asked with a genuine look of confusion mixed with concern coming through his eyes.

A sigh escaped your lips as you took to the chair next to him. You had forced your mother out of the house and promised to tell her everything later. You needed this moment with Strider to sort it all out, “I have not treated you as I should a King.”

He shook his head before grabbing at your hand. He had never been so forward with affection before, but he needed you to hear him. Hear the words as the truth that they were, “I did not want you to treat me as one. All else in my life treats me as one and it is tiresome. You remind me so much of the life I miss, the one filled with adventure before this happened. My life is nothing, but politics and I grow very tired of it. Fear not though, I do enjoy what I do. I just find you so very captivating my lady.”

“I am no lady.” You ignored the rest of his statement as you didn’t want to talk about your feelings with him so deeply. This is what you were great at, avoiding. Cutting and running when things got just a little difficult. You should have known Strider wouldn’t let you go so easily though.

“Am I not the King? Can I not give you such a title?” He pressed pushing his luck beyond what he should have.

You shook your head looking down, another flush of embarrassment running its course through your body, “Forgive me.”

Once more he place his hand under your chin bringing it up forcing you to look at him once more, “I am simply messing with you mell nin.” He smirked using a nickname he failed to tell you the meaning of once more. It wasn’t fair that he knew Sindarin and used it against you so often.

You bit your lip more than feeling warm by the intimate interaction between the two of you. What the hell did this all even mean? Why had he taken to you of all people? You were a peasant girl from the southernmost edge of the city. You meant nothing.

“I do not know how to act around you Strider.” You admitted out loud for the first time. You were terribly insecure. You didn’t find it easy to have a conversation with a normal person let alone the King of Gondor.

He frowned but continued to hold your hand in his, “Treat me as you had before. As the Ranger of the North, you got to know.”

“It is not that simple though and you know that.” You sighed looking away from him.

He waited a second before you turned back to him before continuing the conversation, “What plague’s your mind then?” He began giving your hand a squeeze. It was easy to melt into his touch as he was so gentle with it. He noticed the shiver and chills that ran up your arm. A positive sign if he knew of one.

Might as well get it out. He’d figure it out eventually, “Why me? I do not understand why you choose to spend time with me of all people.” It sounded so much more insecure as you said it out loud rather than let it bounce around in your head.

“I fear I am not good with words. That is why we are where we are.” He frowned but continued to hold your hand in his, “I have not expressed how much I adore spending time with you. You said it yourself. I go out of my way to come to you because you make me feel like myself. You made me feel like the person I once was. Being a King is very tiring, believe it or not. But being with you gives me back something I’ve been missing dearly, a little bit of life.” He smiled to you with those tired eyes you had grown to adore.

“I believe you.” You smiled right back at him. It wasn’t lost on you that was the most he’d spoken of his admiration of you. He was not lying when he said he was a man of few words.

He looked a little more than relieved when you gave him the smile that had been absent for a day too long. You didn’t seem as upset with him. So, he decided to do what he did the best with you, push his luck a little, “Do you believe me when I say I meant no malice keeping the truth from you? I truly just enjoyed talking and getting to know you for you with no pressure of the crown looming.”

“I believe you Strider.”

He looked skeptical, “But?” Seeing the words fall short on your lips had his heart pounding in his chest.

You chewed at your lip, “I just do not understand why you chose me. There are many more beautiful women in the kingdom. I have nothing to offer you and that frightens me a bit. I do not know why you would stay. Why you keep coming back.”

“That is simply not true my lady. I wish you could see yourself as I see you. A beauty of a woman with the kindest heart. You offer me the world plus so much more. I would be honored to have you in my life. To have you by my side.” He spoke with confidence.

Your breath caught in your throat at the bluntness of his statement to you, “What are you saying?” You hadn’t a clue what he was insinuating. A pair like the two of you could never work. You were raised as an outsider not a royal. You could never be the asset he needed on the other side of the throne.

“I wish to court you, my lady.” He spoke with that same confidence he had

“Court me?” You asked making sure you had heard him correctly.

He nodded his head fervently, “If you will have me that is.”

“Me? Are you insane Strider?” You asked him once more making sure because it did not feel like he was being serious.

“Yes you mell nin.” He was patient as he watched you retreat into your head to think on his words. You had not outright rejected him, which was a very good sign, especially for you.

Your next question took him by surprise, “What would the people think?” You let your insecurities eat at you once more as the question slipped out. You were not meant to be a Queen. There was no way people would accept you of all people.

He shrugged, “It is easy to be critical. They will not know you first, but they will come to love you just as I have. How could they not? You will make an incredible Queen.”

Your mouth gaped at his complimentary nature that seemed to have come out of nowhere. Sure, he was always kind before, but this was over the top for him. You were enjoying it more than you should have been though.

“Do you think I could do it?”

He nodded earnestly, “I would never ask if I knew you could Meleth nîn.”

Your eyes looked over his seeing he was telling the whole truth, “Are you going to tell me what that means?”

“My love.” He smiled as he watched you take in his words. The blush that rose on your cheeks was a sight to be seen. You blinked rapidly at the confession thinking he would hold it back from you like he had so often before. But this was him, Strider, confessing it all to you. Maybe he really did want you, the lowly peasant girl from the outskirts of his Kingdom.

“And Mell nin?” He was being awfully forthcoming, so you kept the questions going dying to know what he had been calling you since early on in your meetings.

He grabbed at your hand like he so often did before, “My dear.”

“Really?” Your lips came together pondering his admittance, “Did you not call me that only on our second meeting?” You did not want to believe it but when he gave you a slow nod you felt your heart pick up at his confession.

“I did meleth nîn.”

Your eyes could not hide their surprise as he freely admitted his feelings so openly towards you. So often it was like pulling his teeth out to try and get an answer to your questions. It had become clearer after learning he was the King that he had hidden so much from you.

“So soon?”

He moved his chair closer to yours. Gently, he placed a hand to the side of your face relishing in the heat your cheeks gave off at his touch. He adored the way you physically reacted to his touch. He knew what he felt was reciprocated even if you could not seem to believe him. He’d spend the next year convincing you if that was what it would take. He had made his decision and he was going to get what he wanted, if that was what you wanted of course.

“You made it easy to decide. I have not met another woman like you…” His voice trailed off as his eyes roamed your face. First they met your own gaze, and they softened as if felt like he peered right into your soul, asking for permission to peel the layers of you back. For you too had been less than forthcoming about your very own life. Then his eyes trailed down to your lips where he so desperately wanted to meet them with his own. But he knew he must wait. Wait until you say yes, and he can take you out of a proper afternoon stroll around the city center. He knew he wanted to do anything and everything to make you his, to have your heart yearn for his as much as he did for yours.

“You flatter me Strider.” You whisper as your own eyes trail down to his lips. You wondered what he tasted like. Did his lips taste as good as he smelled? How many women had he kissed? Were you one in a long line or truly one of a kind? You cursed your insecurities for being so loud at a time like this.

“I fear I may not enough.” He countered, “Will you let me court you my lady?”

After looking him over for longer than he would have liked you answered him quietly, “I would be honored my King.” You bowed your head once more.

He would have none of that though. He stood, pulling you up with him, “I told you my lady, none of that. I am to be your husband. Your equal. My Queen.” He spoke slowly making sure you heard every word.

“But that is not…” You protested before he stopped you.

He placed a hand over your mouth. A habit he was becoming accustomed to when you began to overthink, “Not in my Kingdom. Not with you as my Queen.” He shushed you by running a gentle thumb over your lips. He let out a longing sigh, “Truly, you are the most wonderful woman I have gotten to know in quite a long time my lady. You are doing me the honor by accepting.” He pulled your hand to his lips as he gently kissed the back of it leaving you utterly breathless as you wanted to melt into him. His charm was truly like no other man you had come across. Not that your experience was nearly as expansive as his seemed to be.

“I shall pick you up tomorrow mid-day. I will take you out in the gardens of my home. I will see to it that you will quite like it.” He had told you of the beautiful gardens he had maintained at his mother’s dying request. He promised should he ever inherit the throne once more he would restore the gardens of Minis Tirith. And that he did.

Your eyes went wide before they suddenly went downcast, “But my uncles crops. There is nobody who can sell them with my mother being back to work.” Your shoulders deflated in realization of you having to turn down his invitation.

“The castle will buy it up. For the rest of his days too. We will see to it. There will be no need to go back to that dreadful market.” He grabbed at both of your hands hoping it would calm your qualms, “I will even move your family closer to the castle if it will make it easier for you meleth nîn.”

“You would do that?” It was not that you didn’t believe him, but it surprised you more that he would offer so easily. Of course, you knew there were perks of being the King of a thriving Kingdom, but it seemed so outlandish at the offer.

“Meleth nîn you have to understand that I would do anything for you.” He breathed. It became so quiet you could only hear the steady beating of his heart and the gentle breaths that followed.

Your eyes finally found his and that smile he had been searching for finally came to. He was so realized at the sight he almost missed your words, “All right. I will see you tomorrow.” And at that he too could feel his heart quicken. You had accepted. He was rather unsure of if you would say yes. You were a headstrong woman, a trait he had admired greatly about you.

His hands found your face once more. You could feel your heart quicken yet again at his more than gentle touch, “I wish to kiss you my lady.”

“You may.” It spilled out of your mouth before you could attempt to stop it for it was no lie. You wanted him to kiss you.

He chuckled. Instead of kissing you he just traced your lips with his index finger, “That would be improper my lady. I wish to do this the right way with you.” He leaned down whispering in your ear reveling in the way you shivered underneath his breath.

“Did you not say it was your Kingdom? Your rules?” You used his own words against him wanting to get your way. But you knew Aragorn was stronger than a few suggestive words.

He let out a longer laugh this time, “Please my lady. I wish to treat you as the Queen you are bound to be. Do not tempt me for I can only say no a few times.”

“A shame.” You giggled feeling suddenly confident under his lust filled gaze. He had wanted you for some unknown reason, but you were tired of questioning it. You were going to accept it full heartedly.

He stifled a groan before taking a quick step back knowing he needed to keep himself in control and touching you was making it that much harder, “You have no idea what those words do to me, my lady.” His gaze darkened a touch before he blinked it away having to keep himself in control around you. He had plenty of time to lose himself later on.

“I feel as though I do your Majesty.” You pressed taking a step closer to him. He placed his hands on your shoulders keep you at bay by a length

“You will be the death of me my lady.” He gave your shoulders a squeeze, “I will come calling for you midday. By tomorrow eve the Kingdom should know my intentions.”

“The whole Kingdom?” You felt your heart begin to speed up at the thought. Your life was going to change whether for the better. Your family would never have to work again. Your mom could finally take some time off. You would become a Queen in due time.

“The whole of it.”

Your face paled in realization. You wanted to be courted by him of course. He was lovely and everything you had wanted. But this was never planned. Never a thought. How were you to prepare? How were you to handle it all?

“I will be with you every step of the way. Do not be afraid Meleth nîn.” With more of a comforting hold than one of fierce desire he wrapped you in his arms for a gentle hug. One to reassure your fears. One to calm your qualms.

“I love you, Aragorn.” Your eyes filled with unshed tears as every emotion came rushing out. How lucky were you to have found such a man?

He smiled softly while brushing away the stray tears that managed to spill over, “I’ll always just be the Ranger called Strider for you. I love you my dear. Fear not for we have a long life to live yet.”

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[emyn-arnens]

For Charity

Minas Tirith hosts its first-ever Charity Auction for Widows and Orphans of the War. Some of the participants are less enthusiastic than others. Feat. Boromir, Faramir, Éomer, Aragorn, Éowyn, Lothíriel, and Imrahil, with a side of Eothiriel. 2k. Also on AO3. I was inspired by @emilybeemartin's art of Boromir in a wet shirt and @hobbitwrangler's tags on the post, and this happened.

Boromir picked up the shirt laid out upon his bed. It was a flimsy white thing, hardly worthy of being called a shirt. And it was, according to Faramir, explicitly required. With a long-suffering sigh, Boromir pulled the shirt over his head. For charity, he reminded himself.

He looked down at himself. Every inch of his skin showed through the shirt. He might as well not be wearing a shirt.

As he left his room, Boromir refused to look in the looking glass that hung upon the wall.

Catching sight of Faramir turning down the corridor, Boromir raced to catch up. “You must do everything you can to ensure that Éomer wins,” Boromir said, falling into stride with his brother.

Faramir turned and laid his hand on Boromir's shoulder, smiling broadly. “Dear brother, the outcome is in the hands of the crowd. Do not expect to get special privileges from me merely because I am your brother. I have only a small role in the event as it is.” 

Boromir groaned.

With a chuckle, Faramir clapped Boromir on the shoulder and started off down the hallway again. “But fear not!” Faramir said over his shoulder. “Éowyn and I have plans set in place.”

“What sort of plans?” Boromir called after him.

“You will see,” Faramir said evasively. Boromir could hear the laughter in his voice.

Not for the first time, Boromir wondered if it might have been better to have fallen in battle than to deal with Faramir and Éowyn’s machinations.

The sky above the Pelennor was grey and sunless. A fine mist of rain fell over the field, where brightly colored tents and canopies dotted the ground around the outer wall of the city in anticipation of Minas Tirith’s inaugural charity auction for the widows and orphans of the war. Many of the onlookers gathered underneath the tents, little deterred by the weather. From the conversations Boromir caught as he walked by, it sounded as if they were already placing their bets.

Éomer beckoned Boromir to join him near the stage. He had rolled up the sleeves of his own flimsy shirt, revealing his forearms. Beads of water clung to his hair, and his shirt, stuck to his skin from the misty rain, left little to the imagination.

A glance at his own shirt told Boromir that he looked much the same. Blast this auction.

“Why are we doing this again, Éomer?” Boromir grumbled.

“It’s for charity,” Éomer said without looking at him. His gaze was fixed to the right, where Éowyn and Lothíriel sat beneath a canopy, reclining upon cushions and eating from a bowl they shared between them. “It’s for widows and orphans.” Éomer turned with unnecessary force, sending his hair fanning about his shoulders—Boromir suspected for Lothíriel’s benefit, for she and Éowyn watched them with great interest—as he turned to face Boromir.

The distance was not so great and the drizzle of rain not so thick that Boromir could not see the way that Lothíriel’s gaze followed Éomer appreciatively. She and Éowyn bent their heads together and whispered furtively.

“I am not certain the widows are here solely for the charitable donations they are about to receive,'' Boromir said, for indeed many of the widows, gathered next to the stage so that donors might see those they were assisting, looked upon Éomer, Boromir, and the other men of Rohan and Gondor assembled near the stage with open admiration and many a wandering glance.

“All the better for them.” Éomer grinned.

Boromir picked at his shirt. The fabric only clung to his skin even more. “Must these be so thin?”

Footsteps sounded behind them. “You have stayed in fine form, my friend,” said the king’s voice, tinged with laughter. Aragorn stepped into view and thumped Boromir on the back. “I am certain the widows are appreciative.” He clasped Boromir’s shoulders firmly and looked him up and down. His lips twitched with barely contained laughter. “Very appreciative, indeed.”

Boromir crossed his arms and bit his tongue.

“You should stand that way on the stage,” Éomer put in. “It’s very flattering.”

Boromir quickly uncrossed his arms.

Aragorn laughed. “Good luck, my friends.” He bade them farewell and went to join Arwen.

Imrahil’s voice rang out over the fields, bidding the onlookers welcome and laying out the rules of the auction. The crowd was to bid upon who they thought was the most handsome of the men of the Mark and of Gondor, and all proceeds would go to the widows and orphans. “And the prize of this auction,” Imrahil said, pausing for effect, “is a kiss from the man who has received the highest bid. He shall bestow it upon the willing recipient of his choosing.”

Boromir heard more than one sigh from the direction of the audience.

Boromir had already decided that if he were to win, he would bestow the honor upon Beregond’s young daughter, Míriel, who was starstruck by her Uncle Boromir and Uncle Faramir. (Beregond and his wife, Idhres, had chastised her many times for calling the princes thus, but Boromir did not mind.) The rules, after all, did not state the nature of the promised kiss. A kiss upon the forehead or hand was still a kiss.

Faramir stood behind the stage, directing the men into a single line. He had declined to participate on the grounds of being a married man.

Would that Boromir had such an excuse. Bachelorhood had its disadvantages.

Imrahil introduced the first man, one of Éomer’s former Éored, if Boromir was not mistaken, though ahead of him Éomer seemed not to notice. Members of the audience shouted bids, and Imrahil recorded the highest in his ledger.

The bidding continued on in a drone of voices. Boromir paid no mind to it.

Éomer stomped impatiently and tugged at the low neck of his shirt. He turned to Boromir. “How do I look?” If Boromir did not know Éomer so well, he might have said that his friend seemed nervous. But Éomer had never been one to fear.

“Wet. Nearly shirtless.” The mist had turned to a light rain by now, and their shirts had become entirely translucent. Boromir pushed his dripping hair from his face.

“Do you think—” Éomer was cut off by Faramir gesturing for him to ascend the steps to the stage.

Boromir waved Éomer away. “Go. Take all of the bids for me.”

Éomer climbed the stairs, and Imrahil announced him. “And now, the King of the Mark! Who will bid upon this paragon of Rohirric—”

“Virility!” The shout came from the direction of Éomer’s guardsmen, who nudged each other and laughed, saluting their king with their steins of ale.

“Virtue,” Imrahil finished drily, though Boromir knew the man well enough to recognize the slight twitch in his lips that belied his humor.

The men of Rohan booed good-naturedly.

“Do I have a bid for Éomer King?” Imrahil called.

“We will bid!” several voices shouted. 

Boromir squinted through the rain. Three men were standing up in the middle of the crowd—his cousins. That meant trouble.

“What is your bid?” asked Imrahil, sounding suddenly weary.

“Two hundred castars,” Amrothos said. Only a prince’s purse—or several, as it were—could bear to part with such a sum. And it was, to Boromir’s dim recollection of the morning’s bidding, the highest bid that had been named yet.

“Does anyone have a higher bid?”

Silence fell over the onlookers.

Imrahil sighed. “Very well. Bring your money to the collection table to be counted.” He noted the sum in his ledger.

Faramir gestured for Boromir to climb the stairs to the stage. Clearly biting back laughter, he patted Boromir’s shoulder. “Good luck.”

“I have no desire for good fortune,” Boromir groused.

“Then I wish you luck in losing.”

Boromir climbed the stairs to applause from the crowd.

Imrahil smiled warmly at him, then turned to the crowd. “Who will bid upon Gondor’s very own captain?”

Various voices shouted bids, but none reached the sum named by Imrahil’s sons. Boromir breathed a sigh of relief and descended the stairs on the opposite side of the stage, picking out Éomer in the crowd and moving toward him.

Éomer clapped him on the shoulder. “You need not have feared.”

Boromir shook his head, laughing. “My cousins seem intent on your winning. Knowing them, they have contrived some plot.”

Éomer stilled.

Boromir studied him, recalling Faramir’s words that morning. Perhaps his and Éowyn’s plan was connected to whatever Imrahil’s sons had concocted. It would be very unlike his brother, who had never had close friendship with their Dol Amroth cousins, but it was possible.

Éomer’s affection for Lothíriel, and hers for him, were readily apparent to all. Imrahil’s protectiveness of his only daughter was equally apparent and had appeared to be a sticking point in anything coming of their feelings for each other.

Hiding a smile and leaving Éomer to his worries, Boromir turned to watch the rest of the auction. He had had no need to fear, indeed.

The last bid was called, and Imrahil tallied the bids in his ledger. Éomer had grown steadily paler during the rest of the auction, and he now was visibly fidgeting.

“The bids have been tallied!” Imrahil’s voice rang out over the field. “Éomer King received the highest bid. Please come to the stage and make your selection.”

Éomer walked to the stage with all the enthusiasm of a man headed to the gallows. Sudden movement at the front of the audience caught Boromir’s eye. Amrothos and Erchirion had moved to stand in front of something—or someone. 

Boromir glanced at the tent where Éowyn and Lothíriel had been sitting. Lothíriel was gone, and only Éowyn and Faramir stood beneath the tent, whispering to each other.

“Who do you choose, Éomer?” Imrahil said.

Éomer stood before the stage looking far less confident than he had earlier that morning.

“Perhaps our sister?” came a shout from the crowd. Amrothos and Erchirion pushed Lothíriel in front of them.

Éomer froze. Imrahil crossed his arms, visibly displeased.

Boromir bit back a laugh.

“She is very beautiful, do you not think?” Amrothos pushed Lothíriel closer to the stage until she stood an arm’s length away from Éomer.

Éomer appeared to be having difficulty speaking.

Whispers ran through the crowd.

Éomer finally stirred and reached out to take Lothíriel’s hand in his. He bent and quickly kissed her hand, then stepped back.

But Lothíriel did not pull away. Rather, she tugged on Éomer’s hand and drew him closer, then kissed him sweetly upon the lips. Her brothers erupted in hoots and hollers, and the crowd broke out in cheers.

Imrahil’s frown deepened.

Lothíriel stepped away from Éomer, looking only slightly abashed, and mouthed an apology to her father.

Éomer stood like a man knocked over the head.

“That concludes the Charity Auction for Widows and Orphans of the War,” Imrahil said at last, just barely audible over the excitement of the crowd.

Smiling and shaking his head, Boromir stepped away and made his way to Faramir and Éowyn’s tent, where they stood clapping.

Boromir joined them. “Could you not have told me of your plans beforehand?”

“And risk spoiling our plans? Look how happy they are,” Éowyn said. Indeed, Éomer seemed more at ease surrounded by Lothíriel’s eager brothers and bolstered by the cheering of the crowd, and Lothíriel was smiling widely.

“They only needed a little nudge,” Faramir agreed.

“I am surprised you took part in this conspiracy,” Boromir said to his brother.

Faramir wrapped his arm around Éowyn’s waist. “I wish for everyone to have the happiness that I have found. And it was Éowyn and Lothíriel’s plan.” That was less surprising. Éowyn and Lothíriel were fast friends.

Faramir patted Boromir's shoulder. “Did you really believe that I would let you suffer so?”

“Yes,” Boromir said.

Faramir and Éowyn laughed gaily. “It will be your turn next time,” Faramir said with a grin.

Boromir cuffed him.

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 1/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 2.3K (so far)

Written for @aralas-week Day 1: Before Fellowship

Legolas’s skin was warm where he brushed against it, and his shoulders rose and fell in steady breaths as Aragorn’s fingers worked. Occasionally he would make a sound if Aragorn pulled a strand too hard or fumbled the flow of the braid—not a sound of pain, but that of a teacher, guiding the hand of his student. Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

-

I. Rivendell

Aragorn found Legolas, as he knew he would, sitting on a bench in the outer courtyard gardens. He had not successfully approached Legolas without discovery since he was but a young boy whose footballs were too light to be of any notice, and therefore did not try. If Legolas did not welcome his presence, he would not be shy in saying so.

Legolas said nothing, so Aragorn took a seat at the opposite edge of the same bench.

They had not seen each other in several long years, though he still held great fondness for the memories they’d shared in the last decades, many in these very gardens. That Legolas was here appeared to be the only silver lining among the very grim tidings that had resulted in the Council being assembled at all. The guest rooms of the Last Homely House were already teeming with the Men, Elves, and Dwarves who would be present at the meeting, and a good many more besides. He had no doubt he understood only a part of what was truly at work here, but certainly the reappearance of the Ring, the emergence of the Nazgûl, and the gathering of the races all spoke of another desperate alliance against the powerful oncoming evil.

But all of that felt somewhat far away sitting here, in the comfort and security of his first home, alongside one of his first friends. Gandalf had passed along the news that Frodo had awoken in good health, and the Council was therefore set to take place the following morning. There would be time enough to think of the march against evil then. In this moment, he rather intended to focus on the good.

“I was surprised to hear you had come,” Aragorn opened, opting for the simplest of his thoughts. In truth, he wished to converse with his old friend but had little idea where to start, and pleasantries had never been their way.

“A pleasant surprise, I hope.” There was a strange tension in Legolas’s frame, a bowstring pulled taut when it should have been relaxed.

“Always, my friend.”

“I would not have been allowed to come had the circumstances not been so dire. And still worsening, if all I have heard since my arrival is true.” At last Legolas turned to face him, his lips curving into a small smile—what, on his elven features, amounted to the equivalent of a full-toothed grin from a man. “But it is wonderful to see you, Estel.”

Aragorn smiled back, as much at the sentiment as at hearing his childhood name. It had been a long time since he had been addressed as such, for nobody outside the realm of Elves knew him by that name. It seemed he was destined to collect names the way Dwarves collected jewels or maidens beautiful gowns, but there would always be a special place in his heart for this one, the first and simplest.

Legolas’s thoughts appeared to follow in a similar direction, for he continued with mirth in his voice, “Or should I say Strider? Thorongil?” Legolas’s voice lowered, turned serious. “Or have you at last embraced Aragorn, perhaps?”

No matter how long he lived, he would never, ever understand how his friend always seemed to cut to the heart of a matter as though guided there by Ilúvatar himself.

“I don’t believe I will have a choice, tomorrow, and I have made my peace with that.” His rather frosty encounter with Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, seemed to him a sign of what would continue to happen if he did not shed the cloak of the Ranger. Whatever was to come next, it could not be Strider or even Estel who stepped forward to face it, but Aragorn. The question was only who would introduce him, and in what manner. “But for today, let me remain Estel.”

“I shall call you by any name you like, my friend, not just today but tomorrow as well. Know that it does not change who you are.”

Aragorn would not tolerate any other speaking to him about this topic in this way—indeed, even Lord Elrond was more careful in discussing his supposed destiny. But Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Mirkwood, understood his specific circumstances in a way few others could, and as a result they had spoken of this particular topic at length. Aragorn understood Legolas’s words as both a kindness and a familiar reminder that embracing his ancestral name did not mean he had to walk the same path as his ancestors did. Between Legolas and Arwen, he had heard a version of that wisdom often enough that it had started to put down roots in his mind.

“I would that you call me Aragorn, tomorrow,” he said finally. “Of all who could do so first, I would be honored for it to be you.”

Legolas gave him a single nod, agreement and gratitude in one, and Aragorn knew they would speak no more this evening of things yet to pass.

They settled instead into pleasant silence. The time that lapsed before another word was spoken could have been mere minutes or a matter of hours, for it passed both slowly and in a great rush, as all moments of calm seemed to in his life. He could remember with vivid detail the battles, the injuries, the days of chasing or being chased, but memories of peacetime always fell through his fingers like grains of sand, fragmented and fleeting. With that in mind, Aragorn was determined to savor this moment—the chirp of birds, the rustle of trees, the golden glow of Imladris’s famed marble arches under the setting sun; and above all, the comforting presence of a friend beside him. There was no telling what the next day would bring, but this day, despite the series of solemn events that had led to it, was all the sweeter as the last port before the storm.

None came to disturb them. The moment could have extended until moonrise, if they had let it.

The Elves of Imladris, he had learned, had a patience to match the millennia of their lifespan. But not Legolas. Whether wood-elves themselves had a different comportment than the rest, or it was simply Legolas who was singular, he had not spent enough time in Mirkwood to say, though he suspected the latter. That Legolas did not act as though he was merely stepping where he had already trodden before, that he was willing to seize a moment rather than simply wait for it to find him as though floating through a life already lived, was likely one of the reasons Aragorn had been drawn to him as he had to no other Elf.

It also meant, more practically, that Legolas was willing to be the first to break their gentle silence.

“Tell me, Estel, did you walk here all the way from the keep merely to admire the trees with me?”

“And if I had?” He had not, but he had missed joking with his friend.

“I would say you have changed much indeed from the last time I saw you, if you have such a newfound appreciation for the forest. And that perhaps there is some wood-elf in you after all.”

Aragorn chuckled. He had long ago made peace with being a Man among Elves, always an outsider to their unique ways of interacting with the natural world. Even among Elves, he knew the Mirkwood bunch to be uniquer still, able to commune with the trees in a way that seemed closer to magic than anything tangible. “We both know there is no chance of that.”

“Indeed.” Legolas’s voice was light and dry, but the request for honesty could not have been clearer if he’d said speak freely aloud. That strange tension remained in his tight shoulders and hard jaw.

Aragorn chose his words carefully. “You are not braided,” he said at length. There was no need to voice the questions or implications contained therein.

“You saw that from your rooms and came rushing to fix it, did you?” Still light, but with a sharpened edge.

It seemed more elaboration would be necessary. Well, Aragorn had been called many things, too many, but shy to speak his mind had never been one of them. “If you are laboring under some guilt that the creature Gollum was allowed to escape Mirkwood, I hope I am not the first to say it is unfounded.”

“If I am unbraided, it is because I rode from Mirkwood as a messenger, not a warrior. Perhaps what you perceive as some window to my inner thoughts is merely a reflection of your own ignorance.”

If Aragorn had been any other, he would have backed slowly away from the topic and indeed this corner of Imladris entirely, such was the dark undercurrent in Legolas’s voice. But that had never been the manner of their friendship.

“As I think you know, I came rushing here from my rooms merely because I had hoped to see you,” Aragorn said evenly, and Legolas’s stony expression softened. “I will certainly not claim to know all the customs of your people, but I believe I know you, mellon-nin.” They had spoken thus far in the common tongue, for Aragorn did not want any who might drift through these gardens to learn just how deep his connection to Imladris and its elves truly went. Perhaps all the more for being the only Elvish they had exchanged, the Sindarin endearment had a clear effect on Legolas, who looked away and bowed his head. “I have seen you in times of both war and rest, and never have you been without some manner of braid.”

“Forgive me,” Legolas said quietly. “I should not have been cruel.”

“It is already forgotten.” Legolas did not have a cruel bone in his body, this Aragorn knew well. Whenever his usual composure slipped, it almost inevitably had to do with his father. Aragorn could imagine King Thranduil’s displeasure at the escape of Gollum, and certainly could imagine how he might express that displeasure to his only son, regardless of whether Legolas was truly to blame. “Mithrandir himself told me he believes Gollum has yet some role to play. Leave the past where it belongs, Legolas. Let us enjoy this relative peace while we can.”

The tension that he had noticed in Legolas from the beginning of their conversation seemed, finally, to dissipate. “When did you turn so wise, Estel?”

“I’ve had many a good teacher,” Aragorn said, meaning it. Legolas himself had been one for much of his youth. “Besides, it’s mostly selfish—I don’t like seeing you without your braids.”

Something twitched across Legolas’s face. Aragorn waited for it to take shape, employing what he had learned of patience over the years.

“Would you like to put them back in for me?” Legolas asked at last.

Aragorn could not stop his surprise from showing. “I think you’re overestimating my skill.” He gestured vaguely at his own hair, which looked a sight better than it normally did while he was out in the wilds, but remained, stubbornly, an unruly mop of tangles and curls. “Although I don’t see how you could.”

Legolas smiled. “Proficiency requires practice, does it not? Come, Estel.”

“If you are sure—”

“I am.”

“—then it would be my honor.”

Aragorn rose from the bench and walked around it to stand at Legolas’s back. He reached out and tentatively ran a hand through the fine elven hair, attempting to learn its form. As a child, he had perhaps attempted to braid Elladan or Elrohir’s hair, but it had been many years since his fingers had been put to such a delicate task. He had a Ranger’s hands, large and coarse and shaped for strength, not the nimble dexterity required for this.

But Legolas had asked. And indeed, despite not knowing any of the customs involved, he could guess at the significance of being extended such an invitation.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to picture Legolas’s usual style. It was easier than he imagined, for he had spent more than a little time contemplating that lovely face—most of his hair would always hang free, held in place by narrow braids along his ears, and the rest would be gathered into a thicker braid that ran down his back.

He didn’t have the skill to attempt the more complicated main plait, and settled instead for weaving the thin braids at Legolas’s temples. It was not entirely dissimilar to tying knots, with which he was very familiar, but this was decidedly more intimate. Legolas’s skin was warm where he brushed against it, and his shoulders rose and fell in steady breaths as Aragorn’s fingers worked. Occasionally he would make a sound if Aragorn pulled a strand too hard or fumbled the flow of the braid—not a sound of pain, but that of a teacher, guiding the hand of his student.

It had been a long time since his hands had learned a new skill. Aragorn enjoyed the time it took to shape the braid around the curve of Legolas’s ear and down to his nape almost as much for that as for what he was quickly realizing was the magnitude of this gesture.

Men were not so easily shown an Elf’s back, or allowed to place their hands so close to an Elf’s neck and ears. Or indeed to engage in a ritual so deeply steeped in a custom and culture to which they did not belong.

“There are few others permitted this honor,” Legolas said, as though he could read the thoughts in the very movement of Aragorn’s fingers. “But none more deserving. If not for you, I would have arrived at the Council entirely unbraided.”

Instead, he wore to the Council his usual half-braid of an elegant fishtail down his back, nimbly fashioned as the sun rose—and two narrow braids at his temples, wispy and a touch messy in parts, unchanged from how Aragorn had weaved them the previous evening.

[ass-deep-in-demons]

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + friends & family,

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

Rating: T+

Chapter Length: ~10k

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

✦ Chapter 2 ✦

… in which Boromir defends the Osgiliath Bridge, and we all know how it ends.

[AO3] [masterpost]

[previous chapter]

Osgiliath, 29th of Lótessë 2018 TA

Boromir had never thought much about how the afterlife might look like. Whenever someone mentioned to him the concept of the passage of souls, he would imagine something akin to Osgiliath as a place for the eternal roaming of lost spirits.

The once splendid Ogiliath was now a labyrinth of crumbling white marble, haunted by wild cats and birds of prey. The walls were often clad in swirling wispy strands of mist wafting from the Great River. 

From his vantage point, atop one of the few still standing towers on the Eastern Bank, Boromir could almost see the spirits of his soldiers roaming the shadowed stone corridors. Many of his men had fallen defending these very walls over the last score of months. And still, it all seemed to have been in vain. No matter how many orcish camps Boromir's troops had destroyed, no matter how many Haradrim convoys Faramir's Rangers had hijacked, the Enemy did manage to encircle Osgiliath at last, and now they were going to have to fight the Shadow here, in the City, to keep control over the Great Bridge.

Presently, the Gondorian army had full control of Osgiliath, however, numerous orc encampments were scattered on the surrounding grounds, and more fiends were drawing near to the City. Boromir could see the Enemy’s commandos approaching the white walls and seeking entrance, causing skirmishes. For now, Gondor’s troops were doing an admirable job at holding them off, under the command of Angbor, a mighty warrior from Lamedon.

"Still no sight of Captain Faramir?" a welcome, friendly voice inquired, breaking Boromir's morose musings.

"I'm not expecting him to be back yet. He is bound to take longer," said Boromir, affecting composure.

"I am sure you're right," Derufin said, as he joined Boromir on the vantage point.

Faramir had ridden out at first light, with a dozen of his men, when the orcs were commencing the assault on the ruined City. There remained a Ranger encampment in South Ithilien, and Faramir went to evacuate them. Boromir's present task was to keep the Enemy out of the ruined City long enough to allow the Rangers to escape before the Bridge would be overrun.

Except the Bridge will hold, Boromir firmly reassured himself . He had actually argued this very point with Faramir last night. Faramir believed the City might very well fall, and that the Gondorian army should be prepared for evacuation further West, to Causeway Forts. This is why Faramir had insisted on rescuing the Ranger Camp in South Ithilien - he thought they might be permanently cut out from their main forces after the lost battle. Boromir listened to his brother's plight and allowed this rescue mission, albeit with a heavy heart. He had also ordered the moving of the wounded and partial evacuation of stocks and equipment to the Causeway Forts. It would be unwise to ignore Faramir’s advice altogether, and they had to be ready for every opportunity.

However, privately Boromir still believed Osgiliath would hold. He had promised his Father, after all. With the crumbling outer fortifications it was impossible to keep the orc bands outside the City for long, that was true. The plan was to hold them at bay only long enough to let Faramir's men retreat through the Bridge, then lure them into the City. Boromir was prepared to let them in and then fight them on the ancient streets, among the crumbling white walls and rubble. The labyrinth-like grounds would work to Gondor’s advantage. Boromir had fortified and manned a few strongholds inside the City: the old Garrison, the Western Bridge Towers, and the Arsenal, and also prepared a few nasty surprises for the Enemy. This way, Mordor’s advantage due to greater numbers could be countered, as the ambushes that the Gondorians had set up would allow them to eliminate larger groups of foes at once. They could trap the orcs inside and finish them off, hopefully gaining a few more months until the next assault, and complete the reconstruction of Rammas Echor on time.

"My men are in positions,” Derufin reported. “Captain Aglahad and Sergeant Hirgon are on the Western Bank, supervising the setting of our traps. Master Zbylut and the pioneers are still fortifying the fords.”

The fords were in truth what it was all about. Osgiliath was the only crossing point on Anduin for many miles North and South. There were numerous fords in the City and the Enemy could use them to move an army, but Boromir’s men have rendered the fords unpassable with barricades. To cross through them, the Enemy would need to first capture the entire City and dismantle the blockades. The only remaining link between Western and Eastern Osgiliath was the massive wooden Bridge. 

“I thank you, friend,” said Boromir. Truly both his brother and Derufin had been invaluable in their help with all of the war effort that had led to this point.

“If I die today, my chief regret will be never having written to Lady Morwen,” Derufin said, his cheerfulness belying his morbid words. “If we live through this day and I still won’t write to her, yours is the duty to smack me.”

“I will smack you right now, for prattling about maids when we are about to fight for our Kingdom,” said Boromir.

“Oh, loosen up, will you? Everything is in order, Boromir. Your plan will work. You are entirely too serious, and it would do you good if you, too, had a lass at home to think about.” Derufin blabbed and Boromir opened his mouth to retort, annoyed, but Derufin wouldn’t let him. “Do not try to counter me, I’m right. Even your Lord Father would say I’m right.”

Boromir sighed.

“It is the thoughts of Lord Steward that are the cause for my mood. I have made an oath to him that I will not let the Enemy have the Great Bridge. It is either victory or death for me today.”

Derufin snorted. 

“That is the most laughable thing you have ever said in my presence, Boromir, and I’ve heard you compose poetry for the late Princess,” his friend commented dryly.

Boromir felt a surge of bitterness.

“Do not be mentioning the Princess now! I am in earnest! Either the Bridge holds or I die defending it. My honour demands it.”

“Damn you, Boromir! Your honour demands that you serve your liege the Steward, and you will be of no use to him dead,” Derufin chastised. “If things go badly, we will retreat to fight another day. I will personally drag you to the Causeway Forts, and I know Faramir will assist me. And the Lord your Father will thank me profusely, and decorate me!” Derufin sighed. “You will not escape this war so easily, so do not look to die a hero. Instead, think of your men, and what you owe to them.”

Boromir felt his face and neck go red with shame. Derufin was of course right. What am I, a lad of twelve? he thought. To be thinking of my wounded pride, to be jumping onto my Enemy’s sword, when my men would be left leaderless, at Mordor’s mercy. He solemnly vowed to himself that he would not be courting death on this day, and would not accept his own demise so readily as that.

But neither could he suffer to break the oath he had given to his Lord. I cannot lose Osgiliath and I cannot die today, and so that leaves only one route open.

“Then we must make sure this day is ours, no matter the cost,” said Boromir, affecting a rueful smile for the sake of his friend.

“And that is the Boromir of Gondor I know and love,” Derufin exclaimed and clasped his shoulder. “When this thrice accursed pile of crumbling stone is secure again, we shall find you a pretty lady to pine after. That will cure you of all your foolish notions of heroism right away.”

Boromir groaned.

“Must that you are in league with my Lord Father to speak so,” he complained. “I do not see you making much progress in the way of…”

“Boromir!” Derufin interrupted him. “Look there! It is Faramir’s Rangers!”

Boromir snapped his head towards the East and squinted. He could not see as far as his eagle-eyed friend the archer, but he did notice a small blot of green moving on the horizon. He immediately felt relieved. Soon Faramir would be safe again on the Western Bank, helping with the evacuation. And yet… Something else caught his eye… Something bigger, vaster, a crawling ribbon of black, that was moving behind the blot of colour they had earlier identified as Faramir’s company.

“What is that, behind the Rangers?” asked Derufin dumbfounded, and Boromir felt the hairs on his neck rise to attention. He knew the answer, and dreaded it.

“That, my friend, is a Haradrim army,” he said. “One we cannot hope to hold at bay.”

“But how…?” Derufin asked the very question that was on Boromir’s mind right then. He had received no intel about this army. The Haradrim could have hidden from Gondorian scouting teams, but they could not hide from the Lord Steward, for Lord Steward saw all… Or did he? How had they missed an entire army?

“Some foul sorcery of the Enemy, no doubt,” Boromir said bitterly. “Come! We must go down and confer with the others. We cannot hope to contain them in the City, they are too many!”

They ran down the tower stairs, mouthing quiet curses. Boromir halted near the end of the staircase, because there he spotted Huor, his young Squire, sitting on the bottom step. The boy rose up quickly once he saw his Lord.

“Captain-General!” the boy saluted, but Boromir waved him off. He had given in to the boy’s pleadings and allowed him to tag along for this campaign, not predicting that the situation could grow so dire. Now he cursed his lack of proper caution.

“Huor, you are relieved from duty, effective immediately!” he bellowed.

The boy gasped.

“But, my Lord! How…” Huor cried with the expression of utter betrayal. 

“No buts, lad! This City is about to become a bloodbath, and you don't belong anywherenear it. Cross the Bridge, leave Osgiliath with the wounded and await me in Causeway Forts,” Boromir gave his orders in passing and did not even stop to see if the boy listened. “Sound the alarm!” he shouted at the nearby Sergeant. Boromir was already entering his battle frenzy, and the soldiers around him scrambled to carry out his orders. “And fetch me Captain Aglahad. Where is the Baron with our cavalry?”

“Here am I, Lord” answered Baron Hallas. The Baron and his Knights havd been stationed on the Eastern Bank in an event an operation on the field outside was needed. An event such as this.

“I need you to ride out with your Knights and secure a safe passage for the returning Rangers, Ser Hallas. They have an entire army of the Southrons on their backs,” Boromir said, and the Baron’s eyes widened in shock. “The Rangers are mounted and should arrive here soon, but they will have a hard time passing through the surrounding fields with the orc commandos pressing in on us,” Boromir said. “Bring them to safety, and then lead them through the Bridge.”

“Aye, Lord,” said Baron Hallas, and signalled to his Knights.

"Come, Derufin!" said Boromir, as he trotted towards the battlements, where the sounds of skirmish were coming from. "Let us find Captain Angbor and plan our defence."

Ser Angbor of Lamedon was Boromir’s senior by some ten years. During Boromir’s youth Angbor was considered the finest warrior of the Realm. Boromir had always looked up to the Lamedonian for his legendary fearlessness and battle prowess. Now Boromir was the commanding officer, and a seasoned warrior in his own right, but he still considered it an honour to fight alongside Ser Angbor. The Lamedonian was in command of the 2nd Company of Heavy Infantry.

They found Ser Angbor on the battlements atop Osgiliath’s Eastern Gate, already looking battle-worn, his armour soiled with black orcish ichor. The Gate was barricaded and manned with heavy-plated soldiers, to whom Angbor was bellowing commands. A division of Derufin’s bowmen assisted with the defence. The main problem with Osgiliath fortifications was that they were crumbling, and the outer wall had gaps in it. Gaps that required barricading, and now had to be defended, as the orcish commandos were constantly trying to get in through them.

“Captain-General!” Angbor saluted when he saw Boromir and Derufin ascend the battlements. “Are you seeing this? A whole army of blasted Southrons! Out of thin air no less!”

The men all looked to the East. The swaths of land below Ephel Duath were blackened with columns of marching Haradrim, and the fields surrounding Osgiliath were swarming with orc bands. Boromir’s heart rejoiced as he saw the Company of Rangers on horseback, approaching rapidly. He could see Faramir leading them, hacking at the monsters with broad slashes of his sword. Boromir’s stomach did a flip when he saw his brother deflect an arrow with his buckler. Valar preserve Faramir , he prayed. Near the battlements, the knight cavalry under Baron Hallas’ command was doing an admirable job at clearing a passage for the Rangers. Hopefully both companies would soon return to the safety of one of the sally gates.

Easy it is for our mounted knights to cleave the orc commando, for the monsters are savage, poorly equipped and undrilled, Boromir thought bitterly. The Enemy has only sent them to annoy us and wear down our defences. They are but a starter, and the main course is about to be served. Once again he looked worriedly at the marching army of Harad, which was making slow but steady progress across the plains. He could make out their banners, which appeared but blots of red over the troops from the distance.

“We need to plan an evacuation,” said Derufin.

“Aye, and then what?” Ser Angbor asked and spat over the parapet angrily. An arrow missed his head by an inch, but the warrior did not even flinch. “We retreat to the Causeway Forts, they take Osgiliath, they dismantle the barricades on the fords and then their entire army can cross Anduin freely.”

“Well, what choice do we have?!” Derufin cried. “They’re too many! They will paint this pile of stones red with our blood if we stay here!”

“What choice indeed?” said Angbor and looked to Boromir. 

They were in fact both looking at Boromir, expecting an answer from him. An answer he did not have. The situation seemed impossible, but he knew he could not show weakness at that moment. If he wavered now, he would seal their doom surer than any Haradrim army ever could.

“I say the Enemy is not yet upon us,” he said, forcing his face into stillness, and his voice into calm assuredness. ”We yet have some time left. We wait for Faramir and Hallas, and then we confer about…”

“We confer about what?” Faramir’s voice came from behind and the three men turned to face him. “What will talking accomplish, when we are about to be slaughtered?!” Faramir ascended the battlement, accompanied by Captain Aglahad and Sergeant Hirgon. “I beg of you, Captain-General, prolong this madness no further. Let us retreat to Causeway Forts, like we’ve discussed, and save what life we yet can.” Boromir could see his brother’s face was determined, his leathers splashed with ichor, hair tangled by the wind from his wild ride with the Rangers. He had rarely seen Faramir in such a frenzy.

“This will not solve our problems!” Angbor countered. “If we retreat now, we’ll have to face the same army the day after tomorrow, only in the Causeway Forts, and our position will not be better, then! Need I remind you that the Rammas is still incomplete? There are farmers toiling on the Pelennor Fields! Crops growing! If we want to save lives, we’ll have to fight today, or never.”

“Oh, yes, better to have all our forces anni…” Faramir started, but Boromir cut him off mid sentence.

“Enough. We will not squabble,” he said, with all his Captain-General’s authority he could muster. “Ser Angbor, you will continue to defend the Gate, for now. Captain Aglahad, what is the situation on the Western Bank?”

Aglahad, who was pale and sweating, and catching his breath, no doubt after running the entire length of Osgiliath to answer Boromir’s summons, swallowed visibly but managed to gather his wits.

“The 1st Company of heavy plates and the 3rd’s lancers await your orders in the Garrison, Sir!” he reported. “And I still have two companies of skirmishers that have yet to see battle today. They are manning the traps, like you’ve ordered, with Captain Derufin’s archers.”

“I’m afraid the traps won’t be of much help, when the Haradrim get here,” said Boromir. “Once they start passing the Bridge there will be too many to take down.” He looked at his most trusted lieutenants, and words failed him. He did not know what to do. Do not show weakness, he told himself. You have to be strong for their sake. They deserve to die knowing that their leader held faith, and take some last solace from that at least. “I need a moment alone to think on what to do next,” he proclaimed. “Until I’m back, proceed as planned before.”

With that, Boromir turned around and descended from the battlement. All around him, across the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate, men at arms were running errands and passing weapons necessary to keep the barricades manned and supplied, and fend off the pathetic orcish assault at the walls. Boromir crossed the Courtyard and entered a small supply station fashioned in a nearby ruined building, feeling tiredness almost overwhelm him, hoping that a glass of water would clear his head. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimmnes of the storeroom, a movement in one of the corners caught his eye.

“Huor!” he thundered. “How am I to defend this City, if even my own Squire ignores my explicit commands?”

Huor came out of the shadow and straightened. The boy was trembling, but his fists were tightened and his mouth set in a determined line.

“I would not leave you, Lord,” he said simply. Boromir opened his mouth to argue, but then he heard another person enter the supply storage.

“Do not be hard on him, brother,” said Faramir. “You would have done the same in his position. He won’t leave you alone, and neither will I.”

Boromir sat down on one of the wooden benches and sighed deeply. Huor handed him a glass of water, which he downed hastily. Faramir was right. His soldiers, his lieutenants, his brother and even his young Squire, still a child on all accounts, they would not abandon him, even in the face of death. And what am I doing? Cowering in a storeroom, wasting our precious time with my indecision. Some general am I, he chided himself bitterly.

Faramir must have gleaned some of Boromir’s thoughts in that moment, for he sat on the bench beside him, and put his hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

Boromir looked to his brother.

“You’ve nearly ran into the Harad army with your Rangers, during your retreat,” he said. “We’ve watched your progress from the Eastern Watchtower, they were right behind you. Have you managed to get a closer look? Can you tell me aught about them?” he inquired, hoping that Faramir could give him something, some piece of information, anything, that could yet save this day.

“Aye,” said Faramir. “This is why I am so eager to flee, though you might call it cowardice, and you would be right. There is something evil about that army, Boromir. I am telling you! I’ve fought many Southrons over the past years, but none like those. The sheer terror they inspired when we looked upon them over our shoulders… Then there is the mystery of their sudden arrival…” Faramir shuddered. “We cannot face them.”

“We must,” said Boromir tersely, “today, or tomorrow, it hardly seems to matter.”

Faramir sighed, and hesitated, before speaking again.

“I had a dream last night, before I set off to the Ranger’s Camp,” he stated, and Boromir swallowed a groan that almost escaped him. Here we go again with the dreams, he thought. But Faramir spoke further. “It was full of pathos, and ominous, but it also carried hope. Hope for our Kingdom. I’ll tell you all about it later, but for now just…” Faramir halted his speech then, overcome with emotion.

“Hush, brother,” Boromir said and grasped Faramir’s hand. “Leave the nightly terrors for when we’re both safe and sound in the Citadel. For now let us both stay wide awake and not in the dreaming.”

Faramir shook his head.

“Let me finish, brother. Listen just this once,” he persisted. “I am sorry for putting pressure on you earlier. I do not pretend to know what we should do now, and I do not envy you the burden of command. But know this: whatever you decide, we will all stand by you. The entire army. You have always been there for me. Whatever trouble was upon me, you were always there to chase it away. And this time you will, too.”

Boromir felt the sting of tears in his eyes, to his shame and panic.

“I am not sure I can do it, brother,” he whispered, not even caring that young Huor might hear him. The Squire had been with him through thick and thin, he probably knew Boromir better than anyone at that point.

“You can,” Faramir said with conviction, his gentle touch upon Boromir’s shoulder steadying Boromir’s jumbled nerves. “And you will. You are Boromir of Gondor, and that is what you do. You save everyone.”

Boromir felt all the chaos and clamour in his head go quiet then, and instead his mind was illuminated with clarity.

“Of course! That’s it! You’re a genius, brother!” he exclaimed, feeling renewed vigour surge through his veins. “I am Boromir of Gondor. Indeed! I’m Boromir. Boromir! I have to act like Boromir! I have to do what Boromir did!”

Faramir blinked and regarded Boromir with his mouth agape, but then understanding dawned on his face.

“You mean to destroy the Bridge! Like the Steward Boromir of old!” he gasped.

It was a somewhat obscure piece of Gondorian lore, the tale of Steward Boromir I, who had defended Osgiliath against the Witch King of Angmar in the year 2475, and gotten wounded by a Morgul Blade. Although Boromir I had ultimately prevailed, he had made the hard decision to let the ancient stone Bridge fall, and with it, the splendid Dome of Stars. In fact, the entire Osgiliath had been ruined in the aftermath of that war, but at least MInas Tirith had been saved, and the Shadow had retreated to lie dormant for the next centuries. Boromir and Faramir had first heard this tale together, during one of their many history lessons in the Archives, supervised by their tutors and by the Steward himself.

“Think about it! ‘Tis our only chance!” Boromir explained frantically. “If they cannot pass through the Bridge, they cannot dismantle the barricades on the fords. We could retreat to the Western Bank and easily drive them away with archers. And then defend the fords for yet many months to come!”

Faramir looked only partially convinced.

“But the Bridge is made of solid timber,” he reasoned. We cannot dismantle it on time! And to burn it would take days.”

Boromir stood and started pacing the storage room, thinking and planning out loud, only half listening to his brother.

“The Bridge is supported by wooden beams,” he said. “If our pioneers start working on them now, they can be destroyed till noon, and then the Bridge will collapse into the Great River.”

“We do not have till noon, Boromir,” Faramir shook his head.

“Our soldiers must hold off the Haradrim,” Boromir said. There was no stopping him now. “I will lead them, and buy the men enough time.”

“It will be a bloodbath!” Faramir cautioned.

“Aye,” Boromir agreed. “We will pay with blood, but the day will be ours in the end,” he said, as he stepped out of the storage building. “Huor, to me! Everyone to me!” he bellowed at his lieutenants, who were still on the battlements, commanding the defence. They hastened to meet him upon hearing his call, but Boromir was already dictating orders to his Squire. “Now lad, you wanted to be of help, and you’ll get your wish. I’ve an important task for you! You will cross to the west side and find Master Zbylut. Tell him to wait for me on the riverbank near the Bridge, with two scores of his strongest pioneers, with axes, saws and hammers. The bigger the better!”

“Aye, Sir!” Huor smiled and saluted, infected with Boromir’s enthusiasm.

“Now, Huor, make no mistake! Once this duty is done, you are to go to Causeway Forts with our supply wagons. No tarrying this time! Is that clear?” Boromir emphasised. He would not have Huor’s death on his conscience. He could not look Hurin in the eyes if he did, as Huor was the Warden of the Keys’s only heir.

“Aye, Sir! I’ll go now, Sir!” he replied, and ran off with such energy that only the youth could muster, raising dust behind him.

“What is this commotion,” Angbor demanded, as he, Derufin, Aglahad and Hirgon trotted to where Boromir and Faramir were standing on the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate.

“Good tidings!” Boromir proclaimed. “The day may yet be saved. We are going to collapse the Bridge!” Here Boromir made a pause, to allow for the gasps and muffled curses of his surprised companions. “Yes, yes, shocking. But I’ve thought about it, and it’s the only way. How much time do we have?”

“They are not yet here, but approaching, Sir!” Hirgon reported. “I estimate the Haradrim will be upon us in about half an hour!”

“Good!” said Boromir, with more apparent bravado than he himself was feeling. But he had to buoy the men up for this plan to work. “Angbor! You have done an admirable job with our defence thus far. Think you the men can keep it up?”

“Aye! The 2nd Company will stand! I trained no cowards!” Angbor proclaimed proudly.

“Excellent!” Said Boromir. “You will receive reinforcements from the 1st Company. You will try to hold them outside for as long as you can. Groups of them are bound to get through, but pay them no heed and remain on the battlements with your men.”

“Aye, Captain-General!” Angbor saluted.

“Now for the light infantry,” Boromir continued. “Aglahad, station the pikemen just inside the gates and the breaches in the outer wall. Let them be the first to greet our friends from Mordor,” Boromir smirked viciously and Aglahad nodded. “I’ve heard that a spear to the throat means well met in Black Speech. Hirgon, lead your skirmishers to the Eastern Bank, and hide them in groups amongst the ruins. When enemy squadrons breach the outer wall, I want them engaged in fighting on the streets, away from the Bridge for as long as possible. Build a barricade on the Main Street if you have to.”

“Aye, Sir!” The old warrior Hirgon rubbed his hands with glee. “We will lure them into the narrow passages. They won’t know what hit them.” Hirgon was the best suited for this job, since the men knew and trusted him. He could navigate the labyrinth that was the crumbling City of Osgiliath.

“That’s the spirit!” Boromir commended. “Derufin,” he addressed his friend in turn, “single out your best marksmen. I want them on the Western Bridgetowers, covering the evacuation. Before the Bridge collapses, we will be retreating steadily, and we’ll get out as many as we can to the Western Bank. Know that defending the Bridge will be tricky; your archers will have to sift friend from foe and aim true.” Boromir looked straight in Derufin’s eyes to make sure the Captain understood the situation. Holding the Bridge would be crucial.

“Aye, Sir! From the Western Bank’s watchtowers my marksmen will have their pickings of anyone who attempts crossing,” Derufin assured him.

“Yes, that is our plan exactly!” said Boromir, glad they had an understanding. “The rest of your shortbows you will station on the roofs on the Eastern side, to aid the infantry. And the longbowmen will man the wall and fire at the enemy troops outside.”

When all of his lieutenants mumbled their assent, the men stood in silence for a few short moments, pondering the magnitude of what they were about to attempt. So many things could go wrong in this plan. But thinking about what could go wrong would accomplish nothing at this point. They had to do it or die trying.

Boromir addressed his brother again, then.

“Faramir, I want your Rangers guarding the Bridge and the working pioneers. When the Bridge collapses, friend and foe alike might fall into the River. Some may be injured during the fall. I want your men to finish off the enemy warriors, and fish out any survivors on our side. The Rangers are best suited to such tasks.”

“Indeed,” said Faramir. “My man Damrod will see it done.”

“What? You will not lead them?” Boromir was surprised. His brother was well known across Gondor for the close bond of comaraderie he shared with the Rangers under his command. And, Boromir was hoping that by assigning his brother a task on the Western Bank he could keep him out of harm’s way.

“And leave you to fend for yourself, and likely get yourself killed by risking your neck stupidly?” Faramir asked. “I think not.”

“Aye,” said Derufin. “I’m coming with you, too. When you feel an arrow graze your ear and strike through your enemy’s pupil, it will be me having your back.”

“Very well, then,” Boromir agreed with a sigh. “But first we must go to the Eastern Side and give orders to the troops, while Angbor holds the gate.”

With that, Boromir and his officers were off, leaving the Lamedonian in charge of the heavy infantry on the barricades. As they jogged along the Main Street to reach the Bridge, Boromir once again addressed Faramir.

“Brother, and where is Baron Hallas?” he asked.

Faramir raised his brows.

“You ordered him to lead his men and my Rangers to safety, and so that is what he did,” Faramir reported. “When we returned to the City, I left my horse with them and went to meet you, but Hallas rode off through the Bridge. They are like to be with the horses at the stables, now.”

Boromir thought about his plans. The heavy cavalry would have to ditch the horses and the lances, and go back to the Western Side again with swords and shields. We’ll need every man on the defence line to give the pioneers more time with the Bridge, the thought. He decided then, that he would lead the Knights personally. It would be symbolic. The noble houses of Minas Tirith mounting one last defence of Osgiliath.

Once they crossed the Bridge, Boromir wasted no time to clue Master Zbylut and his pioneers in on the plan. The old master craftsman, who was in charge of the Gondorian division of pioneers: smiths, masons, and woodworkers, was already waiting on the riverbank, notified earlier by Huor.

“Where are your men?!” Boromir exclaimed. He’d specifically ordered Zbylut to bring a brigade of strong craftsmen and sufficient equipment.

“With permission, Lord General,” siad Zbylut, ever grumbly, “your Squire notified us of your plans. My men are already under the Bridge, setting up scaffoldings. The water around here is too deep to work without any levelling.”

“Good! Good that you’ve not delayed the work,” Bromir said, relieved. He trotted a few paces and crouched to see under the bridge better. The workers were setting pre-made wooden frames and ladders around the Bridge’s supporting beams. “Zbylut, I am about to demand the near impossible from your craftsmen,” he said, as he looked again at the old Master. Zbylut was currently the oldest member of Gondor’s army, completely bald with white beard that he kept short. “I want you to weaken the beams so that they barely hold, and then, on my signal, I want the whole bridge to fall in one swoop. Think you that could be arranged?” Boromir asked, worriedly. When Zbylut said nothing for a longer while, Boromir grew anxious. “I know it’s a lot, but I want to make sure we rescue as many men as we can, and only once Enemy troops start crossing the Bridge do we want it to collapse.”

Zbylut waved his hand impatiently.

“Aye, Aye, Lord General, I hear you!” he grumbled. “I’m thinking. I cannot guarantee it, but we could attempt it. But we’ll need horses. We could weaken the beams in a few places, and then girdle them with ropes attached to the horses. Then once you give the signal, the horses will start and tug at the beams, break and topple them. It’s risky and there is no assurance the Bridge will fall when you mean it too. I only hope it won’t break prematurely and bury my workers.” 

“Do not think I don’t appreciate what you’re doing here, Zbylut,” said Boromir. “If we get out of here alive, you’ll be hailed as heroes of this battle.”

Zbylut laughed.

“That would be a first, Lord! My men are used to working backstage,” he chuckled. “But they will appreciate a few casks of ale once the job is done.”

“Aye, you’ll get that. And the horses,” said Boromir. “I’ll go to get them now.”

“Wait, General, Sir!” Zbylut halted Boromir, who was about to leave in search of the Knights. “What will be the signal to collapse the Bridge?” he asked. Boromir thought. He planned to be fighting on the front line. The warriors on the eastern side could very well get overwhelmed. If the Enemy passed their defences and got to the Bridge, they would have to collapse it no matter who was left on the Eastern Bank. The marauders and the last line defenders would have to be sacrificed. And he needed some means to give the order no matter where he was on the battlefield at any given moment…

“The Horn,” he said to Zbylut simply. “Listen for the Horn of Gondor.”

With that, Boromir left the pioneers to their fate and directed his steps towards the Western Gate and its nearby stables. It was unfortunate that, due to his original strategy of making the entire City their battleground, he had to cross the entire length of old Osgiliath to gather all of his dispersed men, but it could not be helped. He needed his knights. All around him, the men were abandoning their earlier post and gathering under the command of Aglahad and Hirgon.

Fate had it that he did not have to go all the way to the Western gate to fetch the Knights. No sooner than he’d made it to hundred yards along Main Street, did they emerge from behind a turn, armed with broadswords and shields. Their march in full plate generated much clamour, and Boromir smiled at their sight. They were exactly what he needed. An elite team of a dozen or so noble Men of Gondor, armed to their teeth. Baron Hallas led them, brandishing a drawn longsword that was almost taller than he.

“Captain-General! Hail!” Hallas greeted. “We have delivered the Rangers and our horses to safety, as you commanded.”

“Aye! That was a well done sally, if I ever saw one, Hallas!” Boromir agreed.

“And now we are marching on to our death,” said Hallas cheerfully. “We’ve seen the Southrons. It’ll be an honour to die under your command, Lord Boromir. We’ll take as many foes with us as the Valar permit!”

“Do not be so eager to die, Hallas,” said Boromir, wincing inwardly. An hour ago he’d had a similar talk with Derufin, only then he'd been the one ready to meet his end. “We may yet get away with our necks intact. I mean to evacuate the Western Bank and destroy the Bridge before the Southrons can cross.”

Hallas uttered a colourful curse.

“You’re a clever one, General,” he chuckled. “Bordering on insane, but clever.” Boromir grimaced. Hallas was known for his sharp tongue, even towards his superiors. He let the remark slide and instead addressed the Knights. They were mostly sons of Gondorian nobility, some heirs, some spares, and some landless, who dedicated their time and skill to the service of the Steward. They were Boromir’s, he knew all of them by name, and could now recognize them by the colours and banners on their surcoats and cloaks. He knew their parents, their wives and their children. But it would have taken take too long to address each of them personally, so he spoke out loudly to the entire company.

“Hark ye! We are the noble Men of Gondor!” Boromir bellowed for everyone to hear. “We have led our men here to fight for our Homeland, and ours is the duty now to protect them! We will not abandon our soldiers to the Enemy! We are true Knights! We march East and we do not rest until the last of our men is delivered to safety! Who is with me?”

Loud cheers and voices of assent answered him, not only from the Knights but also from other men at arms gathering around on the Main Street. Boromir reached out and signalled two young men from the 3rd Company. He did not know them by names, but they certainly knew him, because they saluted instantly.

“Men, I entrust you with a special task. Go back to the stables and lead all the horses to the Bridge, to Master Zbylut. Do not stop until all of the horses are at the riverbank. You mustn't fail me” he ordered, before turning once again to the Knights. “Right! Now, we FIGHT! GONDOR!” he called, as he unsheathed his broadsword and started running towards the Bridge. 

The Knights at his back did the same, and soon their whole team was crossing the Bridge, chanting Gondor! Gondor! From the corner of his eye, Boromir saw Zbylut saluting, and he knew that the team of pioneers was already working on the beams under the Bridge. Hurry up, lads! he thought. Everything depends upon you. We’re just off to buy you some precious time!

As they crossed the Bridge and entered the Eastern Bank, Boromir could see that the first mixed bands of both Haradrim and orcs had already breached the City’s outer defences. Hirgon’s men were fighting on the streets, and arrows were flying in all directions. 

Boromir uttered a war cry and dived into the nearest narrow ruined street, joining the skirmish. Other Knights followed in his steps, reinforcing Hirgon’s small fighting teams. A knight in full plate on the field of battle was no small thing. The armour was heavy, expensive and constricted movement, but it also meant the warrior inside it could take heavy punishment during the assault. And Boromir knew how to take a beating. He would engage the orcs, shielding himself and the nearby men-at-arms from their blows, while the pikemen would skewer the foes from the flank. Occasionally Boromir would execute a flashy move with his broadsword, usually felling a foe or two and earning a cheer from the soldiers.

Slowly the company of Knights fought their way further and further East, though the number of enemies did not seem to lessen. More and more Haradrim were coming through. Boromir wasn’t particularly experienced with the Southrons, that would be Faramir’s province. Their fighting style was distinct from western sword art. They relied neither on strength, nor quickness of movement, but rather on precisely learned and exercised technique. They seemed to be able to parry each of his blows with little effort and without any hurry. Moreover, they came equipped with long, viciously sharp stilettos, that they would use mercilessly on armoured knights, whenever occasion arose. Boromir witnessed two of Hallas’ knights, Ciryon, and later young Hador of Halifirien, fall in the battle from well measured thrusts of such daggers - the Haradrim struck between the plates of the armour or aimed for the neck. Gondor’s finest slashed open like cattle, he thought with terror.

Only after Boromir caught the gist of Haradrim battle choreography did the fighting become any easier. Unfortunately, with time more and more of them would come through, and keeping them away from the Bridge was becoming harder and harder. Boromir and the Knights managed to fight through the entire Eastern Side, and now were approaching the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate, where the skirmish was particularly frantic.

Soon Boromir found himself having to engage with several foes at once. A quick look around confirmed that the other knights were getting similarly overwhelmed. Moreover, Boromir was starting to feel something of that feeling of hopelessness and bone-chilling anxiety, which Faramir had mentioned earlier. Is this some enemy’s magic? Or am I getting mad? He looked around. Other men under his command seemed to be faring no better, judging by their pale, sunken faces, and increasingly sluggish movements. Mayhaps we are all of us simply tired, he tried to reason with himself, but the sense of foreboding remained with him, sapping his strength. It felt like hours since he had joined the fighting.

Boromir was parrying well-measured slashes of steel delivered by two Southern fighters, and had the morose thoughts additionally occupying his attention, so when another enemy came for his head from his right flank, he noticed it too late. He saw the blade being raised, saw the Harad Man prepare the strike, but knew immediately he wouldn't be able to parry it on time. He prepared to take the blow, hoping it wouldn’t be fatal... but then the enemy jerked and fell, an arrow with green fletching sticking from his neck. The other two Haradrim uttered cries of shock seeing their comrade collapse, and another arrow went through the open mouth of one of them, killing him instantly. Boromir had the presence of mind to use the moment of confusion and slash open the third Southerner with his sword.

Having a momentary respite from oncoming attacks, he looked around to spy Derufin, and sure enough, his friend jumped off the nearby half-collapsed building.

“That was a close call! My reflexes are dulling,” he called out to the archer, raising his shield to catch an orcish arrow aimed at his heart. “Many thanks for saving my neck.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Derufin called back. “You’re not going to like this!” He then made a brief pause to fire another arrow at one of the orcs who were pestering Baron Hallas a few paces to the left. “The Haradrim are assaulting the Eastern Gate. They have some sort of a ramming device. We need to commence the retreat!”

“We don’t know if Zbytlut’s Men are ready!” This was a tough choice. If he tarried with the evacuation, the men would be slaughtered. It was only a matter of time, because they didn’t have enough force to face the army, sooner or later they’d be overwhelmed. On the other hand, if he signalled retreat too early, then Mordor’s fighters would follow them uninterrupted. If enough passed the Bridge, they could bring the fighting to the other side and threaten the entire plan.

“We need to at least pull back Angbor’s men off the battlements! The outer wall is lost as is!” Derufin cried. To that Boromir had to agree. There was no sense in manning the wall if the Gate was about to be rammed open.

They both looked to the battlement above the Gate, where Angbor was running frantically and bellowing commands. With a start, Boromir noticed that the Lamedonian was wounded - a short arrow was sticking from his arm, although he seemed to be paying it no mind. Boromir knew this kind of battle frenzy well. It made one numb to all injuries, which could lead to fatal mistakes.

“I’ll get his attention,” said Derufin and fired before Boromir could react. An arrow with green fletching embedded itself in a wooden beam that was supporting the parapet, mere inches from Angbor’s shoulder. The warrior looked to the direction the arrow was fired from, and spotted Boromir and Derufin. Boromir gave the signal then, and the first phase of their retreat began.

When the heavy infantry and longbowmen came down from the walls and joined the commotion on the courtyard, Boromir called out to Angbor and the nearest fighters.

“The Knights will hold the line! The rest of you get behind and start retreating! Steady! In order! But keep up the fighting!” He knew other officers would pass the command. He had to focus on holding the line, to give others a chance at retreat.

“Keep that shield up like we practised,” Derufin’s voice came from behind Boromir’s back. Next thing Boromir heard was a whistle of an arrow next to his ear. They would sometimes fight like this, in a well coordinated duo; Boromir would be shielding the two of them and hacking at any foes closing in, and Derufin would be firing from behind Boromir’s back, keeping the enemies at bay. One of these days he’ll put an arrow through my skull, Boromir thought with amusement. He hoped it wouldn’t be this day, because he still had work to do.

The Knights listened to Boromir’s command and aligned in a formation, serving as a barrier between the foes that were coming through the walls. As was, the way still wasn’t completely open to the Enemy, even when Angbor’s men retreated, because they still had to scale the walls and the barricades with their ladders. But that would soon change, when the Gate would be breached.

As if on command a horrible thunder shook the ground and the Gate trembled. It was made of reinforced timber, and barricaded from the inside with debris. Boromir wondered how long it would take to ram it open. Not long, judging from the loud cheering of orcs and Haradrim alike. They were waiting for the Gate to give way, and it would happen soon.

“We’re backing away from the Gate!”  Boromir bellowed to the rest of the Knights. “Keep up the fight!”

Slowly, facing the East, they made their retreat towards the Bridge. Boromir had no time to turn back and check how the evacuation was going, but he hoped Angbor had it under control.

Another thunderous ram ripped the air. Boromir’s ears ached as he saw the debris barricading the Gate from the inside move a little under the impact. New vigour seemed to surge into the Haradrim. Buoyed by the battering ram’s sounds they attacked the line of Knights with double force, thrusting viciously with their stilettos. Boromir saw three more Knights fall. Farewell brothers ! Arthael of Minas Tirith , Milancar the Younger, and Hirgon the Red Face, Boromir spared a moment to remember their names, momentarily overcome with grief and terror. And he would have joined them very nearly; a Southern stiletto was about to collide with his neck, but another short blade that deflected its course.

“Hello, brother” Faramir panted. “Hogging all the glory to yourself once again?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Boromir replied, as he regained his bearings and started parrying the Southron’s frantic blows with his shield.

Faramir lunged from behind Boromir’s back and slashed the Southron’s stomach open with hisblade. This was Faramir’s preferred style during combat, one he’s learned among the Rangers: he wielded dual short swords, moved quietly and defended himself with evasion. The Southrons, who preferred light armour to heavy plate, were easy targets for his blades.

“I bring good tidings,” Faramir grunted in between his strikes. “Work under the Bridge is done.”

Boromir smiled viciously. The fight was almost over.

“This is our last stand, then, brother,” he said to Faramir, and then he shouted commands to his men. “Companies! Abandon fight and run! Save yourselves!” He heard Angbor echo his command behind his back. “Knights! Tighten the line! We hold them off as long as we can! Retreat steadily!”

Boromir felt his muscles burn with exertion, as he pushed himself to his limits. From the corner of his eye he saw another of the Knights, Ser Rennor, fall from a dagger to his neck. There remained a couple dozens of yards between them and the Bridge. Their men were running to the other side. The Knights were holding off the Haradrim horde, retreating slowly, but also dying under Southern blades one by one. To his left, Paranion of Lamedon, Angbor’s compatriot, fell from an arrow through his eye, and a group of Southrons ran over his body, giving chase to the retreating troops. Whatever foe breached their line, Boromir hoped would be stopped by Derufin’s archers patrolling the Bridge. To his right, he saw Ser Angbor join their last stand.

“The men are safe! It’s time we passed the Bridge ourselves!” Angbor shouted. They were almost upon the Bridge, but they had to keep up the fight, for fear the Enemy would pursue and strike at their backs if they turned away and ran.

“Hallas! No!” Faramir cried, and Boromir saw the Baron topple to the ground. Only three other Knights, beside Boromir, Faramir, Derufin and Angbor remained standing and holding the front line. They were slashing their swords and ramming their shields like madmen, to keep the Haradrim front at bay. Backing away slowly they reached the Bridge at last. Boromir saw another Knight, Ser Seidon fall, in the same moment as he felt an arrow pierce his thigh. He cursed, but kept his balance. The wound hurt like the fires of Angband.

Now would come the tricky part. They had to retreat through the Bridge, while fighting, and only signal Zbylut once they reached the other side, hoping that the horde of the Enemy would fall with the Bridge.

KABOOOOOOOOOM!

Boromir looked up and saw his fears confirmed in the distance: the Eastern Gate’s wings were rammed wide open. But then something unexpected happened. The Southrons ceased their assault and their horde parted to the sides, leaving a clear passage. Boromir and his comrades were left alone, in the middle of the Bridge.

Suddenly, seemingly out of thin air and shadow, a blood-chilling vision materialised before him.

Nine black horses with frothing mouths and eyes of red madness. And upon them Nine Riders in black hooded capes, their bodies seemingly made of foul shadows. The Riders were charging at them from the Gate with insane speed.

Boromir knew he had to move, but he found himself paralyzed with fear. The sheer hopelessness and terror that the Riders awakened in his heart… He’s never felt like that in his life. In that moment he fully comprehended the enemy’s might. Mordor had the power to smother all hope, and that, to Boromir, seemed worse than all the Haradrim armies in the world. There was no chance for Gondor, no matter the outcome of this battle, his country was lost. The Enemy would prevail.

Then he heard his brother’s fearful sob, and that sound sobered him a little. It was ever his most important task to keep his brother out of harm’s way, and this time was no different. Even if everything else was lost, Faramir was still breathing. The Riders would reach the Bridge in a few moments, and he had to use those moments well, for Faramir’s sake. He dropped his sword and shield, inhaled frantically, and blew the Horn of Gondor with all the might left in his lungs. Whips snapped loudly, Zbylut’s horses moved at once and Boromir felt the entire Bridge shift and shake, in the very same moment that the Riders reached it at last. Boromir did the only thing he could think of: he pushed Derufin over the Bridge’s railing, grabbed Faramir’s arm and jumped.

His stomach made a salto as he fell a dozen feet and hit the water. He felt more than saw the Bridge collapse into the River, and the resulting wave of water slammed into his body and submerged him. He didn’t know if the Black Riders made it through or not. He lost his grip on Faramir, too. Valar, let my little brother be safe, he prayed, as he fought to reach the water’s surface.

Then he felt something heavy hit his head and the world went black.

To be (likely) continued...

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

[heckofabecca]

More outfits for Lothíriel from Far From The Swan-road! Some related headcanons:

The Gondorian high fashion silhouette is fairly consistent across the country.

Lothíriel spends most of her time in Dol Amroth. Her middle brother Erchirion fostered in Pelargir, so she's been there a handful of times, and her family has a home in Minas Tirith's Sixth Circle.

Dol Amroth likes solid colors. Of course, her family wears the best fabrics. Lothíriel tends to wear pearls in her hair—they're in the drawing, but not very visible without color.

Pelargir loves STRIPES—Gondorian naval uniforms have stripes, and Pelargir is all about them SHIPS. Women in Pelargir wear more obvious makeup than in other parts of Gondor. It's also ungodly hot/humid in Pelargir, so outer layers are more likely to be semi-sheer.

In Minas Tirith, Lothíriel's family sticks to Dol Amroth colors: silver, blue, gray... Her nicest (most ostentatious) gown has the Dol Amroth swan embroidered on the bodice. Fabrics tend to be more patterned in Minas Tirith.

Lothíriel herself is reasonably pretty, but not beautiful. She is easily identifiable as her father's daughter, but she does also resemble her deceased mother—a fact she sometimes regrets and sometimes appreciates.

[brethilach]

headcanon: Gimli's mother is either a Firebeard or Broadbeam and not originally one of the Dwarves of Erebor

To those unfamiliar with the Silmarillion or the larger Legendarium in general, the Firebeards and Broadbeams were the Dwarves who originally lived in Ered Luin (before the Longbeards migrated there after the Sack of Erebor). Most of them migrated to Khazad-dûm in the beginning of the Second Age when most of Ered Luin was destroyed during the War of Wrath, however, Unfinished Tales states that some of them always remained on the east side of the Blue Mountains after.

All of the Dwarves amongst Durin's Folk have "outer" names in the language of the Northmen - Glóin, all of the other names in Thorin's Company, and even the name "Durin" itself all represent "Dalish" names, not Dwarvish. If the Longbeards take outer names from the Men in closest proximity to them (i.e. the Men of Dale), I think it's reasonable to assume that the other Clans of Dwarves would do the same.

It happens that Gimli, out of nearly all the other Dwarves ever mentioned in the Legendarium, has a name that is notably not Dalish. It's an Adûnaic word for "star" (Adûnaic being the Language of the Númenóreans, the predecessors of Gondor). And what Dwarves were in closest proximity to the Dúnedain? The Firebeards and Broadbeams (it's also stated that Adûnaic has some Dwarvish influence due to frequent trade between the Men of Númenór with Dwarves, which even further supports this).

this is honestly more about Dwarven naming conventions than it is about Gimli but the thought began with him and his mother (Tolkien really cheated Dwarf women in the Legendarium, didn't he?). I know I can't be the only person who has come up with this idea so if you'd like to expand on this please do !!

[pilesofpillows]

Stars Aglow Ch. 3 || Okoye x Attuma

A Sea of Stars ~ Part 3 of 3

Ch. 1 • Ch. 2

Summary: Babies.

Warnings: Semi-Graphic Depictions of Childbirth, An Excessive Amount of Fluff, Seriously... I Hope Y'all Got Good Dental Insurance, And Tissues

Tags: @mamajankyy @theeblackmedusa @theemfingmenace @xenokattz @tvreadsandsleep @ariyannah @iccedays @xblackreader @blissdoutbyattuma @karimk2 @umber-cinders @mickimomo @dontruinmymorning @princess-of-gondor

A/N 1: Pinky swears are very serious things that I take very seriously. This chapter is a behemoth of nearly 5k words... ridiculous.

A/N 2: Massive, huge, ridiculous, enormous thank you to @xenokattz for all your help!! Love you forever 💕💕💕

The Amnio was brilliant. 

When she’d first told them about it, Shuri had made it out to be a simple birthing chamber, but it was far more than that. She had converted an entire floor on the lower level of the Citadel’s residential tower into a birthing suite of dreams, complete with an operating room, a miniature neonatal ICU, and a near-exact replica of Okoye’s upstairs apartment with an added nursery for their post-delivery stay.

The main space was wide and cavernous, with a wall of windows that allowed the sun to illuminate the room and provided an incomparable view of the night sky. At its center was a circular in-ground pool with a series of wide ledges that helped accommodate varying depths within the water. Four holographic displays lined half of the pool, one for each baby and the last for her, their vitals being monitored by the patches affixed to her stomach. 

Okoye kneeled on the second step below the outer ledge of the pool, her forearms folded across her mother’s knees as she breathed heavily, panting through the latest contraction. She’d been in the water for hours now, the night dragging on as her body prepared to deliver her children into the world. Her head was bowed, resting on her arms, her face twisted in a grimace as the labor pains reached a new height. Attuma kneeled behind her, massaging her submerged lower back and stomach while her mother cradled her head, murmuring words of comfort. Nakia and Ayo bracketed her mother, both coaxing her through breathing exercises in soft voices.

Nakia’s fingers entangled with hers. “You’re almost there, usisi. So close now.”

Okoye did not feel close. Each contraction felt like an hours-long battle, challenging everything she thought she knew about pain. What started as a dull ache in her lower back rose to a roaring fire as her muscles constricted tightly, stealing the breath from her lungs. She fought to regulate her breathing, exhaling forcefully in a loud groan.

“Good, intombi,” Her mother praised, dabbing the sweat from her brow. “You’re doing so good. It won’t be much longer.”

She heard Ixtli and the nurses who’d accompanied her singing beneath the water, a wordless melody of highs and lows in time with the waves of pain crashing over her. Attuma and Namora joined them, and she sighed gratefully as each note eased the sharp bite of the cramping across her lower body. Thank Chaac and Bast for Talokanil siren singers. 

An early point of contention in her pregnancy had revolved around whether they would observe Wakandan or Talokanil traditions when the time for her delivery came. She and Attuma had argued relentlessly about it until Namora suggested a merger of the two traditions; Okoye would deliver their children on the surface, in the water, with a Talokanil midwife and a Wakandan obstetrician. That Namora's mother happened to be an iyom k'exelom was a happy coincidence, and Okoye couldn’t be more grateful to the woman and her melodious analgesic. 

As the contraction passed, Okoye whimpered as she felt Attuma move to her left, missing his presence immediately. She pulled her fingers from Nakia’s and unfolded her arms, reaching for him desperately. Attuma leaned in close, holding her hand in his, and pressed his nose to her cheek, muttering a string of reassurances and praises in both their mother tongues.

She wanted him closer.

Ixtli surfaced, rebreathers firmly affixed to her face and gills, informing them that her body was ready. It was time to push.

She needed Attuma. 

Using what little strength she had, Okoye used the stair above her and her beloved’s shoulder to support herself as she sat back on her knees. 

“K’iino’?” Attuma’s voice was wary, trying to gauge her intent as he sat up with her. 

“Behind me, please? I just… I need…” Okoye didn’t know how to adequately verbalize what she was feeling.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to; Attuma wrapped his arms around her, shifting them gingerly until his back was flush with the outer ledge of the pool, only their legs remaining beneath the water. Her back rested on his chest, skin-to-skin; their hearts beat in tandem, soul-to-soul. 

“Good?” he whispered against her ear, and Okoye nodded, a stray tear slipping down her cheek. This was everything she wanted, everything she needed.

“Don’t leave me?” she pleaded. 

“Never, in K’iino’,” came his fierce response.

Her family corralled around them. Ayo, Namora, and Shuri stood on the outer edge of the pool, each holding a different colored blanket for their corresponding godchild, ready to carry them from the water after they were born. Her mother and Nakia stood on either side of her and Attuma, grabbing her hands and helping her into a low squat.

Namora’s mother crouched between her legs, gently cradling her belly. “Are you ready, Nacom?”

Okoye gave a hoarse hum of approval and steeled herself. She was tired and terrified, but they were at the end now; the battle was almost won.

“When the pain comes again, listen to your body and bear down,” she instructed. The Talokanil midwife looked contemplative for a moment and pressed on the lower right side of her distended abdomen. “This one first, hm? He’s ready.”

Okoye wanted to question her, but the force of her contraction punched the air out of her, and she clamped her jaw shut. The urge to push came, and she did as she was told, a long groan escaping her gritted teeth as she bore down. Long agonizing seconds passed before Ixtli stopped her, letting Okoye catch her breath before commanding her to push again. 

Her mother and Nakia spoke quiet words of encouragement as she labored, and she squeezed their hands as they continued on in the arduous cycle of pushing and breathing. Attuma blew softly on her head between each push, extolling her strength and courage as he urged her to keep fighting. 

Ixtli ducked her head under the water quickly and resurfaced with a chuckle. “Uts ka a k'iino' yanak ti' juntúul paal il le eek'o'obo'. [It is fitting that your Sun would have one who looks to the stars.]” she said to Attuma in rapid Mayan, GRIOT translating for the room to hear. 

“What- what does that mean?” Okoye asked, leaning back on Attuma’s shoulder, breathless. “Are they okay?”

“The baby is fine, General. He’s just facing the wrong way,” Dr. Langeni waded over from the fetal monitors, placing a reassuring hand on her knee as she explained. “It’ll make things a bit harder, but we’re watching carefully, and if we need to intervene, we will.” She nodded over to the wall of glass partitions on the right side of the room, behind which lay the operating room and NICU. “For now, just focus on letting your body do what it was meant to.”

Ixtli nodded, confirming her counterpart’s words, and when the next contraction struck, Okoye bore down again, her groan ending in a sharp cry as she felt the burning stretch of her son crowning. 

“Dudula, Okoye!” “Yiza, emnandi, tyhala.” Nakia and her mother spoke words of encouragement, urging her to push, and squeezing her hands back as she tightened her grip on theirs.

The Talokanil nurses had resumed their song, and their voices grew in pitch as Okoye pushed again, a low scream erupting from her throat. The feeling of something giving way was followed by a rush of relief flooding her, and she collapsed against Attuma’s body. He peppered kisses onto her forehead, praising her strength and wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. Gasps of awe and resounding echoes of praise came from everyone around them, but Okoye only had eyes for the tiny, screaming baby in Ixtli’s arms. The midwife stood and laid her son on her chest, and she instinctively cradled his small body even as the elder woman used a soft towel to wipe him down. 

Her son. 

Wriggling and squalling and hers.

Theirs.

Attuma’s hand rested over hers, his chin over her shoulder as they took in the new life they’d made together.

They had a son.

“Molo, mntanandini. [Hi, sweet baby.]” she whispered as his cries softened. 

He was magnificent. 

Ixtli wrapped her firstborn in a towel, plucking him from her chest, and passed him to Shuri, who stood ready, having swapped places with Nakia to receive her godson. Okoye smiled weakly as the princess beamed at the baby. 

“Molo, mncinane,” she murmured, gathering the small boy in a yellow woven blanket, “I’m your Aunt Shuri.”

Okoye craned her neck, watching closely as her sister carried him out of the water to the designated team of nurses and doctors ready to check him over. She winced as the smarting ache washed over her, despite her rush of joy. She felt the urge to push again, and it seemed her son’s twin was more than ready to join the world. 

“He will come easier; his brother has made the path clear.” Ixtli said, once again pressing on her abdomen. “Now push, child.”

Attuma sat them both up, and Nakia rejoined her, grasping her hand fiercely as her mother did the same on the opposite side, the three of them helping to support her body as she bore down yet again, and they re-entered the cyclical pattern of pushing and breathing. The singing resumed with her efforts, but the song was different this time. Through the haze, Okoye made out the words to a familiar chant from the River Tribe, sung in perfect harmony by the nurses and Namora. Even Attuma sang with them, his voice a gentle rumble against her back. Her eyes darted to Nakia, who grinned at her as they sang the steady, cadenced tune. 

Letting the song strengthen her, Okoye braced herself for the next wave.

She pushed.

And groaned.

 And pushed again.

A burning flash drew a harsh cry from her lips, and her second child entered the world, as quiet as his brother was loud. 

She held him to her chest, marveling at his scrunched face and soft cries. He was smaller than his brother but no less wriggly. 

Another son.

Perhaps Attuma was right, she thought with a tearful laugh. 

Her second son settled quickly, gazing back at her with Attuma’s dark, wide eyes. 

He was beautiful.

Like they did with their first, Okoye and Attuma cradled their secondborn son together. “Okoye… in yakunaj… two...” His voice was choked with emotion, but she understood perfectly what he meant.

They had children. 

Two children. 

Two sons.

She cooed down at him, welcoming him to the world in a hushed whisper as Ixtli wiped him down before gingerly passing her son to Namora. The Talokanil general wrapped her secondborn in a blue blanket Okoye’s mother had woven, whispering sweet words to him in Mayan. Okoye settled back against Attuma, watching as her friend carried her baby out of the water, passing him to the team of nurses and doctors waiting to ensure he was hale and healthy.

“Rest now. The next will not be so easy,” Ixtli said, drawing their attention back to her. “The youngest rarely is.” She shot a pointed look toward Namora, who scoffed from the medical bay, making Okoye laugh weakly. “Let your body work to expel the afterbirth while I consult the stars for your first two children. I will return when it is time.” She cupped Okoye’s cheeks, touching their foreheads together. “You have done well, Nacom Okoye. Chaac and Ix Chel have blessed you with the strength of a thousand warriors.”

She smiled tiredly and thanked her. The Talokanil midwife exited the pool, and Dr. Langeni followed, promising to bring an update on the children when she returned. 

Okoye looked at her mother. She was crying, tears of joy, Okoye presumed, and she blinked, a few tears slipping down her own cheeks. “Don’t cry, mama.”

She reached out a hand, and her mother took it, squeezing her fingers gently. “I can’t help it, emnandi. It’s not every day a woman becomes a grandmother; I should think I’m entitled to a few tears,” her mother sniped jokingly, and they shared a quiet laugh. She leaned forward to kiss Okoye’s cheek. “Oh, I’m so proud of you, intombi. You did wonderfully.” She kissed Attuma’s cheek as well. “You both did.” 

Okoye grinned, then winced slightly as her body continued laboring. The contractions were far milder than her earlier ones, and one of the Talokanil nurses rubbed her ankle in encouragement, speaking words she couldn’t understand. Attuma murmured the translated instructions and a steady stream of compliments between light kisses to her head and hair, and the afterbirth passed easily, requiring little effort on her part. 

She lay in the cradle of Attuma’s arms, glancing intermittently at the medical bay where her children rested. Okoye itched to hold them, to study their faces and catalog the pieces of her and Attuma in every feature. Nakia passed her a cup of ice chips, and she shot her sister a grateful smile, chewing them carefully between her contractions. She was slightly relieved for the short rest before their third child was born. She chose not to ask how Ixtli knew there would be time between the twins and their thirdborn or how she knew her children would be boys before their birth; the woman had forgotten more about childbirth than Okoye would likely ever know. 

Dr. Langeni returned and had a quick GRIOT-assisted conversation with one of the Talokanil nurses before wading over to Okoye. “Molo, umama, baba,” she said with a soft smile. “Everything is looking good; both boys are hale, healthy, and quite possibly the cutest newborns above or below the surface. You did very good,” the doctor chuckled with a wink. She pressed a button on her kimoyo beads, activating a holographic display of her womb. Her lips twisted in a frown, and she sighed. “It looks like Baby C is still transverse. Which means we have two options: we can attempt to maneuver them in hopes that they turn on their own, or we go in for a C-section now. Should they prove reticent despite the maneuvers,” she paused, arching a pointed brow at them, “we’ll have to go in surgically.”

Okoye narrowed her eyes at the implication but couldn’t argue. Be it a maternal or paternal trait, headstrong children were a given between her and Attuma, and she was already praying for the strength and patience to match wits with whichever aspects of herself would be reflected in her children.

“How long would we try the maneuvers for?” she asked, shifting against her beloved and placing a hand over the monitoring patch of her youngest.

Dr. Langeni turned to the displays outside the pool, studying the remaining monitor. “Should Baby’s heart rate remain within acceptable parameters and the placenta intact? We’ll say 20 minutes.”

Okoye nodded and glanced at Attuma, silently asking him to weigh in. 

He tilted his head, looking contemplative. “It is up to you, in K’iino’. I will be by your side no matter what you choose.”

Her heart fluttered, warmth flooding through her at his words, knowing he meant them wholly. She pressed her head into his chin and considered each option before taking a fortifying breath. “Let’s try the maneuvers.”

~~~

In the darkest hours of the morning, Okoye’s youngest child finally decided to cooperate with the efforts of the medical team. They’d guided the baby downward between her contractions, firm hands pushing hard through her abdomen. She grit her teeth through every attempt and nearly regretted her choice on a particularly hard press. The Talokanil surrounding her had resumed singing the euphoric analgesic of earlier, dulling the sharp pain, and Okoye groaned, breathing heavily. Attuma blew cool breaths along her head again, providing an anchor of solace in the sea of pain, but her relief proved temporary as her muscles tightened in a fierce contraction.

 Ixtli had returned shortly before they began; she and Dr. Langeni worked in tandem, the Wakandan doctor maneuvering the baby while the Talokanil midwife swam beneath her, singing a soft siren call to draw the child down. Ixtli resurfaced, a visible smile showing through her rebreather, and she proclaimed it was finally time to push. Okoye sighed gratefully, thanking the gods. Dr. Langeni gave her an encouraging smile and waded to the side of the pool with her mother, Nakia, and Ayo. Okoye slid forward, squatting low on the step below Attuma, her chest and head remaining above water. He slid his arms under hers, helping her to brace her elbows on his knees.

“One last battle, Nacom,” her iyom k’exelom said, giving her knees a reassuring squeeze, “Let us see what the dawn brings.”

The woman sank beneath the water, and Okoye sucked in a deep breath as she felt the next contraction roll into her. 

She pushed hard, biting back a scream, until Ixtli squeezed her calf, commanding her to stop. She leaned against Attuma, who spoke words of comfort and praise between blowing cool breaths of air on the crown of her head, each breath meant to hasten the delivery of their child. She rested for a moment before the Talokanil midwife’s head surfaced, coaxing her to push again, and they fell into a steady rhythm: Okoye pushed, Attuma blew, and Ixtli coaxed. 

Again and again, until she felt like she couldn’t anymore.

She sagged between Attuma’s legs, her head thrown back as tears ran down her face.

“Ko'ox, Bah’te. K'a'abéet a ba'ate'el! [Come on, Warrior. You must fight!]” Ixtli urged in a stern voice. “We’re nearing the end, Okoye; Yaantal a to'on jolkanil.”

Find your courage. 

Bast help her; Okoye didn’t know how much she had left.

She screwed her eyes shut before opening them to meet the deep umber of Attuma’s. They shone with love and pride, and he bent to kiss her forehead. “Ngakumbi kancinci [Just a little more], in yakunaj,” he whispered against her sweat-slicked skin. “Ungayenza. [You can do it.]”

 She looked into the eyes she loved beyond all measure and found her courage.

The next contraction ripped through her, and Okoye tucked her head into her chest and bore down, crying out at the searing flash of white-hot pain.

Ixtli dipped back into the water, coaxing her through a final round of pushing, their youngest child slipping free of her body as the sun broke over the horizon.

Okoye cried in relief, her body slumping from exhaustion, and Attuma hauled her into his arms. Ixtli emerged from the water, holding a small baby who began wailing seconds after tasting the air.

“A son?” she asked, a weak smile on her lips.

Ixtli grinned, a fierce, proud thing. 

“The Dawn has brought you a daughter,” she proclaimed, laying the baby on her chest.

Okoye clutched the small body, her daughter, to her, blinking in shock. Faintly, she heard the excited exclamations of her family, but her focus was solely on the tiny, wailing infant on her breast. She let out a shaky breath, staring at her daughter in awe.

She had a daughter.

Okoye held her close as she screamed, wondering how one so small could make so much noise. 

She put her brothers to shame. 

Okoye laughed as hot tears ran down her face, gently attempting to shush the squalling infant while Ixtli cleaned her. 

She was perfect.

Attuma laid a large hand on her back, nearly covering her entire body, humming the lullaby he sang throughout her pregnancy, and they marveled as she quieted almost immediately, her robust cries softening to hushed whimpers.

“K Eek'e' asab chichanen. [Our littlest star.]” Her beloved murmured, smoothing his finger over her furrowed brow.

Their youngest grizzled, nose crinkling.

“Welcome to the world, ntomba ethandekayo.”

Ixtli swaddled their daughter in a towel and placed her in Ayo’s arms, her sister-in-arms greeting the child warmly, wrapping her in the soft green blanket Okoye’s mother had woven for their third child. “Good morning, little one. Today is your birthday.”

She exited the water gracefully, speaking to the baby in full sentences, making Okoye chuckle despite her exhaustion. She watched through half-lidded eyes as the final team of nurses and doctors engulfed their baby girl. As their daughter was tended to, Attuma pressed long, tender kisses to her head, muttering an incomprehensible jumble of praise and thanks between each one. 

“Óoxtúul paalal [Three children], in yakunaj,” he said into her hair. “Ts'o'ok a taasik to'on óoxp'éel… [You have brought us three…]”

“Three stars,” Okoye replied softly. “Our own little sea."

~~~

They moved her from the water to a large bed once she passed the afterbirth, and she lay reclined against Attuma, clean, changed, and content. They talked quietly with her mother and Dr. Langeni about what to expect these next few days as they waited for Ixtli, the trio, and their godmothers. Okoye’s exhaustion was bone deep, but she wouldn’t sleep a wink until she had held each of her babies. Nakia slipped into the room, having ducked out earlier to retrieve the rest of their family. She led M’Baku, Yoltzin, and Aneka in, Junior still sleeping in the early morning hours. They stood at the end of the bed, smiles abounding.

Attuma’s mother came to their bedside, pressing her forehead against Okoye’s, then Attuma’s. “Ki'imak óolal, waal. [Congratulations, daughter],” Yoltzin said, grinning brightly. These weren’t her first grandchildren, but they were her eldest son’s, and she’d been giddy with joy the moment Attuma had informed her of Okoye’s pregnancy. She rounded the bed to stand beside Okoye’s mother, the new grandmothers embracing each other. 

“Three babies in one night! You truly are Wakanda’s greatest warrior,” M’Baku smiled proudly, gently squeezing her ankle through the bedding. “Where are the little shark pups?”

His question was answered by the sliding door, and Ixtli entered the room on quiet feet with Shuri, Namora, and Ayo trailing behind her. Each woman held a brightly swaddled bundle in their arms, and they formed a line by her right bedside. 

Shuri passed the baby in her arms to Ixtli, who unwrapped him slightly and placed him on the far right side of Okoye’s exposed chest. “This is your firstborn. A son who looked upon the stars as he entered the world, a war cry on his tongue. What name will you give to him?”

Okoye looked at her eldest son, whose eyes were closed as he slept peacefully, tiny brown fingers curling into her skin. The small yellow cap on his head hid most of his hair, but Okoye could see the gentle wisps that curled along his forehead. She lifted his small hand with her finger, an awed breath leaving her as he gripped it firmly. 

He looked like Attuma. 

Her beloved carefully traced the soft fuzzy hair of his son’s brow and answered Ixtli. “T’Khwezi Cadmael.”

The Star Chief.

Okoye heard Shuri and Yoltzin gasp quietly, and she glanced between her little sister and Attuma’s mother. Both women’s eyes were watery, and Okoye reached out, entangling her fingers with Shuri’s. She squeezed, providing a gentle reassurance, and nodded to Yoltzin. Neither T’Challa nor Cadmael would ever be forgotten; their spirits lived on through them. Shuri smiled tearfully, muttering a wet thanks before releasing her fingers, and Yoltzin hugged Attuma briefly. The princess slid from her place in line, crossing behind Namora and Ayo to stand with the rest of their family at the foot of the bed. 

“This is your secondborn. A son born beneath the Great Weaver, swift and sure of his path.” Ixtli lifted their son from Namora’s arms and placed him on the right side of Okoye’s chest. “What name will you give to him?”

Okoye gazed down at her son, watching him nuzzle into her skin. His skin was warm, and his body was heavier than she expected. He looked nearly identical to his brother; the deeper cleft of his chin was the only difference she could see between them. Like his siblings, their son had thin, dark lines along his collarbones, alluding to the presence of gills. Dr. Langeni had already confirmed that the organs were vestigial and had no function. Her children were blessed with the ability to respirate air through their lungs and water through their skin, much like the King of Talokan.

The first to be born between the land and sea, her children represented the cementing of the Wakandan/Talokanil alliance. The two nations were connected by blood, woven together by love. Her son required a name that fit their future. 

“Chii’kaan B’atz’,” Okoye said after a moment.

The Feathered Serpent Weaver.

Attuma cupped her face gently, looking deep into her eyes. “K’iino, are you certain?”

Her beloved knew there was no love lost between her and his king. It had taken time for her to tolerate his presence in Birnin Zana, never mind their home. Okoye hadn’t even called him K’uk’ulkan until she reached her second trimester of pregnancy. To honor him in this way was a step beyond, but in order for their nations to grow strong together, grace was necessary. She would never forget, and likely never forgive, but the past was immovable and unchangeable. They could only go forward.

“I’m sure” Okoye nodded. “We are bound by blood, my love. Our children are equal parts, Wakandan and Talokanil. We must honor both as we move forward.”

Attuma’s eyes melted with her declaration, and he kissed her forehead, her nose, then her lips softly. “Ndiyakuthandana, Okoye.”

Okoye smiled and returned his kiss, just as soft. “In yaakunech, Attuma.”

“The mother of your children is a wise woman, Nacom. K'a'abet a sutk'esiko'ob le ti' a watan,” Ixtli said with a sharp grin.

Okoye didn’t understand everything the iyom k’exelom said, but she did know watan. Wife.

She and Attuma shared a knowing smile.

We will be married when in K’iino’ is ready to have a husband again. That’s what he’d told her mother. 

She never thought she would have another husband, not after the bitter betrayal she’d faced. She hadn’t thought she could tie her soul to another man before Attuma. She hadn’t thought she could love someone so wholly, so thoroughly that she felt incomplete without them as she did with Attuma. He held her heart; married or not, their souls were irrevocably bound. 

“Tu k'iinili' [In time],” her beloved responded with a sly smirk.

Ixtli nodded and turned to Ayo, lifting their youngest from her arms. Like she’d done with the other two, the Talokanil midwife unwrapped the baby and laid her on Okoye’s chest, right between her brothers.

“This is your thirdborn. A daughter born at the dawn's breaking, ushering in victorious joy. What name will you give to her?”

Okoye craned her neck down to stare at the smallest of the three curled against her chest and felt her heart sing. She was their unexpected gift, a joyful surprise after the birth of two boys.

She looked at Attuma, who’d been so certain they would have three sons, they hadn’t bothered to discuss what they might name a girl. He looked just as baffled as she felt. Carefully considering Ixtli’s words, Okoye smiled down at her daughter, who grizzled and grunted even while she slept. 

“Ixazaluoh.”

Yoltzin’s water-distorted voice spoke from the other side of the bed, offering up the name. 

Attuma hummed and placed his hand on their daughter’s head. “It means ‘dawn,’” he explained lowly. 

Okoye echoed his hum. “Very fitting, Na’,” she grinned. “Ixazaluoh, then. Ixazaluoh Kenura. The dawn of our joy.”

Her beloved’s smile was wide and bright. “Perfect.” 

Attuma kissed her head, running gentle hands over each of their children. “They’re beautiful, in K’iino’.”

Staring down at them, Okoye couldn’t help but agree.

They would grow in time, surrounded by love and supported by their family. But for now, it was enough that they were here. 

Small and sleeping and theirs.

Beautiful, indeed.

A/N 3:

I tried not to be too graphic with the L&D, but she did have 3 babies naturally so... it wasn't ever gonna be short.

There's a fourth part to this somewhere in my brain... it might take a lil longer cuz I gotta work on that OT3 thing 👀👀

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

i would love to hear about the interpreter sos :D your writing sparks all the joy!

Thank you so much kindly anon! 🥹I'm more than happy to talk about this.

Interpreter SOS Summary:

Every time Erebor comes to the Free Peoples Meeting in Rivendell, Bilbo is always assigned as the dwarf king’s interpreter. A job he accepts gladly, except for the fact that Thorin has a tendency to make more adversaries than friends. However, he would take that in a heartbeat over Thorin asking Bilbo to help him translate on his...date.

Interpreter SOS Excerpt:

So much for having an easy first day as Bilbo accepted his summons to Thorin's suites. When they had first met, Bilbo hadn't been well received. Thorin commenting on how he looked more like a 'grocer' than a translator. However, Bilbo worked hard to earn Thorin's respect, and he had mentioned more than once how Bilbo's Khuzdul is quite impressive for a non-dwarf. In fact, Thorin absolutely refused to come to Rivendell unless Bilbo was there to act on his behalf. Therefore, Bilbo found his way to the rooms easily enough, and didn't even bother announcing himself. He gave the outer guards a nod before letting himself in. Balin was seated at the conference table, his forehead in his hand. Dwalin was leaning against the wall by the window watching Thorin pace the room with thinly veiled amusement. All three heads popped up at Bilbo's entrance. "Bilbo!" Thorin announced with relief. "I have need of your expertise!" "Of course, Your Majesty." Bilbo stated in flawless Khuzdul, giving a little bow. "How may I assist you?" "I may need you to accompany me tonight as I accepted an outing with a lord from Gondor." Bilbo frowned, he's never done after hour work with Thorin before. "What sort of outing?" "We don't have a word for it, but I believe he called it a 'date'." Bilbo felt his entire being freeze in response. A date?! He was excepted to accompany Thorin on a date??

This one is going to be so much fun!

Ask me about my WIPs!

[hollowslantern]

wgat

[lotro-tooltips-daily]

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Potentially silly question regarding Grima: You've discussed before the idea of him loving to have pineapples around as a status symbol on account of them being something weird and exotic that no one else has, but if given the chance to not just have them kicking around for symbolic purposes and actually be served to him, do you think Grima would taste them, and if so, if he'd like it or not? And what other foods (fruit or otherwise) do you think might he consider a status symbol?

I live for silly Grima questions!

And Grima would love pineapple! it's so sweet, he'd be gung-ho for it. He would be that person who would receive one and then be grieved over whether or not he wished to put it on his table or eat it. Like receiving a work of art as a rug - do you hang it on the wall or put it on the floor and use it as it was meant to be used?

In this world with the anachronistic pineapple, I think initially Grima would never eat them. He would keep them until they weren't aesthetic anymore then they'd be fed to the goats or pigs or chickens.

However, once he had been in a decently powerful/wealthy position for long enough I think he'd take a pineapple and try and figure out how to eat it.

There would be a debate: can you eat a pineapple?

Eomer says no - they're prickly on the outside, sharp, pointy, clearly a sign they're poisonous and not to be eaten.

Grima says yes - there are prickly pointy sharp plants that are perfectly edible. It's a matter of knowing how to do it.

Eowyn has no opinion on the matter, but she holds that Grima should be the one who tries it first.

Theodred is just confused about why this matters. They have perfectly good, delightful food. There's no need to try and eat the table decorations.

Grima: but what if they taste good? Who knows. It could be fun for us.

Being a reasonably intelligent man, Grima makes his least favourite person eat a bit of the pineapple first then they all wait and see if he dies. When it's determined that he will live, Grima tries some and is like 'it's terrible. None of you should have any. I'll take care of it, don't worry.' And hoards the pineapple like the wee dragon wyrm he is.

Figuring out how to access the inner flesh of the fruit involved Grima carefully cutting small bits off then they were like 'ah, the outer layer isn't that thick so this is easy'. They were also all mightily pleased that there was no stone inside which means more pineapple to eat.

Figuring out how to propagate a pineapple would be a past-time Grima would undertake and if he managed to successfully figure it out he would be like, 'they are absolute freaks of a plant. I love them even more. Eomer, build me a greenhouse.'

---

Other status symbol foods for Grima?

Certain herbs and spices would be: cinnamon, vanilla, saffron, cardamom, lemongrass, sumac, caraway, nutmeg etc.

Citrus in general - I don't see Rohan doing orangeries or anything, that would be a Gondor-style invention. So all citrus is imported which makes it rare and expensive.

Grima trying to convince Eomer to build an orangerie is now my new favourite mental image.

Grima: we could have oranges in winter, my lord! just. think about it.

Eomer is like, 'you really took on the decadent living full force, didn't you?'

'I was born on a farm in the north, my lord. I grew up living off turnips and seasonal produce that can grow in cold climes and whatever we foraged. Not that we ever foraged or poached on the local lord's land. Never.'

Anachronistic tomatoes! Certain tree nuts would be strictly imports and so therefore a delicacy (e.g., almonds).

I don't know if Rohan did class based consumption (only royalty can eat certain meats etc.), but if they did - whatever was determined to be for nobility alone would be something he'd put great stock in now having access to.

Man, this guy's diet really improved when he joined the king's household.

Grima: I ate a lot of pottage. Bread soup. Meat but more so in the autumn when we slaughtered the animals that were right for it. Turnips. Carrots. Roots for days. Cabbage. Ruffage of that sort. Berries if they were in season. Apples, when they were in season. Fish from the river sometimes. Cheese. Most everything was salted, pickled or fermented.

Eomer: I see.

Grima: but now I can eat fruit whenever I want! also we have meat with every meal and it's fresh meat, too. Not to mention wine. Also food is spiced so fancy here. Look at this ginger. This would cost five of my father's sheep. I never new cardamom existed until I came to Edoras. You even colour your jellies random colours solely because it amuses you to have them coloured! Wild.

Eomer:

Eomer: you know, I get it.

Grima: and you have white flour! Wheat! It's not rye or barley - amazing. And white ale! ugh, the lap of luxury, my lord. I will never grow tired of it. Oh, and fancy tea that I've never had before arriving in Edoras.

Other things would be jellies and custards - anything that is time and labour intensive would be a status symbol. Figs, dates - dried fruits that had to be imported would cost a pretty penny and be for the wealthy alone. Not to mention grapes and olives. Peacock and other more fanciful poultry, of course. Like the feasts would be certainly something.

I sometimes imagine, like, twenty-two year old Grima arriving in Edoras and getting absorbed into the king's household because he's one of the few fully literate people in the city and seeing a royal feast up close for the first time.

Mind blowing.

Grima: how do I eat this?

Theoden: it's an orange. Have you never had an orange before?

Grima is like, Do you think I've had an orange before?

Theoden:

Theoden: fair point.

Grima has more than one shirt in his possession and thinks he's basically a lord, now.

---

Things to also consider is if there were any social constraints to when you ate certain food - such as religious festivals. Was fasting during a certain period part of Rohan's culture? Were there restrictions or taboos around grouping certain foods together? Did those restrictions apply to everyone equally or only certain groups? Was there a gendered aspect to food consumption and access?

E.g., in early medieval Scandinavia (think vikings), boys were favoured and so in lean/starvation times they were given the good food and the daughters were not. We can see in skeletal remains that within the same generation women were more likely to have suffered a starvation level of hunger at a greater percentage to men.

So, like, in Rohan if there was a lean time during his childhood was Grima fed more in comparison to his sister(s)? How does that impact someone's relationship to family? to food? etc.

-

Also what was the meal structure like? Did they do two meals, as was common through much of the medieval era in Europe (broad brush stroke, of course, regional variations existed and things shifted over time. E.g., Venice did dinner and supper but there was a secret, third meal between the two that was like a sort-of tea/snack break)? I suspect at a minimum it was three in Rohan since we know Gandalf et al arrived in Meduseld in the morning and Grima makes reference to Theoden's meat (i.e., his meal) being at the board. So, likely breakfast of some variation.

However, Theoden was old and infirm and that might mean he was eating different meals than he would be otherwise. How illness and age are treated in terms of food consumption is another impact to what you eat and when. (Allen Grieco was a historian who wrote a good amount about this - granted he was more in the early modern period, but his writing on food in early modern/renaissance Italy is super fascinating. Recommend Food, Social Politics and the Order of Nature in Renaissance Italy as a good starting point.)

(granted, anything from Harvard Press' "Villa I Tatti" series is worth reading if you're into the early modern and renaissance period.)

---

Ok I've gone on for too long. I just. fucking love thinking about food habits and rituals and all the weird little things that impact how and what we (or Grima) eat! It's so cool!

Thank you so much for the ask! <3 <3

[aspenrockymountainhigh]

The city was built on the hill with seven concentric tiers cut on the hill culminating in the Citadel at the summit, 700 feet above the plain below. The outer wall was called the City Wall and was black, of the same material used in Orthanc. The City Wall was vulnerable only to earthquakes capable of rending the ground where it stood.

Each level was walled and held a gate with each gate faced a different direction: only the great gate and that of the seventh level faced east; the gate to the second level faced southeast, and that to the third faced northeast; so altering between the two such that the path up through the levels wound to and fro rather than following a straight line. An outcropping of rock as high as the seventh level bisected all the lower levels except the lowest on the line of the Great Gate. 

#minastirith

#gondor

[gusgus48]

Oc, Gandalf, Pippen and Boromir who had a been politely wearing a solid armored chest piece from Moria oc had picked out of a hoard with a ‘cool but slightly crooked design’ of a lopsided goat clearly made by a young Dwarf in an early test of their metal working years, under his underneath his chain mail and Gondorian insignia beating outer layers arrive in Gondor. Barely two minutes in and Faramir had just been torn from his bruised brother’s arms to be bombarded by insults from Denethor in front of a full overlook packed with guards here to welcome their Captain back.

Oc leans in to ask Gandalf, “Can I borrow your fancy stick?”

“My staff does not work for just anyone, but I shall allow you a try.”

Cue several flinches as Oc insults Denethor while beating him harshly into a cringing mess on the ground as the guard and his sons look on and Pippen is having the battle of his life not to laugh hysterically to Gandalf’s wide eyed stare. One final kick in his side was taken as Oc handed the staff back saying, “Sorry to say it Faramir but I think you’re up for a promotion, clearly your father is not right in the head and up to the task of his position.”

Faramir feels mildly proud of the woman his older brother is staring at with blatant heart eyes as he mutters in Gondorian, “I’m in love.”

“All in favor of Faramir being promoted?” Oc asks and hands timidly rise to both of Boromir’s being thrust into the air and the new oddly elected Steward orders his father to be taken to his room to be seen to by a healer.

[dalish-delight]

don't know how other people feel about it, but I love the fact that random villagers in outer gondor and umbar are now ready to throw down at all times. I just saw a woman punch a swarm of flies to death.

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Songbird Part 2

Part 1 here

Just remember… you asked for this.

@im-a-wonderling and @shieldmaiden-of-gondor thanks for all your advice and letting me break your hearts on this one ❤️

TW: implied violence, blood, general angst

—————

12:54pm- Villain abandoned Hero to Supervillain’s mercy, his ears ringing with her final taunt: I had a canary once… had to clip its wings.

1:17pm- Villain burst through the doors of his lair, shouting for Sidekick and his henchmen to gather for a rescue mission.

2:25pm- Sidekick physically restrained Villain to keep him from going after Supervillain plan-less and powerless.

2:32pm- Villain contacted the Hero Agency, demanding immediate action in rescuing of one of their most valuable heroes.

4:58pm- A letter arrived informing Villain that Hero was no longer an employee of the Hero Agency due to blatant disregard of Agency orders concerning the destruction of a certain superpower-duplication device, and as such was no longer their concern.

4:59pm- Sidekick and 5 henchmen pinned Villain to the ground before he could attempt to obliterate the Hero Agency. He gave two of his henchmen a bloody nose with his flailing limbs before they convinced him that storming the Hero Agency’s base while he was powerless would do nothing to help Hero.

5:28pm- Superhero appeared at the back door of Villain’s secret lair, murder in her eyes as she ripped the Hero Agency’s message to shreds and demanded to know what the plan was.

5:49pm- Superhero crossed out 90% of their plan, insisting that henchmen casualties were still casualties.

6:31pm- A mutually satisfactory plan was agreed on by all parties. A plan that depended on Villain regaining his powers.

6:54pm- Superhero and Sidekick ran the plan from every angle, trying in vain to distract Villain from the thought of all Hero could be suffering.

8:09pm- Villain felt the first thrumming of power in his fingertips.

8:14pm- Superhero set their plan into motion as she attacked Supervillain during her business dinner across town.

8:17pm- Villain blew a hole in the roof of the research and development building on Supervillain's base.

It had been seven hours, twenty-three minutes, and fifteen and a half seconds since Villain had abandoned Hero to Supervillain’s mercy.

And six seconds since Villain had re-entered the prison block to rescue his songbird.

Blue emergency lights flashed along the ceiling as Villain strode through the halls of the prison. He ignored the panicked henchmen that streamed around him, racing for the exits as the radiation sirens blared throughout the compound.

Superhero had been adamant that Villain only create enough radiation to set off the alarms, but if Hero wasn’t alive—he almost choked on the thought—he would make enough radiation to melt the entire block. If there was anything left to melt after he destroyed Supervillain’s nuclear reactor. The last few stragglers darted past him, either not registering who he was or not wanting to become the target of his wrath, as he slammed open the final door that stood between him and the cells where he’d last seen Hero.

The white row of cells glowed eerily as the blue lights continued to flash. He darted to the cell where he’d left Hero.

It was empty.

The air burned in Villain’s lungs and he grasped the bars, closing his eyes to block out the sight of a dark stain shining black in the dim light, partially obscured by a discarded blanket. The metal began to melt beneath his fingers as his head fell against the bars, the rage within him building to explosive levels.

Then, in the silence between the alarm's blaring, he heard it. A small shuffling sound, the rustling of feathers. His eyes flew open, desperately scanning the bright walls and dark shadows.

There.

A tiny ball of feathers and blue-black hair was burrowed in the shadows beneath the shelf-like cot.

Hero.

His eyes flicked back to the dark stains before returning to the quivering form.

Barely aware of his actions, Villain melted the lock off the door and nearly wrenched it off its hinges in his desperation to get to Hero.

He skirted the dark stain and crouched beside the cot.

“Hero.”

Wide dark eyes blinked up at him, tears of fear and pain mixed with blood in messy streaks across too-pale cheeks.

Hands that had melted solid metal now gently pulled his songbird from her little nest. He cringed at her whimper of pain as what must have been her broken wing caught against the support.

When she was finally free, her eyes found his. Her voice was a rasping whisper. “You came for me.” Her thin arms wrapped around his neck with surprising strength and hot tears soaked into his shirt as she clung to him. “You came for me.”

It was difficult to pick up Hero and stand upright at the same time, but Villain managed it. But the movement cost him a cry of pain from Hero that ripped at his soul.

He turned to face the door, but looked down at the thought of tripping on Hero’s long wings.

Villain’s stomach churned as he gazed down at the place his boots had disturbed the blanket on the floor. But it wasn’t a blanket. It was a pile of midnight-blue feathers.

“Hero—”

She shook her head and buried her face in his shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut against the reality of her long dark flight feathers scattered across the floor.

The sirens cut off and the device in his ear chirped, forcing his attention away from the ruin of Hero’s wings that lay scattered on the floor.

Sidekick’s voice in the earpiece cut through Villain’s horror and fury. “Supervillain is on her way back.”

Villain narrowed his focus to the task at hand. Hero’s safety was his first priority.

“ETA?”

“6 minutes.”

Villain was already out of the cell and heading for the door, trying not to acknowledge the reason he had no need to worry about tripping over Hero’s wings.

“Sidekick.” His voice was ice.

His right hand was instantly on alert. “Yes, boss?”

“Make preparations to revert to Plan A.”

“Superhero’s not going to be happy.”

Villain studied the ragged ends of Hero’s wing feathers. The dark tips were completely gone, leaving only the smaller pale blue feathers coating the bones and muscles of her wings. Feathers speckled in blood.

“I don’t care.”

————

A black van skidded to a stop in front of them as soon as they crossed through the outer doors of the prison. Sidekick poked his head out the window, his face hardening as he took in Hero’s trembling form. “Get in.”

Later, Villain would have words with Sidekick about the chain of command and who gave the orders.

Now, he slid open the side door as he asked, “How many are left?”

Sidekick checked one of his devices. “A dozen maybe? They’ll be clear in a minute or two.”

Villain lifted Hero into the van. Or he tried to. Her arms tightened around his neck when he attempted to set her on the bench seat.

He reached up and gently tugged at her grip, needing her to let go, but unwilling to force her. His efforts simply made her shift closer, burying her face in his chest.

“I’m sorry, but you need to let go. I have to go and—” Her head shot up, catching him sharply on the chin.

He jerked back and Hero’s hands finally released him, only to twist themselves into the fabric of his shirt. Though she didn’t utter a word, her thoughts were plain as day:

You’re going to leave me again?

The sharp pain in his chest at the betrayal in her large eyes fought against the molten rage coursing through his veins.

Everything was in place. The compound was empty. He simply had to touch the nuclear reactor he’d created for Supervillain and her base would be no more than a bitter memory.

Sidekick would get Hero to safety, and with any luck, Supervillain would be caught in the blast.

Hero’s slender fingers fell away. Her head was down, her shoulder-length black hair forming a curtain around her face as she shrank down on the seat.

Villain glanced around the deserted base. Then with one quick flick of his wrist, the door of the van slid shut.

Villain settled onto the seat next to Hero, ignoring Sidekick’s surprised eyes in the rear view mirror as they sped off into the night. Hero’s arms found him again, and he pulled her into his lap, running his hand down her hair.

Villain’s words were a quiet murmur in Hero’s ear as they streaked through the darkness.

“I came for you.”

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