#remember those days? they were the good old days

[martinsharmony]

it's funny because my ex boyfriend and I used to argue about this. It's partly the reason we broke up. He was kind of a WWII buff which was weird because at the time he was in his early 30's and I dunno I figure it's usually only old guys who are into WWII.

Anyway, I went on a trip to Germany to go to a concert and visit family. When I came back I told him how my relative so graciously showed me around and we went to the holocaust memorial etc. It's been like 12 years so I don't remember much but he was basically saying that the Germans themselves were "to blame" for Hitler's rise, and that they had no right to escape via tunnels etc because they voted for him. They put him into power. They supported him. I mean yes technically I knew this but it's so much more complicated than that. He tends to think in black and white.

I was like but what about those who did not vote for him? They get blamed too? He basically said yes because they did not move away to another country or ferociously resist. I thought this was entirely unworkable. people have families. lives. jobs. responsibilities. They love their home land. etc. I mean yeah sure some probably did that but many were probably not able to.

Right now, said ex boyfriend married a trans-male. He and spouse are ferociously anti-Trump. They are considering moving to Massachusetts because guess what? Spouse has a son and an ex husband they share custody with that they can't just pick up and go to another country. They can't even move to Mass now because of the child. And we live in Texas.

We are good friends after the break up, but I really wonder if he ever thinks about our argument that day.

Unthinkable that 12 years later, we would be experiencing that same exact thing here in the US.

Yo, correct me if I am wrong please, but didn't Hitler rise to power because he promised to fix the German economy and people really liked that so they looked past everything else he was doing??? Like exactly what's happening in America right now???

So many people said they voted for Trump, put a truly evil person in power, because he said he'd fix the economy, and a little voice in my head is going, "Isn't that what happened with fucking Hitler??"

But I've seen no one point that out so maybe I'm miss remembering???????

[joemama-2]

"are you the fairy?"

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: You meet Gojo Satoru in a place untouched by time, where his laughter rings through empty streets and his hands chase yours like a promise he fully intends to keep. He is younger, reckless with his love, blind to the weight of the years that separate you—years that have taught you that love is not always meant to be kept. You let yourself have him anyway, knowing all the while that his future is stretching toward a horizon you cannot follow. When the time comes, you do what must be done—let him free.

wc: 7.3k

tags/warnings: angst, eventual comfort, suggestive content, older! reader, dividers by @/cafekitsune, HOPEFULLY PROOFREAD ENOUGH :(

Aging. A fear most people have. The fear of growing old, growing weaker, needing others to rely on for simple tasks, no longer being in your ‘prime’, and of course—the grey hairs. While it can be argued that aging is a natural, human process; it can also be argued that no one ever really wants to grow old. No one wants to see everything they knew and loved vanish before their own two deteriorating eyes, no one wants to become just a distant memory. But no one wants to be immortal either. It’s a weird push and pull, leaving humans with only one choice: enjoy it while it lasts, and make the most of your life.

And so, that’s what you have been doing.

Graduating, getting a nice paying job, having a good place, traveling the world, making a name for yourself, being…happy. Sure, you’ve made friends and connections, but none of those amount to being in the peaceful solitude of your lonesome. You’ve faced adversaries in your life, and you’ve overcome them—that’s what making the most out of your life means. But you know what doesn’t fall under that category?

Allowing yourself to fall in love with a man almost two decades younger than you. 

But with life comes spontaneous events, debating the pros and cons and wondering the ‘what ifs’. 

And what if—against all logic, against every carefully laid plan—you let yourself have him? What if you ignore the whispers in your mind that warn of fleeting youth, of inevitable goodbyes, of the cruel march of time that will leave you grasping at something you were never meant to keep? Gojo Satoru is reckless in his affection, undeterred by the years between you, pressing himself into your life with an audacity that makes it impossible to push him away. He tells you that love doesn’t care for numbers, that age is nothing more than an arbitrary construct, and when he looks at you with that unwavering gaze, you almost believe him.

Almost.

You’re forty-five when you meet him, he’s nothing but a young and adventurous thirty-year-old. You remember being thirty. 

“Are you from here?” you asked, resting your palm against your cheek. The coldness of the bar’s countertop sits underneath your elbow—you regard him with a curious gaze. The first thing you noticed was the pretty eyes he had. The next was his smile—that handsome smile that was doing weird things to your heart. You remember your late husband smiling at you like that every day, every chance he got. Your lip quirks up. 

“No, I’m from Japan,” he replies smoothly, jutting his chin in your direction. “And you?”

You tell him. 

“Oh, that’s nice. So, what are you doing all the way here?”

“Vacation.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Pretty well. Italy is beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

A cheesy pick-up line you’re more than accustomed to. You save his awkwardness with a small laugh, eyebrow raising. “Thank you,” you glance down at the dark liquid in your cup, swirling its contents. “Though you aren’t the first to tell me that.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick with the weight of history you’ve long since buried. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To be flattered but not fooled, to hear compliments that once would have made your heart race but now only bring a faint ache, like a ghost brushing past your skin. You didn’t expect to be here, sitting in this foreign bar, in this foreign city, drinking away the remnants of a life you thought you’d left behind—no more waiting for a man to come home, no more running on borrowed time. And yet, here he is, his smile still holding the weight of something undeniably fresh, something he hasn’t yet had time to tarnish with the passing years.

He chuckles, and it’s sincere. Like he knows how to handle this situation and like he’s done it a hundred times before—charming the older woman, never realizing the danger he’s flirting with. You can’t help but notice how easily he fits into this moment, how the energy between you feels almost too comfortable for something so unexpected. His youth, his vitality—it’s intoxicating, and yet, you know it’s only a matter of time before you have to draw the line, to remind yourself that he’s playing with something far more fragile than he understands.

You meet his eyes again, and for a second, you let yourself indulge. He’s not just handsome; he’s magnetic. And though you’ve seen his type before—young, reckless, full of life—there’s something different about him. It’s that smile, that easy confidence as if the world is nothing but a playground for him to conquer. Your heart stirs involuntarily, the edges of something you thought was long gone starting to flutter back to life.

"So, do you always travel alone?" you ask, your voice a little softer now, more curious than before.

His grin widens, pleased by the shift in your tone. “Not usually, but this time I decided to take some time for myself. I needed a change of scenery.” He leans in a little, dropping his voice to something almost conspiratorial. "It's nice to get away from it all, you know? To meet people who don't know your story."

The irony of his words doesn’t escape you. Here you are, a stranger in a new city, with a lifetime of stories you no longer tell, and yet, his openness makes you feel like you’re both speaking the same unspoken language. You could tell him everything, share the years of love and loss, of heartache and healing, but you don’t. You keep it hidden, tucked away where only time and memory can touch it.

“That sounds familiar,” you say quietly, glancing down at your glass again. Your fingers trace the rim absently. “Sometimes it's the only way to find peace." You don’t know why you’re telling him this. It’s not as though you’ve shared your soul with a stranger in a bar before. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something open and unafraid, that makes you think—just for a moment—that maybe this conversation, this meeting, isn’t entirely by chance. Something you haven’t felt in…a long time.

“Do you usually travel alone?”

You hum. “I do now.”

“Why now?”

“Because my husband doesn’t come along with me anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” He sips from his own cup, but when he puts it back down, its fizziness tells you it’s just coke. 

You take a moment to reply, unsure if you should trauma dump on a stranger. But he did ask. “Because he’s dead,” you simply comment, leaning back in your stool and gauging his reaction. 

But he doesn’t show a face of surprise or a face of regret. He doesn’t offer his unwanted apology. He nods, humming softly in thought. But his eyes change—and you think for a second that it looks like a silent sense of understanding—like he’s lost someone too before. “And what was his name?”

Your cheeks pinch up, smile widening in fondness. Looking down at your left hand that once housed a beautiful, golden ring. “Masamichi.” 

There’s a stillness in the air for a second, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy but rather reverent, as if time itself paused to acknowledge the weight of your words. You look at him through the corner of your eye, seeing how his gaze softens—not with pity, but with something deeper, something far more intimate. It’s the kind of understanding that doesn’t come from words, but from shared experiences, and you’re struck by the thought that perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knows what it’s like to lose the love of your life.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but there’s something in the way he leans forward that tells you he’s listening in a way that feels different than the usual casual conversations you’ve had with strangers. His eyes are fixed on you, almost as though he’s waiting for you to continue, to say something more, but he doesn’t push. He waits—patiently, and respectfully. "Masamichi," he repeats the name softly, as if he’s testing it on his tongue as if it’s a secret he’s now been entrusted with. “That’s a really cool name, sounds like he was a hardass.”

You chuckle lightly and nod, not trusting yourself to speak again for a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat. “He was, but he had his moments.”

“When were those?”

“When he’d call me pretty names.”

“Like?”

You bite your lip, smile wavering a bit as you recount ever beautiful name he used to call you. One always stuck out. “Well, he used to call me a fairy.”

He chuffs. “Why a fairy?” 

"He told me I was delicate, elusive, like something too beautiful to be real. He used to say I’d flown in from some distant place, where the sky was always clear and the air was always fresh." The words feel like they’ve drifted in from a different lifetime, a time when love was a constant companion, not a faint, distant echo. You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth turning up. "I think he liked that idea, that I wasn’t tied down to anything—just... floating through life, free. He said I made him believe in things he never thought possible."

His gaze softens as he watches you, leaning a little closer now as if drawn into the quiet weight of your story. "That’s beautiful," he says, his voice low, almost reverent. "It sounds like he saw you in a way no one else could."

You nod, the memory of his warm words filling the space between you. "He did. And sometimes... sometimes I felt like I was a fairy, too. Like I didn’t really belong to this world. But when he called me that, it made me feel like I was meant to be somewhere, meant to be his." A quiet moment hangs between you, the air heavy with the soft intimacy of shared vulnerability. You meet his eyes, feeling an unexpected connection—the kind of unspoken understanding that can only exist between people who have known the depths of love and loss.

Then, just as you’re about to pull back, he asks, with a gentle curiosity, “Do you still believe in fairies?”

You blink at him, a little taken aback. The question seems simple enough. You shrug, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "I don't know if I believe in them, but... I like to think that maybe they’re real, in some way. In the things we can’t see, in the moments that take our breath away."

His eyes seem to light up, almost as if he’s surprised by your answer. There’s a long beat of silence before his lips curl into a smile that reaches his eyes. "Maybe you’re still a fairy, then," he says, voice warm with something like wonder.

You shake your head. "Yeah, maybe."

The words hang between you, filled with something gentle, something fleeting but real. You feel the stirrings of a connection, fragile and unexpected, like the wingbeats of a fairy. There’s a hollow space in your chest where his memory used to sit, and it takes everything in you not to let it show, not to let the quiet ache spill over. The ring on your finger is long gone, but the phantom of it lingers—an unspoken promise that can never be fulfilled, a history you no longer share with anyone. “What about you?” You shift the conversation, trying to keep the tears at bay, trying to pull yourself back from the edge of vulnerability you’re teetering on. “Do you have someone, someone you’ve loved the way you were loved?”

His smile falters a tad, a flash of something—pain, perhaps, or nostalgia—passing through his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the easy grin you’ve already grown accustomed to—the one that doesn’t let anyone get too close. But the silence that follows speaks volumes, and you almost feel like you’ve crossed some invisible line. Fearing that you’ve peeked into a part of him he didn’t mean nor want to reveal. "I did," he says quietly, almost to himself, the words hanging between you both like a secret. “But sometimes, we love people in ways they can’t love us back.”

The weight of his words sits heavily in the space between you. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that contradicts his earlier bravado, and you find yourself wondering how much more of him there is behind that smile, behind the charming facade. In that moment, you see something that mirrors your own grief, your own loneliness, and it’s unsettling. “Is she still around?”

“He’s not,” he shakes his head.

You take a sip from your glass, the sharp bitterness of the alcohol grounding you, and give him a small, knowing smile. “Well, I suppose we all have our stories.”

His eyes lock onto yours for a long, unspoken moment. You wonder if this is one of those rare moments in life where people truly see each other—not just for the faces they wear, but for what’s buried beneath. What they carry in the silence. “I think you’re right,” he finally says, his voice soft, but there’s an edge to it now, a quiet tenderness that wasn’t there before. "But not everyone’s story is meant to be told in one night."

Your heart flutters for a reason you can’t quite place, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, fate isn’t as cruel as it’s always seemed. Maybe, in this strange twist of events, you weren’t meant to run away from the past after all—but to face it, alongside someone who understands what it’s like to love and lose.

“I’m too old for you,” you laugh off his subtle suggestion, looking over to the opposite corner of the small, dim-lit bar. There are two girls sitting at the booth with obviously wandering eyes toward your new, unexpected companion. “Maybe them.”

He follows your gaze, his eyes flickering briefly to the two girls in the corner, before turning back to you with that signature, easy grin—unchanged, unaffected. The playfulness in his smile doesn’t reach the depths of his eyes, though. You wonder if he’s seeing something entirely different than the charming stranger you’ve made him out to be. You can feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, as if he’s testing the waters of your words, gauging how much of this is just casual banter and how much of it has an undercurrent you aren’t ready to acknowledge.

"Maybe," he replies, leaning back slightly, but there’s a glint of something else in his expression now, something that makes the air between you feel heavier. "But you know, I’m kind of having some fun with you right now." His voice drops, a playful edge softening into something more serious, and it makes you wonder if he’s teasing or if there’s something deeper in his intentions that hasn’t fully revealed itself yet.

“I don’t think we’re having fun.”

“Then what are we having.”

“A simple conversation, nothing more, nothing less.”

He chuckles, leaning closer and tilting his head towards you. “Just how old do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, noticing a small twinkle. Your eyes move down, analyzing his features. He lets you do so in an untimely manner and when he sees that you’re looking lower at his arms, he playfully flexes. An amused snort that almost sounds like a scoff leaves your lips. “Young enough to be my son.”

“Do you have children?”

“And if I do?”

“Then that’s even better because I love MILFS.”

You scoff for real this time, eyes narrowing at him. “I don’t, but what you just said further proves my point.”

The air between you both shifts, like a quiet storm brewing, though neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it. His words hang there, an almost careless suggestion laced with mischief, but they are impossible to ignore. You try to brush it off, laugh it off, but something about the way he leans in—his proximity, the way his gaze never wavers from yours—makes it harder than it should be. There’s something in his demeanor that says he’s not just playing, not just following the familiar rhythm of flirty banter. It feels like he’s pushing against the boundaries you’ve set, testing them in a way that catches you off guard.

He watches your every reaction carefully, his smile just a little too knowing, a little too calculated for someone so young. You can feel the heat of his gaze as it lingers, catching you off guard in a way that leaves your words hanging in your throat. His comment about MILFs—joking or not—makes your skin prickle uncomfortably, and for a second, you wonder if he’s being more sincere than you care to admit. But you can’t show it, not when you’ve already drawn the line, already told yourself this was just a fleeting moment in an unfamiliar place.

You clear your throat, trying to bring the conversation back to familiar ground, but the awkwardness lingers. “I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here with a woman who could be your mother.”

“Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he says, the playful edge in his voice softened by something deeper. There’s a sudden, subtle weight to his words, as though he’s no longer speaking just to entertain or to flirt, but to convey something more. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it catches you off guard. His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. The playful front cracks, revealing a hint of something you can’t quite name.

You shift uncomfortably, your thoughts creeping in again. "Well, you’ll find plenty of people who can keep you entertained around here." You gesture vaguely to the bar, the people milling about, the noise, the chatter. "I’m not the one you’re looking for."

His expression dampens. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe I’m just looking for someone who sees me, you know?”

The words hit you harder than they should, a soft pressure in your chest that you quickly try to dismiss. What is he saying? He doesn’t know you, yet he’s almost acting like he does. "I see you," you respond, your voice quieter than before, the weight of the statement hanging between you both like a truth neither of you is willing to face.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but his eyes darken, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, more introspective. You begin to think he might say something that cuts through all the barriers you’ve put up, something that challenges the notion that this is just a casual encounter between strangers. But instead, he shifts in his seat, taking another long sip of his drink. “I don’t know if you do,” he finally says, his voice lower now, the playful lilt gone. 

When he puts his drink down, you blame it on the alcohol from the way your skin flushes in a girlish way as he leans in—his breath fanning your ear. You also blame it on the alcohol when you’re reciprocating his advances, meeting his stare with an equally heated one of your own. And finally, you blame it on the alcohol when you tilt your head to whisper something in his ear. 

“Do you want me to look harder?”

That was the first night you went home with him—the first night you indulged in the warmth and pleasure a man—Satoru—can bring you. And even after sharing your ages, that never stopped. It somehow…never stopped you either. You found yourself giving in—almost craving the way his hands grip your hips, the way his slim and long fingers dance along your ribs in a soft manner. 

You didn’t expect yourself to be falling over the edge, finishing on just the tongue of a man younger than you. You always prided yourself on wanting—needing—an older man. And god, you were really missing out, weren’t you?

But it wasn’t just the way he touched you, the way his mouth knew exactly how to undo you piece by piece—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were something untouchable, yet here he was, holding you, ruining you, worshipping you in ways you hadn’t let anyone do in years.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was just a fling, something fleeting, something fun. A vacation romance, a secret indulgence that you’d tuck away once you boarded your plane back home. But Satoru wasn’t the kind of man you could forget easily. His touch lingered, his voice echoed, and before you even realized it, you were answering his calls. Responding to his texts. Finding yourself in his arms again, even when you swore it would be the last time. You found yourself smiling at him when you believed he wasn’t looking, stifling a peal of laughter at his stupid jokes that he only said so he could see the way your eyes crinkle at the edges—you were finding comfort in him. 

A warm, tentative comfort that only one other man had brought you before. 

There were times you felt guilty, believing you were still bound to your late husband even in death, and at times—you almost compared the two. However, you know Masamichi would’ve wanted you to move on and care for yourself in ways he couldn’t do anymore. He would’ve smiled and encouraged you to find pleasure in your life. 

And you did. 

Because somewhere between those nights tangled in silk sheets and the hushed laughter over shared meals, you forgot to remind yourself of the one thing that mattered most: this was never meant to last.

But at the same time, you almost didn’t want it to end. You enjoyed the way he kissed your knuckles, moved strands of hair out your face, and complimented you when you felt at your lowest. He was seeing every part of you—the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly. You were letting him. 

One night, after a particularly passionate session, he’s running his fingers along the curve of your spine. Naked bodies huddled next to one another, and the sheets offer a nice little coverup. The moonlight peeks through his blinds, the plush mattress sinking further underneath your weights. He kisses the top of your head softly before moving to your temple. Once again, you’re smiling. Tracing mindless circles on his bare chest, your foot rubbing up and down his calf. No words are spoken, there usually aren’t. But the silence doesn’t feel deafening; it feels comfortable. You found yourself snuggling closer to him.  “Satoru?”

“Mhm?” he hummed back, sighing lightly, his smile never wavering. 

“Where do you…see yourself in ten years?”

He hums again, this time in thought, his fingers never ceasing their lazy tracing along your spine. You feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your palm, steady and unhurried. You wonder if he’s really thinking about your question, or if he’s simply enjoying the feel of you against him. “In ten years?” he finally repeats, voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment. “I don’t know…Happy, I guess. Settled down; I’d like to have kids by then.”

Your fingers pause against his chest. You don’t know why, but his answer catches you off guard. Not because it’s shocking—he’s young, full of life, full of potential—but because it’s something you’ve stopped thinking about for yourself. “Kids?” you echo, tilting your head up to look at him. His pale lashes flutter slightly as he meets your gaze, and there’s something soft in his expression, something almost wistful.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a small chuckle escaping him. “A couple of ‘em, maybe. A little girl who’s just as stubborn as me, a boy who’s just as curious. Someone to pass everything down to, y’know?” His hand moves from your back, up to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he exhales. “I think I’d be a good dad.”

You don’t doubt that. Satoru is many things—annoying, arrogant, childish at times—but he’s also deeply caring. He loves with his whole heart, even when he pretends he doesn’t. You can see him being the kind of father who carries his child on his shoulders, who spoils them with sweets, who makes bad dad jokes just to hear their laughter.

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to say that out loud. Instead, you settle for a noncommittal hum, lowering your head back onto his chest, letting the weight of his words settle between you. Ten years from now, he’ll have a family. He’ll have everything he wants. And you won’t be part of it.

That’s when reality hit for you. You’re holding him back. You can’t give him what he wants, what he longs for. It’s a bittersweet, brutal reminder that this little world you’ve built was only meant to be temporary. That the laughs, touches, kisses, the sex, it’s fickle. You’ve blinded yourself and let yourself sink too far deep to understand that what Satoru wants…he can’t experience with you. 

And so, it started small. Days spent out with him, your eyes would flicker around, moving from one woman to the next. Pointing them out to him in an encouraging way. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” “Maybe you should go ask for her number.”

“You’re both tall, you would go well together.”

It honestly hurt to push him away—to open his eyes to the other fish in the sea while a small part of you wished he could only be yours. But you’d never ask him to stop following his dreams of becoming a family man for your own selfish desires. 

At the start, he humors you. Rolls his eyes, scoffs, plays along like it’s just another one of your little jokes. “She’s alright, I guess,” he shrugs when you point out a woman at the café, her long legs crossed elegantly as she sips on a cappuccino. “But I prefer my women a little more…experienced.” He flashes you that cocky grin, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.

You laugh, but it’s forced. You ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him. But then you do it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t take him long to catch on.

One evening, when you offhandedly comment on the cute waitress who just served your drinks, something shifts in his expression. His smile dims, his fingers drum idly against the table. “Y’know,” he says, tone too casual, too light. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately.” 

You feign ignorance, sipping your wine. “Doing what?”

“Trying to set me up like some kind of matchmaking service.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze sharp. “You got tired of me already?”

You force back a sigh. The way he says it—half-joking, half-serious—makes your stomach twist. “Satoru—”

“No, really,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head. “Is that what this is? You pushing me away? Guilt-tripping me into realizing you’re too old for me or whatever bullshit you’ve been telling yourself?”

Your fingers clench around the stem of your glass. He sees right through you. You swallow, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Looking out for me?” He leans back, stretching his arms along the booth. “Or making decisions for me?”

You hate how much that stings. You hate how right he is.

“I just…” You exhale, setting your glass down. “I just don’t want to hold you back, Satoru.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. You think he’s going to tell you you’re being ridiculous, that he wants you, that he doesn’t care about the future you keep running from.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really that convinced this can’t work, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he mutters, reaching for his drink. “Message received.”

And just like that, the air between you shifts.

Colder.

More distant.

Like the beginning of the end.

Your heart drops, looking back down at your wine. For a second, you felt like you ruined things. But it’s better to nip things in the bud than let them bloom, is it not?

Even after that, he was still adamant about seeing you. You let him, deciding to relish in these last few tender moments you may have with him. The sun was shining and beaming down on you two as you ate your brunch. It was a pleasant day. She was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made you wonder how someone like her could even exist in this world. The type of beautiful that turned heads and left impressions. The type that had Satoru slowly following her with his eyes. You tell yourself this is a good thing. That this is what you wanted. That you should feel relieved that, finally, he’s looking at someone else the way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

But it doesn’t feel like a relief. It feels like a knife twisting in your gut.

You lift your mimosa to your lips, taking a slow sip, pretending you don’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her. She’s stunning—long legs, flawless skin, a radiant smile that could stop anyone in their tracks, and long black hair. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not in a small café, laughing at something her friend just said.

You force yourself to smile. “She’s exactly your type.”

Satoru’s attention snaps back to you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. He blinks, then exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “I’m just saying, you should talk to her.”

He scoffs, pushing his fork around his plate. “Yeah? And then what?”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Satoru sets his silverware down with a quiet clink, resting his arms on the table. “Let’s say I go up to her. Get her number. Take her on a date.” He shrugs, giving you a half-smile. “Then what? I sleep with her? Take her on more dates? Marry her?”

You stare at him, not sure where this is going.

“And then we have kids,” he continues, his tone light, but his eyes—his eyes are sharp, cutting right through you. “That’s what you want, right? For me to find someone younger, someone who can give me the future I want.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “So, tell me something.” His voice drops, softer now, almost vulnerable. “If I wanted all of that with someone else, don’t you think I’d already be doing it?”

Your breath catches.

He waits.

But you don’t have an answer.

All you can do is encourage him to go up to her.

And he did.

He was reluctant, of course. Only doing it to shut you up. 

But you saw the way his expression softened, the way his dimples poked out when he’d talk about her. You were there on the side, watching what he once thought would be a simple meeting, to finding a woman he’d started to fall for. 

It was like watching a slow-moving car crash—one you orchestrated with your own hands. You had done this. You had led him to her, pushed him in her direction, knowing full well what it would mean. And yet, knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The texts started. Little mentions of her here and there. You caught the way his face lit up in a way you hadn’t seen before, the way he spoke about her with that quiet sort of wonder like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he never expected to solve. You were still a part of his life, still, someone he made time for, but something between you had shifted irreversibly. The stolen moments, the lingering touches, the whispered confessions under moonlit sheets—they grew fewer and further between, replaced by something… distant.

She was such a kind and lovely woman, her voice made of butter when she spoke to you about him. And when you caught him smiling at his phone one evening, thumb idly tapping out a message to her, you knew.

He had found what you wanted for him. What he deserved. What you couldn’t give him.

So why did it feel like you were the one being left behind?

“Are you happy?” you had whispered, holding him tight in a hug, eyes beginning to water.

He held you back, arms secure around your waist. His icy hair tickled your skin, and he planted a soft, reverent kiss on your cheek. Pulling back to look at you, he didn’t have that fiery, teasing sparkle in his eyes like usual. No, this time, all that was there was just…him. Just Satoru. 

“I am,” he had said with a genuine finality. 

The trickle of warm tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs swiping softly at the skin. “Good, I’m…I’m happy too.”

Truthfully, you were. Because if you had to let Satoru go, if you had to let him be the man he should be, you knew he was doing it beside a woman that was worth it. She was worth it. And you were beginning to be okay with the fact of being a memory to him, as long as it meant his wishes came true.

You left him, never once looking back, answering his texts or his calls. 

You don’t know how you had the strength to do it, how you managed to pull yourself away from the man you’d poured so much of yourself into. There was a time when you thought you’d never be able to let go—when you believed you’d somehow convince him that the life he envisioned with someone else wasn’t worth pursuing. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep holding onto him, not when the weight of your love was slowly suffocating him, not when you knew that he needed to step into a future that wasn’t tied to a past that could never fully be his. You didn’t want to be the one who held him back, no matter how much it hurt.

The hardest part was the silence that came after. You told yourself it was for the best, that you were doing him a favor, letting him breathe, letting him live without your shadow hanging over him. But the quiet was unbearable. Slowly, the hole he left inside you grew wider, the void left by his absence swallowing you whole. It felt like a slow, silent death—a death that had to happen for him to thrive, even if you weren’t ready for it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

But somehow, that was for the best. He was with her now—his beautiful, young, hopeful future. And you? You were learning to accept the peace that came with being the past. The bittersweet relief of knowing that you had let him go, even when it felt like a piece of you was missing forever. You were learning to find happiness and acceptance with that. But you knew deep down, a part of you would always love him. And that part would remain tucked away, hidden, safe in the quiet recesses of your heart where no one could touch it. Because, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much life moved on, Satoru would always be the one who made you believe in the fleeting beauty of something that could never truly last.

Seven years had passed, and time had etched its marks on both of you. You were different now—wiser, perhaps. Life had moved on, as it always did, carrying you forward in unexpected ways. You found a home in Japan, a little place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, a perfect reflection of the peace you had slowly cultivated within yourself. It was the kind of home you never thought you'd need after him, but somehow, it filled the emptiness that had lingered for so long.

When you saw him again, it felt like a thousand memories rushed back to you in a single moment. His shock was palpable—eyes wide with disbelief, brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of the woman standing before him. The same Satoru, yet different in small, subtle ways. His features had softened, a few lines around his eyes that spoke of time passing, of laughter shared, of a life fully lived. He was healthy, vibrant, the man you’d once known and the one who had continued his journey without you. "Y/N?" His voice was quiet at first, unsure if this was real or just a figment of his mind. His gaze swept over you as if trying to understand how you could still exist in his life after everything.

And then, he smiled. It wasn’t the same playful grin that had always been there, the one that had once made your heart race. This one was softer, warmer—gentler. It carried the weight of the years apart, but also the familiarity of someone who had once been an integral part of your soul.

And you smiled back again.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, the embrace as natural as it was unexpected. It wasn’t just a hug; it was a reunion, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you both. For a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling the comforting strength of his hold, the warmth of his body that you once thought you'd never feel again. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just the undeniable connection that had never truly disappeared. It was as though time had been kind to you both, erasing the pain and replacing it with something softer, something more peaceful.

“Satoru,” you muttered softly, almost in relief. 

"You look good," he said softly, pulling away just enough to look at you, his hands lingering on your arms as if testing the reality of this moment. 

You feel something cold pressed against your arm, looking down…there’s a golden ring on his left ring finger. Your lips parted with mild surprise before looking up at him with a sense of blitheness. You couldn’t help but chuckle, eyes crinkling in the way he loved—loves. “...is it her?”

He nods, glancing down at your own hand. And look at that; he’s not the only one with a gold ring. “And what about you?’ he asked, a softness in his voice.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, bringing your hand up and admiring the band around your finger, the diamond saying hello once more. Memories of your husband’s gruff voice, his frown that he tried so hard to keep etched on his face, the spiky black hair you loved to comb your fingers through, the scar on the corner of his mouth that you loved to kiss. “His name is Toji.”

He nodded with a wave of approval. “How long?”

“Three years. And you?”

“Four.”

You guys laughed simultaneously.  The sound of your shared laughter fills the quiet space between you two, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. There’s an ease to it, an old familiarity that you never quite lost, even with the years between you. The weight of everything that had happened—your separation, his journey, your own—seems to melt away, leaving only the lightness of the present moment. It feels almost surreal, standing there with him, both of you changed yet still the same in many ways.

You glance down at your left hand again, the ring catching the sunlight that spills through the window. The cool metal seems to hum with its own kind of quiet significance. Toji. 

But now, standing here with Satoru, there’s a strange sense of nostalgia mixed with contentment. You never imagined this—standing side by side with him, sharing your worlds as they are now. When you look up at Satoru, you see the same softness in his eyes that’s always been there, but now it carries with it the weight of time. He has a family, a future that doesn’t include you, and that’s okay. There’s peace in that. He’s found what he was always meant to have, the thing that once felt like an impossibility between you two.

“Four years,” you repeat, your voice soft, taking in the new ring on his finger. “That’s beautiful, Satoru. I’m…I’m so happy for you.”

He grins, that same playful glint in his eyes, but this time it feels like it’s tempered by something deeper, something more sincere. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “She’s incredible. I’m really lucky.”

The warmth that spreads through you isn’t jealousy, or bitterness, or anything like that. It’s something else entirely—pride, maybe. Or relief. You always knew that Satoru was meant for something bigger than what you two could have together, but seeing him happy now, seeing him settled with someone who makes his eyes light up the way they used to with you, it’s the closure you never thought you needed. 

“You?” he asks again, as though sensing the unspoken question between you two. His gaze shifts to your hand again, then back up to your face. 

The words come out easily now. “He’s my rock,” you say simply, the affection in your voice unguarded. “He makes me better, makes me whole.”

Satoru’s expression softens, and you see the flicker of that old tenderness—the way he used to look at you before everything got complicated. But it’s not painful, this time. It’s not heavy. It’s just… understanding. Like he’s happy that you’ve found that kind of peace. The kind of peace he’s found with her. “You both deserve it,” he says with a nod, as though sealing the quiet approval between you two. “You deserve everything good that comes your way.”

It’s a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. The unspoken acknowledgment that the two of you, after all this time, have moved on, and have created lives for yourselves that reflect who you’ve become. And for all that has happened, all the loss and the love that came and went, there’s something beautiful in knowing that this chapter—this shared history—is now something you both cherish without needing to hold on to.

He invited you over that day and you accepted. 

His wife runs up to you, hugging you like you’re an old friend. “Oh my god!” she exclaims in a gasp, her red-tinted lips curved up into a wide smile. You hugged her back, mirroring his reactions. “It’s so great to see you again, Miss. Satoru and I have never forgotten you.”

“Utahime…” he mutters with slight embarrassment. 

You chortled and patted her back. “I haven’t forgotten about you too either.”

She pulls back, removing her arms from you. Satoru places a warm arm around her waist and brings her to his side. The display of affection has you melting on the inside, head tilting in fondness. Satoru looks at you. “So, there’s someone we want you to—”

The sound of little pitter-patter against the hardwood cuts him off, all of your attention being dragged to the little girl with white hair and auburn eyes like her moth bounding up to you in excited familiarity. Her tiny gasp as she looks up at you with wide, innocent, twinkling eyes. She looked up at you as if she had known you her whole life, bubbling with a sense of jitteriness, cheeks glowing with a youthful flush. You couldn’t help but crouch down to her height, head tilting. Your eyes glazed over with tears, holding a hand to your mouth to hold back the broken laugh you almost let out at the question she asked you. 

“Are you the fairy?”

a/n: this story is inspired by "a love not made for me" by aryana rose. please go hear her speak it, she tells it so beautifully :(((. anywho, thank u guys for 2k really. i love u all and I'm incredibly grateful for all the support and love and patience :))

i couldn't do it without yall. <3

[bootsukki]

the first time tsukki buys you flowers, it’s almost by accident.

he’s on his way to your house after practice, passing by a small flower shop, when a bouquet of soft yellow tulips catches his eye. he has no idea why he stops to look at them—maybe it’s the way they remind him of you, always bright and warm. checking his wallet, he enters the shop and buys them.

truth be told, he doesn’t expect much of a reaction from you, you have been dating for four months and he doesn’t even know if you like flowers (he knows you’re not allergic though because you always tend to the school garden with one of your friends) and when he arrives, he just shoves them into your arms.

but, when your eyes widen in delight, your fingers tighten around the stems and you look at him like he’s just handed you the stars, he knows he’s fucked.

you cling to his arm all the afternoon, giggling every time you look at the flowers and kissing him endlessly, he feels his cheeks burning.

“I should have just brought you candy.” he mutters, pretending to be annoyed.

but he does it again. and again. and again.

sometimes, he starts picking up flowers on random days—after practice, when he sees sales on his konbini… you react the same way, eyes bright, arms thrown around him, pressing kisses to his face. he mumbles under his breath but he never pulls away from your hugs and precious kisses he cherishes so much.

he continues doing so when you go to tokyo to study and he stays in sendai. every two weeks, without fail, a bouquet arrives at your doorstep, always with a note scrawled in his familiar and neat handwriting, “try not to kill these before i visit you, pretty.”

and when he sees you again, you throw yourself at him in the middle of the train station and, like always, he lets you. because he’s missed this and you.

even after college, the flowers never stop.

the day he thinks about proposing, he goes back to your old text messages, finding your messages and pictures about every single bouquet he has given you and asks for a special bouquet filled with one of every single important bouquet he has given you, from the tulips to the roses he gave you last anniversary.

as he hands you the bouquet and goes down on one knee, you tear up and nod, hands shaking as he puts the ring on your finger and he knows he made the right choice by choosing you.

the morning of your wedding is a blur of soft laughter and excitement as you sit down on the chair to start getting your makeup and hair done.

but before they can start, yachi clears her throat, drawing your attention.

“i have something for you.”

yachi grins, stepping aside to reveal the most beautiful bouquet resting in one of the vanities.

you gasp—the bouquet is a masterpiece filled with pastel calla lillies, clemantis, veronicas and slipper orchids. you stand up, reaching out for the flowers, brushing over the beautiful petals. and then, you see your name written in his familiar handwriting in an envelope.

baby,

i’d like to say that i planned all of this from the beginning, that the first time i bought you flowers, i already knew i would be doing it for the rest of my life, but the truth is that i didn’t realize until i saw your beautiful eyes and gorgeous smile when you saw the yellow tulips.

i love your smile and i wanted to see you smile. you looked at me like i had given you the world and you held to them like you never wanted to let go.

so, i kept bringing them every chance i had. do you remember how sad you were when the wind ruined the bouquet i gave you during your last finals weeks? i got so mad and sad that i ran to the store at nearly 2 am to buy you some and get them sent to you the following day.

i am not good with words, you know that so i guess that i found everything that i wanted to say through flowers: i miss you, you’re the best thing that has happened to me, i love you, i want to spend the rest of my life with you…

i think that this one is the most special one. do you remember all those late night work i had to do? i lied, sorry.

i was getting special lessons from the florist down the street: how to prepare a bouquet, how to cut the stems perfectly so they last longer, how to take care of them… all of that so i could get you what i think it is the prettiest bouquet of all the ones i have gotten you although i don’t think they are as beautiful as you are but i have selected them because their delicate colors and smoothness makes me think of you and i don’t know, i wanted to remind you that you are always on my mind.

holy shit, you and me forever. FOREVERRRRRRRRR (if you see tear marks while you read this, those are NOT mine).

i love you baby, i’ll wait for you at the end of the aisle so, take a deep breath, wipe those tears (I know you are probably crying) and see you soon. can’t wait to make you my wife.

-kei.

you clutch the letter to your chest as tears spill freely onto your cheeks and your friends laugh softly, cleaning their own tears as well.

“is it too late to use this as my wedding bouquet?”

[bumblesimagines]

Familiar Faces

Request: Yes or No

Summary: When his afternoon takes an unusual shift, (Y/N) reacquaints himself with his neighbor and an old classmate.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical Twilight warnings, mentions of emotionally and physically absent parents, not much tbh

I decided to give the book another chance! divider by thecutestgrotto

~~~

"Move your ass or I'm going to dump all your makeup in a pot of boiling water, Abby!"

He waited a moment, then felt a surge of satisfaction when the shuffling upstairs became a hurried thumping of footsteps, quickening their pace in fleeting worry of the threat. (Y/N) waited at the base of the stairs, his arms crossed over his chest and foot tapping impatiently against the old wooden floorboard beneath him. It was an empty threat, of course; he'd never let money go to waste.

His precious little sister was no longer the toddler who wept until he bundled her into his arms or the little girl who clung to his pant legs while suckling on her thumb until it turned bright red. She'd reached the tiresome age of thirteen, when she still dove toward him for safety during horror movies but stuck her nose up at his help. This was the age when children became teenagers, and their interests faded from dolls and playdates to makeup and hangouts at the mall with friends and potential future partners.

He missed those days. He'd give anything to return to them instead of working at some low-end diner where he served food to truckers, lumberjacks, and fishermen who'd known him his whole life. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Abby appeared on the landing, no longer wearing her strawberry-print pajamas or fuzzy red socks. A small huff left her before she rapidly descended the stairs and hopped down from the last step. The bottom of her low-top black converses landed on the floorboard with a loud and purposeful thump!

He scanned her powdered pink cheeks and the clumpy mascara sticking to her lashes, his arms dropping to retrieve her backpack from the floor. "You look like a clown."

"As if you'd know anything about makeup, asshat." Another thing about reaching thirteen: learning curse words and sounding like someone trying to speak a language they'd never practiced before. His smirk only made her roll her eyes and snatch the backpack from his hands, quiet huffy muttering filling the air.

Living with a preteen girl was certainly something. 

Once he slipped on his muddy, worn-out boots (and pointedly ignored Abby's mutters about getting new ones or at least cleaning them), he stepped out onto their wet porch and held the door open for Abby. His eyes tracked her as she made her way down the steps, a quiet hum of disappointment vibrating in his throat when the wet stairs failed to make her slip as they so often did. It was the highlight of his day, and he often took it as a good sign. 

Abby glared at him over her shoulder and he quietly snickered, locking up the house and wiggling the doorknob before carefully following her to his car. His head tilted toward their next-door neighbor's house when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He met Chief Swan's eye across the mini swamp of halfway submerged grass and mud combining their small front yards. Chief Swan raised his arm in greeting and then looked toward the figure standing on his porch, speaking words lost in the distance. 

Oh, right. His daughter was back in town. How could he forget when it was the latest buzz?

"Morning, (Y/N), Abigail!" Chief Swan called, and his daughter, Isabella, snapped her head in her father's direction with wide eyes. She looked at him, almost pleadingly, but her father either remained oblivious or purposefully ignored her because he made his way toward them and motioned for her to follow. Her nose crinkled as she trekked through the grass, taking long strides to avoid getting her shoes too muddy and wet. "You remember my daughter, right?"

"Yeah." Vaguely. He recalled 'playdates' when they were younger, the two of them sat side by side with little Jacob Black and his twin sisters on a fishing boat during the summer while their fathers fished and laughed about things their young minds couldn't fully understand. Most of the time, they were forced to 'play' while the adults sat by idly. He offered her a nod and she lifted her fingers off her backpack strap in greeting. "How are you, Isabella?"

"Good." She smiled nervously and visibly swallowed. Definitely not good. "Bella's fine, by the way."

"Bell, remember Abigail?" 

At the sound of her name, Abby looked up from her phone and squinted briefly at Bella before one of those polite I-have-no-idea-who-you-are smiles appeared on her face; the types of smiles you wore when a distinctively familiar elderly woman approached you with claims of having once changed your diaper. It was expected given Abby had been a toddler verging on child when the two of them were finally given the option to hang out with the adults or not. Bella held Abby exactly one time back then, and she'd looked as rigid as a statue the entire time.

"Mhm." Bella nodded weakly. "Hi."

"Hi." Abby turned back to her phone, wholly uninterested in catching up with someone she scarcely remembered. Bella looked relieved.

From the depths of his memories, he dragged out an image of Bella from their childhood and compared it to the young girl standing on the line between teenhood and adulthood. She was skinny and soft-looking, her cheeks still round with youthful fat and naturally flushed from the cold damp air but her limbs were long and almost lanky, unlike the small girl he remembered. She'd never been interesting looking with her pale skin, average chestnut brown hair, and normal brown eyes but she was pretty, in a conventionally attractive kind of way.

Awkwardness and tension forced her into a hunch, her head dipped and hands curled around her backpack straps to give an almost boxy look to her figure. Shy as always but perfectly average-looking like everyone else in town, apart from the Cullens, of course. Nothing made her stand out, and he assumed it was something she was relieved by. It was better that way in small towns. 

"We should get going." (Y/N) said, tearing his eyes away from Bella who'd also been flickering her eyes between him and his sister, likely updating the images in her head of them like he'd done. He jerked his head in Abby's direction. "I gotta get this one to school."

"Forks Juinor High is on the way to Forks High, isn't it?" Chief Swan questioned as if he didn't have the whole town and each individual street memorized, his blunt nails lightly scraping against the growing stubble along his jaw and cheeks in thought. (Y/N) was fairly certain he could drive around blindfolded and never miss a single turn. 

"Dad-"

"Why don't you drop Bella off? The truck's still got a dent from that accident." Chief's Swan voice went up a pitch, containing a certain tone (Y/N) was more than familiar with. It was a scheming type of tone, the type your aunts would have when they were subtly trying to set you up with someone while pretending otherwise.

In a far, distant memory of his childhood, he vaguely recalled Bella's mother once cooing over how 'perfect' and 'meant to be' he and Bella were when they were children. He was fairly certain the only thing they were perfect for was pretending and occasionally helping decorate each other's trees for Christmas.

"Dad." Bella looked positively mortified, so much so the tips of her ears turned a bright red. (Y/N) would've felt bad if it weren't a little amusing. "It's fine, I swear. It's a small dent, it's nothing-"

"Safety first, Bell." Chief Swan lifted his bushy brows at her and placed his hands over his hips in a typical dad pose before he turned back to him. "You don't mind, do you, (Y/N)? It'll give you time to catch up."

"Fine by me." (Y/N) chuckled and Bella's shoulders slumped with defeat. "Hop in, Bella." 

The ride to Forks Junior High was mostly silent, apart from the soft sound of the warm air pumping inside and the tapping of Abby's nails against her phone screen. Bella fiddled with the zipper of her backpack and glanced at him occasionally, lips parting as if to say something but chickening out last minute each time. He tried to keep his focus on the road, and then the carpool line, gazing at the school containing an ocean of memories. 

"Did you do your Civics homework?" He glanced at Abby in the rearview mirror, catching the way her lips pursed and a second of panic flashed over her face. He shook his head as the car slowed to a stop, listening to the soft click of the doors unlocking. "Finish it before class, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah." Abby slung her backpack over her shoulder and pushed the door open, hopping out of the car and slamming it behind her. A second later, she opened it again to call out a quick 'love you!' before she shut it and hurried off to group up with her circle of friends.

They greeted each other enthusiastically, hugs going all around before they huddled together, likely to gossip or gush over some dumb boy they'd forget about by the time the winter formal strolled around. He assumed half her friends would take up cheerleading in high school, not that Forks had much to cheer on with their mediocre school teams. (Y/N) already predicted Abby would follow suit and take on being a cheerleader just to have something in common with them. 

Bella chewed on her bottom lip and watched the middle school pass on by, the view replaced by a long expanse of towering trees. "She's taller than I expected. What is she, fourteen?" She turned to look at him, her toothless smile telling him she was simply trying to break the silence before it could grow unbearably uncomfortable. 

"Thirteen." He corrected with a heavy sigh. The word weighed heavy on his tongue. Thirteen would become fourteen and fourteen would become sixteen and soon he'd have a high school senior searching for colleges on his hands threatening to take his little firecracker away from him. "She's doing better than I was in middle school."

Bella laughed softly at that and the gripping tension in her shoulders disappeared. Her body slouched more comfortably against the car seat and her fidgeting fingers smoothed out along her backpack, the smile on her face turning into a more genuine one. "Charlie says you graduated last year. What are you still doing here?" Her head lolled back against the headrest, dark eyes watching him with soft interest.

"Mom works long hours at the hospital and Dad's always on the road. Someone has to keep an eye on Abby." (Y/N) shrugged casually despite the pinch of bitterness in his gut.

It'd been an option, his mother had insisted a few weeks before he was supposed to walk across the stage and grab his diploma, to teach Abby some of the basics so she could cook herself some meals. He hardly found it fair for her to be forced to basically live alone in a two-story house with no one else to tend to her apart from the rare times their mother had days off, but she usually spent those downing whatever liquor they had and sleeping the day away to actually count as time off work. 

"Do.. do you wish it was different?" Bella asked tentatively and she pushed herself to sit up straighter when the tall brick buildings of Forks High peeked over the treeline. She zipped up her crinkling coat and adjusted her backpack so one strap was snug over her shoulder and halfway resting on her thigh. 

"Sometimes." He nodded and felt a wave of deja vu wash over him when he pulled into the parking lot of the school. Four years of familiarizing himself with the route, three years of actually driving it and obtaining a parking spot most of his former classmates associated with him.

(Y/N) carefully drove through the parking lot, occasionally coming to a full stop to allow groups of students to hurry on by, and he almost immediately found his eye drawn to the shiny volvo just a parking spot ahead. The Cullens were gathered around, having just arrived from the looks of it; their car doors were still open, and the big bulky guy he always considered linebacker material was retrieving his backpack from the floor of the back seat.

(Y/N) wasn't familiar with the Cullens. The five of them had enrolled during his junior year and while they'd captivated his attention, he'd never been one for gossip. The boyish one with bronze waves and an air of grumpy indifference otherwise known as Edward secured himself a spot in an AP History class with (Y/N) during his senior year, but the singular time they'd interacted was when Edward had been chosen to hand out a paper for an essay.

That was about as much interaction as he had with the startling beautiful family, though (when she was coherent and conscious) his mother blabbered about how handsome and kind their father, Dr. Cullen, was. He made it a point to stay away from the hospital so he took her word for it.

"Should I drop you off with your friends?" He questioned, scanning the student body shuffling through campus or taking time to squeeze whatever water they could from their pant legs.

"Uh," Bella's eyes briefly flickered to a small group huddled together consisting of two brunettes, a blond jock, and a shorter guy who appeared deep into a debate nobody was particularly paying close attention to. She cleared her throat and shook her head, even ducking her head slightly when the car passed by them. "No, you can, uhm... you can drop me off by the curb. It's fine." 

Carefully maneuvering on the slick road, he stopped by the sidewalk leading up to the building and watched her fumble with the seatbelt, attempting to be quick but it effectively got her nowhere. A quiet, rushed apology tumbled from her lips before she pushed the door and stumbled out, nearly tripping on the curb but catching herself in time. Jesus, this girl. It was a miracle she didn't land herself in the hospital every week.

She ducked her head to smile at him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Thanks for the ride. I'll see you later at pick-up?"

"Yep." She was like a deer- or a fawn, actually. Trembling legs and survival instincts that'd yet to kick in.

"Great, bye!"

Bella moved to shut the door only to catch it before it could shut properly. Her body stiffened and she held it for a brief second, as if her mind caught up to what her body had done, before she opened it again and ducked down to smile sheepishly at him. She hooked her finger around a strand that slipped over her face and her eyes flickered around the interior of his car nervously. 

"I.. I was wondering if you wanted to come to Seattle a week from Saturday with me- if you can, of course. I want to stop by and grab a few books, and maybe some clothes." Bella explained, shifting her weight from foot to foot as the consequence of her uncomfortable position settled onto her back. She then rushed out, "It's okay if you can't. I just thought it'd be nice to go with someone." 

"Sure, sounds good." He nodded, and she visibly relaxed once more. "I don't mind." 

"Cool." She nodded too and remained still as her mouth pressed into an awkward line. "Okay, uhm.. bye, again."

This time she let the door close completely and he chuckled under his breath, watching her quickly make her way toward the building to get out of the light drizzle right as Edward Cullen caught up with her. He arched a surprised brow at the sight of them together but from the irritated way Bella looked at him, he assumed they were far from friends. Edward looked amused, though. He spared a glance over his shoulder at (Y/N) and- much to his surprise, again- he raised his hand to give a small wave.

Did he remember him from History class? Maybe.. no, definitely. Why else would he wave to a complete stranger? Clearing his throat, (Y/N) waved back, which seemed to please the usually scowling boy. Edward turned back to Bella and spoke to her, prompting a flustered scowl and a peek over her shoulder at him. 

(Y/N) tore his eyes off the two and stepped on the gas, carefully avoiding getting caught in any iced-over parts and dragging a poor student along with him before he drove back onto the road. 

The diner he worked at, like most places in Forks, was just off the interstate and separated from other buildings by short expanses of woods on three sides. The neon lights that once shone vibrantly had dulled into a lime green color that read Milton's Diner during the daylight and Din in sparse flickers during nighttime, hardly inviting but it still had its fair share of loyal customers shuffling in and out throughout the week. It was a small, shabby, diner run by the same family throughout the decades.

It was there before him and it'd probably be there long after he perished.

Like a switch was flipped in his head, (Y/N) settled into work mode the second he stepped inside and found his nose assaulted with the smell of brewing coffee and cooking oil. He felt as if he'd stepped out of his body and left it to run on autopilot while he took orders, answered questions, laughed at jokes he'd heard a million times over, and balanced hot plates on his arms until the rush of morning slowed into the even pace of the afternoon.

He always knew he wasn't destined for much outside of Forks, or the dingy diner he worked at.

A certain hope lingered with him through his high school years, one that told him he could make it out of his small town and make something of himself, but that'd been promptly crushed under the heel of parents who'd had no business having a second child when they barely tended to their first. He wanted to hate them, to scream at them each time he saw them, but when he took in the exhaustion they wore like second skin, he always thought twice about it. 

The soft ding of the bell brought him back from his daily pity party and he pushed himself off the wall, already deducing the only other waiter working was on her tenth smoke break despite having only clocked in an hour prior. He reached into his apron and tugged out his notepad and pen, the greeting automatically rolling off his tongue before he even looked up. 

Bella stared at him in alarm, already halfway into one of the booths. Edward looked overly amused.

(Y/N) was no stranger to ditching class or recognizing former classmates on impromptu dates but he never expected Isabella Swan would be the type to do either of those things. Her face flushed in that familiar shade of red and she glared accusingly at Edward, her body lightly thumping against the cushion of the booth when she sat.

He tilted his head toward the old and chipped grandfather clock pressed against the wall by the counter. "Shouldn't you be in school?" He questioned them, pointing his gaze at Bella because he knew what her father would think about it. He had little idea what rules Dr. Cullen imposed on his adopted kids.

"I-" 

"Bella fainted," Edward stated, grinning when Bella glared at him again before he continued. "She wasn't feeling well so I offered to drive her home." 

"And you came here instead?" 

"And we came here instead." Edward nodded, almost as if he were a regular customer and not someone who looked like he belonged at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.

Edward picked up the flappy and likely sticky menu to study it, his eyes flickering over it too quickly for someone who was actually taking time to look at the options before he set it back down and peered up at him.

His eyes were an interesting shade of golden brown, which was odd considering (Y/N) recalled them being a whole lot darker the last time he saw him up close. He still looked other-worldly, like a model in a magazine whose face had been photoshopped to rid it of any imperfections, yet the area below his eyes was a darker shade as if he wasn't getting enough sleep. Strange for a kid who likely slept on the most expensive mattress and nicest of sheets.

"I'll get a black coffee." 

"I thought you were hungry," Bella said under her breath, hands roughly tugging at the sleeves of her wet jacket until it was snugly set beside her and draped over her backpack. 

Edward barely glanced at the menu. "And fries."

By the time (Y/N) turned around toward the counter, Dolores had returned to her spot behind it and set a cup of steaming black coffee for him to retrieve before turning to shout the simple order into the kitchen in her nasally voice. He shot her a thankful smile and she nodded in return with her usual blank expression, her attention more focused on squinting at Edward before looking away to read the newspaper she'd abandoned in favor of smoking.

Gingerly setting the coffee down in front of Edward, he looked to Bella but she shook her head dismissively. He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment and tucked his notepad away, sparing the two another look before spinning on his heels and retreating to his corner while he waited for the fries. He tried not to watch them but they were virtually the only people in the diner, apart from an old man at the end of the counter who was blatantly dozing off over his half-eaten burger. 

Bella and Edward had a hushed conversation, one that seemed to amplify her irritation and his amusement. Every so often, her shoulders would slump and her features would relax, and occasionally his expression would tighten with seriousness before melting back into that casual, nearly teasing smile.

They were a strange duo but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Bella was so... Bella and Edward was the quietest of his siblings, perhaps even the normal one of the bunch.

The rattle and thump of the fries took his attention off the two and he slinked up to the counter right as Dolores plopped the basket onto the counter without looking up from her newspaper. He picked it up and took a few steps toward their booth, the smell of the warm fries tantalizing to his senses and he reluctantly parted ways with it. Before he could turn, Edward caught his eye.

"Sit with us." He said, and he added another layer of absurdity by scooting further into the corner and patting the spot beside him.

Did Edward Cullen believe they were... friends? He frantically thought back to his high school years post-Cullens but he only managed to recall the one singular interaction where he'd only muttered a quiet thanks and the few times he'd pass him or one of his siblings in the hallways. Maybe he thought there was mutual respect. Maybe he was thankful (Y/N) hadn't spent his time gawking at him and his family like everyone else.

"I'm working." He mumbled.

Edward surveyed the diner and then quirked a brow at him as if to say 'Seriously? That's your excuse?' so (Y/N) reluctantly slid into the booth beside him. Bella's eyes flickered between them, more perplexed than surprised, but she made no comment about it and instead fished out a fry to nibble on. Edward propped his head on his fist and kept his other hand spread over his thigh, at no point making any move to drink his coffee.

(Y/N) waited for a minute of silence and no movement to pass before he reached out to grab the coffee and some sugar packets from the little tray pressed against the wall. Edward only smiled and watched, a light laugh vibrating in his chest when (Y/N) sipped on it and immediately crinkled his nose.

"Edward is insistent on joining us on our trip to Seattle. I hope that's okay?" Bella's brows lifted in a pleading kind of way, her puckered lips and the way she glanced at Edward telling him she definitely tried diverting the subject but ended up giving in.

"You two can go." He spoke in a tone he hoped reassured her he wasn't mad about it. He wondered how much Charlie knew about the trip. Would he have to cover for her? 

"No," Edward shook his head and one of his wavy strands fell over his forehead. "The three of us will go. We'll take my car." 

Who was he to argue with a Cullen and deny himself a taste of their fancy lifestyle?

"How long have you been working here?" Bella asked, her chin tilted up and eyes roving over the random posters, license plates, signs, and animal head mounts scattered across the walls.

If she was looking for an aesthetic, she wasn't going to find one. The decorations had a habit of suddenly appearing with little to no explanation, and they didn't pay (Y/N) to question their choice of interior design. He could, however, do without a mounted deer staring at him while he worked.

"A while." (Y/N) answered, regretfully taking another sip of the coffee out of habit. Edward laughed again and attempted to muffle it by pressing his mouth into his knuckles when (Y/N) glanced at him. "Mom's work pays for most of the bills but I have to pay for my car, groceries, anything Abby needs or wants. I started working so I wouldn't have to bother her all the time."

"She's your mom," Edward said suddenly, his brows furrowing. "It shouldn't bother her." 

"She works long hours." (Y/N) shrugged but Edward still looked unconvinced. Annoyed, even.

Bella hummed. "And your dad? Is he still driving trucks?" 

His lips pursed. "I think. I haven't seen him around for a while but he sends money sometimes so he's still alive... somewhere. Sometimes I think he has a new family somewhere else."

Silence fell over the table, as it usually did when (Y/N) revealed his family wasn't exactly the white picket fence type. Bella looked sympathetic, but (Y/N) knew she was familiar with the struggle of having a somewhat incompetent parent and a borderline absent one, even though it'd been her choice to spend more time with Renée. Edward, on the other hand, looked furious with his deep frown and knitted brows that formed creases in his otherwise smooth skin.

"So, uh," (Y/N) cleared his throat, eager for a subject change away from him and his family. "How'd you two meet?"

"Biology," Bella answered yet her eyes were more focused on studying Edward. "We- We sit next to each other."

(Y/N) tried to ignore Edward staring a hole into the side of his head. He was sort of.. weird.  "Ah... well, we had History together last year. I don't remember where we sa-"

"I sat on the row directly behind you." Edward interrupted, his voice quiet yet naturally attention-grabbing.

"There wasn't a sitting chart but you sat in the same spot by the window the whole year and you spent half of the class each day staring out of it at the forest but you always got good grades. Kayla Patton and Chloe Asaka were the ones who sat next to you most often; Kayla because she had a crush on you and Chloe because she's known you since middle school and you had another class together. You were one of Mr. Wallace's favorites and you were always in class earlier than everyone talking to him even though everyone hates him because he's strict."

(Y/N) could only stare at the bronze-haired boy beside him in startled silence. He'd forgotten about Kayla Patton entirely, let alone even realized Edward Cullen had spent the entire year faithfully sitting behind him. The amount of conversations he must've overheard, the amount of habits he must've picked up on. He felt a hint of fleeting guilt for not having taken note of the Cullen earlier. 

"History couldn't have been that boring." He exhaled, suddenly feeling wildly shy.

He always considered himself more of a passerby, someone who blended into the background and went unnoticed by strangers. People recognized him, it was a given in a small town, but it was never the kind of attention that implied they were looking or waiting for him because they wanted to be in his presence. Yet, perhaps the most wanted boy in school, had paid him attention. Had he worried each time (Y/N) called out sick? Was he relieved each time he appeared the following day?

"It wasn't." Edward agreed, the anger replaced with soft amusement. The gentleness on his face was almost tender, like the way Chief Swan used to gaze at Renée before their divorce. "You were just more interesting."

Edward was full of surprises, and (Y/N) had never been a big fan of them. Heat licked up the back of his neck and bit at his cheeks, ones that were already warm from the smoke slipping out from the kitchen. He looked away from Edward with a quiet noise and when the Cullen chuckled, low and husky and vaguely flustered, (Y/N)'s heart undoubtedly skipped a beat.

Ah, shit. He'd been hoping he was immune to the untouchable Cullens.

No matter what he did, he couldn't get Edward and his stupid words out of his head. He'd forgotten how irritating and distracting crushes were- ugh God, was it really a crush?

Edward was undeniably attractive, he recognized it the second he and his siblings became the talk of the town, but he'd never actually been attracted to him. He'd had always been Edward Cullen, the guy whose model-like siblings were dating each other and nobody truly cared because they 'weren't actually related'. But now, each time he closed his eyes, Edward's pretty honey eyes flashed in his head, crinkled with warmth and humor.

He was hyper-aware of himself now too, and when he usually tossed on whatever was in reach, he took a moment to think about his clothes before realization slammed into him each time. 

He wanted to strangle Edward, or better yet, run him over until his pretty face remained permanently disfigured and he had to remain on permanent bed rest so (Y/N) would never have to lay eyes on him again. 

Maybe he wasn't the best at processing his emotions...

(Y/N) swirled around the soggy cereal in his bowl and watched the remaining Cheerios swim along the milk, waiting to be eaten or dumped down the drain. Abby, thankfully, hadn't caught on yet to his predicament and he wanted to keep it that way. (Y/N) (L/N) had better and more important things to fret over than some stupid guy.

His head lifted when he heard two soft knocks on the door, and he waited until he heard another before scooping the bowl into his hand and chugging half of the remaining milk. The bowl clattered softly when he placed it into the sink and he wiped at his mouth, mentally flickering back through the checklist he'd made for Abby when she told him of sleeping over at her friend's place. Instead of seeing his sister standing on the porch, he saw their neighbor.

"Bella," He greeted and he looked her over, unconsciously searching for an injury or anything that could explain her sudden appearance. It was a Saturday but Charlie was working and he guessed it was easier to cross the yard than search the town for her father if she needed help. Bella looked unnaturally frustrated.

"Can I.. talk to you about something?" She asked, fiddling with the sleeves of her rain jacket.

He frowned. "Of course." 

With Abby having a sleepover at her friend's house and their mother essentially living at the hospital, the house was silent. Bella reacquainted herself with the interior, gazing over dusty picture frames and running her finger along the old railing as they made their way up into his bedroom. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had someone over who wasn't Abby's friend.

"You okay?" He asked and took a seat on the edge of the bed, head raised to observe her fully. Bella rocked back and forth on her feet and chewed on her bottom lip, her anxiety making him anxious. "Bella-" 

"This is going to sound crazy.. but hear me out." She began, not the start he wanted to hear but he nonetheless nodded for her to continue with furrowed brows. "I bumped into Jacob at the bonfire Mike invited me to yesterday night and he mentioned some things that had me thinking about the Cullens." 

"The Cullens?" He repeated, his confusion heightening as Bella began to pace his room, her fingers now toying with the ends of her hair.

"The tribe has stories about these 'people' they call the Cold Ones. Have.. have you ever noticed how Edward's eyes sometimes change color? From black to gold? Or how they're strangely pale and have this almost inhuman beauty? And when I had my accident, Edward was nowhere near me yet he managed to be at my side in seconds and left a dent in Tyler's van with his hands." 

"Okay." (Y/N) said long and slow as he attempted to piece the puzzle she was spewing together. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I think- I think Edward and his family are vampires, (Y/N)." 

[arihi]

Charmed! 2025 (A Community Recap)

Charmed 2025 happened this past weekend, the 10th anniversary. My con recaps of years past desperately tried to fit in as much detail and information of each day, play-by-plays as I tagged everyone I could remember, talked about all the classes I'd been to, the people I'd met. Nowadays, I'm content to just do a general overview.

I spent a lot of time pensive and thinking about my time spent in the community and during cons. The 10th anniversary for Charmed meant that marked 9 years since I'd come out to my very first one. Longer in the community when I was still only online. How does the time fly by so quickly? It doesn't feel real. I still feel very new, and yet when I look around I'm surrounded by unfamiliar faces, cons growing too large and too quickly for me to recognize every face like I used to at the beginning. This sentiment is far from unique, and I had several conversations during the con with people who echoed similar feelings. At one point, I found myself in a group of people who all predated me in the con-going circuit - a rarity as more and more time goes on. We talked about the growth of cons, my first one. Though I'd spent a lot of the day feeling listless without realizing why, I found myself feeling comforted by the company, and realizing I had been lonely.

It's not at all a bad thing, and I'm genuinely happy that more and more people are finding community at these events - god knows I did. It's an adjustment is all, an ever-shifting growth of my own. It's plain to see from my blog activity over the years that I withdrew from talking as often. Not good, not bad, but also for good, and for bad. It's probably good that I don't reveal as much about myself at the drop of a hat. It's probably bad that I'm more avoidant now than I'd like to be. I'd remarked to a friend a while back that I didn't miss the old MMO that we met each other on and spent our days playing, but that I missed the period of time in my life that it defined. Similarly, I think I was going through a huge shift in life and perspective at the time I was first finding my feet at these events, these gatherings of people that taught me that it was worth it to seek my own happiness, that *I* was worth it. I know this inherently now, but it was much more of an impact back then for obvious reasons. I suppose it's like the honeymoon period of a relationship vs. settling into its stability. I suppose you could say I'm in a long-term relationship with myself! And it's some of the healthiest it's ever been. And now that I'm doing better and more stable these days, I should try to push myself to be out there more often.

Every time someone tells me that I've grown so much, I can't help but tear up and cry. (I'm doing it now as I type this.) And wouldn't you believe it, that happened to me like FOUR TIMES during Charmed!! Come on y'all!! What the hell. There's nothing that solves feeling stagnated in life like hearing that from someone else. I resolved myself at the beginning of this post not to feel like I had to document every interaction and tag every person, but it's difficult to fight the urge to yell it from the rooftops, how each interaction genuinely touched me, how they were the highlights of my con. How I miss them again, and how I can't wait to see them again. It couldn't come soon enough. Thank you to those who have watched my journey and always encouraged me. (I feel like I say this often, but, please know that I mean it every time. Except this time like triple it. That's how much it means to me.)

Charmed changed my life. I will say it to my dying breath and I will always be forever grateful for it. I learned people could be happy. I learned I could be happy. The connections I made at the first Charmed and subsequent years have changed my life beyond what a 2015 version of me could ever imagine. Tangibly, too -- beyond just a shift in perspective and mentality and wanting better for myself, I wouldn't have been able to move out without the chain of events that started at this first con. So- thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much.

I challenge myself not to document every interaction because in the past, that was how I had to live. Every post was proof I had experienced hardship (and lived). Every con meant a new lease on life and I had to memorize every single one and struggle to do hours long voice recordings about each day of the event to remember as much as I could because, that was all I could bring back. And I don't need to anymore - not because I don't want to remember, but because I'm in a better place now. These aren't the desperate emergency infusions of care I didn't know I could have; now, they are cherished moments with friends old and new, a drop in the bucket of happy memories. And part of life is to forget and talk about old stories and remember them again with good company.

Until the next one, and the one after that, and the many more after that.

-- Ari

[ingravinoveritas]

Hiya! In case you haven't seen: https://metro.co.uk/2025/02/03/david-tennant-confirms-six-toes-right-foot-its-like-a-nubbin-22466225/

Nice little article. Ignore the toe, haha.

Hi there! Yes, I saw this article this morning, which seems to have come as part of a flurry of PR ahead of David hosting the BAFTAs again this month (the most bizarre of which is the Daily Fail, which starts off talking about the toes and then talks about the BAFTAs and then David and Georgia's marriage, for some reason). But I'll link to the Metro article for those who haven't read it...

I think my reaction to this was twofold. The first reaction I had is to wonder how this seemingly never came up before or was never noticed by anyone, because God knows we've seen David in plenty of roles where he is barefoot. Fortunately, some intrepid souls have spent the better part of the day searching for photographic evidence, and it seems that we do now have a picture of this "nubbin," as David put it. The photo used is from Richard II, so it looks like he may have had it then, but subsequently got it removed. Maybe.

(...Did I mention how weird this is as an anecdote for PR articles promoting the BAFTAs? Because it really is...)

The second reaction that I had to this was a feeling of gentle validation. I know that sounds strange, but I will explain: On both of my feet, my smallest toe (a baby toe that didn't grow in all the way) is second from the end, rather than on the end. It's a genetic/hereditary thing--my Grandma had the same thing--and completely harmless and painless, but I got bullied for it very badly all through school. I remember dreading going to Pool in elementary school because we had to change in the locker room, and the girls were merciless about it. I became so self-conscious that I stopped wearing flip-flops and didn't start again until I was much older.

In hindsight of course, it's a very little thing, but at the time it nearly consumed me, and was a part of why I began to feel suicidal at 10 years old. So hearing about David's "condition" was just sort of lovely, and gave me that nice feeling of "Oh cool, I'm not the only one with weird feet." Haha.

In any case, this is certainly an interesting (if unusual) start to BAFTAs promotion. Glad at least to see David is excited to host again and that he seems to have a good perspective on the whole thing...

[ass-deep-in-demons]

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + the Rohan Squad

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

Rating: T+

Chapter Length: 13k+

Author's Note: Took me over a year to complete this story. A labor of love.

✦ Chapter 3 ✦

… in which Boromir wonders whether the Golden Hall has lost its shine and sets off in search of hope.

[AO3] [masterpost]

[previous chapter]

Firienholt, Rohan, 16th of Cermië 2018 TA

Boromir decided to part with his escort after breakfast. 

The highway leading north from Minas Tirith had become so perilous lately, that no lone man could traverse the land safely. Derufin had volunteered to be part of his host, as well as one of the Steward's knights, Negenor of Emyn Arnen, and two trusted men from the Guard of the Citadel, Hrodulf and Celeg. They had spent the first night in a roadside inn past Amon Din. This close to the city, ordinary commerce yet thrived, but the signs of the brewing war were already present and obvious. Most of the patrons were either members of the fleeing merchant caravans, or farmers and fishermen of North Anorien seeking to reach a refuge in western fiefdoms. 

The inn had been the last civilized establishment before they had to brave the wilds. Past Amon Din, the highway forked; one branch led north towards Cair Andros, the other had taken Boromir and his party west, to Rohan. On the second day they had passed the Druadan Forest. The Wild Men rarely wandered into the vicinity of the King's Highway, but the woods gave shelter to all kinds of strangers, and this was where Boromir had been the most grateful for the presence of his companions. They had spent the night in the camp of the Rangers of Anorien, near the hill of Nardol - no safer and better provisioned haven they could have wished for. The rangers, who answered to the Steward in the absence of the King, but heeded their own codices and followed their own customs, were always ready to shelter those traveling in good faith. Boromir knew personally many Rangers of both Anorien and Ithilien, and they knew him in turn.

The way led steadily west from there. The party had had to spend the next two nights under the stars, with only themselves for company, taking turns keeping watch. Their last night together they had camped in the Firien Woods, known in Gondor as Eryn Fuir. For Boromir, the Whispering Wood had always held an aura of hallowed grounds, perhaps for the proximity of Halifirnen, the legendary resting place of King Elendil. Boromir remembered a pilgrimage to the memorial mound with the Lord Steward, that they had made upon Boromir’s coming of age, shortly after his knighting. He was now tempted to abandon the Highway, hike up the Amon Anwar, stand in the ages-old silence and seek Elendil's blessing for his journey. Alas, he knew it would delay him greatly and that going off the tract meant inviting trouble. His father would not approve of it, anyway.

Their camp had been set on the western edge of the woods, past Glanhir. The gently rolling hills clad in dry grasses, that stretched before them, were telling Boromir that he was on the cusp of entering the demesne of Theoden King. This land enjoyed frequent patrols of the Rohirrim march riders. No danger could befall him on the King's own tract. The Men of Rohan saw to their affairs conscientiously and would suffer no highwaymen bullying any traveler, much less the Captain of the White Tower. He knew a small guesthouse on the way, where he could stop for a warm luncheon, and, Valar permitting, he should reach Aldburg by evening, and Edoras on the next day. 

He could hardly wait to meet with Theodred. A long time had passed since they had last seen each other. A bad friend I have been, he thought, but so has Theodred. Letters can travel both ways!  

"Are you so eager to return to your post, that you are willing to depart without any breakfast, Celeg?" asked Derufin with barely concealed mirth, snapping Boromir out of his musings. Celeg had recently taken a sweet young wife and so the cause for his impatience to return to Minas Tirith wasn't a mystery so hard to unravel.

"Merely thinking to be ready for departure in time after the meal, Lord Derufin," said Celeg, his cheeks and ears reddening not entirely from the morning chill in the air.

"Leave the lad be, Derufin,” said Boromir. We were all young once, he thought.

Together, they ate a breakfast of dry rations. Though their talk was merry, the ambiance remained heavy with the unsaid. Boromir could see past Derufin's veneer of humorous jabs. After breakfast, Boromir would set out to paths untraveled and fates unknown - their imminent parting saddened them both. Damn you, Derufin, son of Duinhir, but I shall miss you something awful, Boromir thought.

The dreaded time of goodbye came, implacable. Boromir related to Derufin his last orders for the Army, that he had orphaned for the duration of his quest.

"You only think you are irreplaceable,” said Derufin, “but rest assured - Faramir and I shall do very well in your absence. Certainly none shall miss your brooding." The salty streak upon Derufin’s cheek somewhat belied the irreverence of his words. Boromir was nevertheless grateful for the jest, as it helped him compose himself in turn. They shared a heartfelt embrace. The Gondorians mounted their steeds and drew their swords, giving the last salute to their general, and just like that they were off - Boromir’s last link to home on his quest for the legendary elvish domain disappeared on the woodland path.

Boromir cast a heavy glance up and to the south, towards the unlit beacon of Halifirnen's white marble glinting in the distance between the tangle of leaves and branches, towards the hidden tomb of the great Elendil. He stood and, with only the trees of Whispering Wood and his best war horse, Bathor, for silent witnesses, unsheathed his sword. He raised it high in a pathetic salute of his own.

“Hail, o' Great King Elendil of Old! Boromir, your servant, salutes you, ready to lay his life in your name, in search of Isildur's Bane," he declared.

He sheathed his blade and silently mounted Bathor. Isildur’s ancient law forbade disturbing the silence in Eryn Fuir, but as soon as Boromir came out into the open fields, he blew the Horn of Gondor in memory of Elendil's bloodline and to signify his departure from Anorien. He felt some kinship with the heroes of old through it, and thusly fortified he took to the road.

Yet, even having left Anorien behind, his thoughts lingered on Gondor and his kin. Derufin's parting words made him think of Faramir. Ever since he had left Minas Tirith, whenever he recalled his brother, Boromir could not escape nor forestall the heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach. He was never one to dwell on past choices, having plowed through most of life's challenges with no regrets up until now. He had chosen to go in Faramir’s stead to spare his brother, to protect him, and to please his father. So why did it feel an awful lot like a betrayal?

It had been on that fateful day in Osgiliath, that Faramir had first mentioned this new strange vision of his, both chilling and full of hope. The fall of the Osgiliath Bridge had shaken Minas Tirith - left the brothers weakened in both body and spirit. Only after days of recovery could Faramir report the dream in full, first to Boromir, and then to their Lord the Steward. Lord Denethor had listened to Faramir’s recount of the vision in silence. Later, he had secluded himself in the chamber atop the Tower of Ecthelion, and remained there for several days, leaving Boromir to deal with the aftermath of Osgiliath alone.

The dreams had not stopped, either. They had returned to Faramir on subsequent nights, always featuring the same rhymed riddle, prophesying the return of Isildur's Bane. It had become an obsession for Faramir. He had taken to spending his time in the library, frantically searching for any records on what the Bane might have been. To his astonishment, he had found the relevant scriptures missing! That had worried Boromir - the whole affair had been looking more and more dire. He would curse Isildur’s Bane for dwelling on the minds and hearts of both his brother and his father. He had striven to console his brother as best as he could, to little effect.

And then something even worse had happened, that had Boromir tremble even now, weeks later. The dream of Isildur's Bane had come to him, leaving him heaving, covered in sweat in his bedchamber, wiping his eyes. A voice in his head would chant the strange riddle again and again in his head, driving him to distraction. Try as he had, he couldn't escape it. He had found himself knocking to his father's study that very morning.

"My Lord!" he had said to the closed door at the top of the Tower. "Sire! Hear me! Sire, I come to you with a dream." That had been what made the Steward open the door and let Boromir in, at last. Rare was it for anyone to set foot in the Steward's private study, even for his sons.

"Your brother has been begging me to grant him leave to pursue this strange lead," the Steward had told him.

"You cannot be thinking to let him go!" Borormir had exclaimed. "'Tis a fevered vision of smoke and mirrors! A fool's errand! Worse! A fool's last errand, likely." A strange glint had appeared in Lord Denethor’s eye, then.

"And yet, one of you must see it to the end," he had declared.

"Then let me go in his stead," Boromir had pleaded. Fear for his brother’s life had overcome him, made him offer his own neck readily. Poor, kind-hearted Faramir. A man in his own right; and yet at times it seemed to Boromir his brother had never outgrown the fanciful nature of his boyhood. Boromir would hate to see it shattered, but he also knew the cost of living in fantasy - he, who had had to abandon the tender dreams of childhood in his tenth year, when the Lady Finduilas had departed.

The Steward had ever been a strategist, first and foremost.

"Your brother's visions have truth to them, though they are wasted on a weak man like himself,” he had said. “The land of Imladris exists somewhere in Middle Earth, even though no map that we possess can show us a sure path. The cause is too great to abandon it.” Here the Steward had regarded Boromir solemnly, leaving no place for any doubts. “The power of which the riddle speaks shall become Gondor’s salvation, or our unraveling - in either case we ought not to let the Enemy have it. You will go, Boromir, you will take Isildur's Bane and bring it to me."

"Aye, Lord," Boromir had said, as he ever would.

"Swear it," Denethor had demanded.

Unknown dread had seized Boromir, then. Never in his life had he truly hesitated to answer the Steward's command. Yet this time, something deep inside him had called out to him pitifully not to take the oath. But why? Had his father ever stumbled? Had his father ever erred? He hadn’t. And so it followed that Boromir couldn’t either.

Frightened and discouraged, he had knelt and he had taken the oath, unheeding of his personal doubts.

"I beg of you Boromir, do not go!" Faramir had said, later. "I am overcome with the strangest foreboding that something dreadful shall happen, should you go!" Boromir's heart had broken, then. He had taken Faramir's dream from him, he had done it behind his back, too. And yet Faramir's concern had been first for Boromir's own safety.

Still, Boromir could not heed his brother's warning, for he had been already sworn to carry out their father’s orders towards the end, whatever it might be. That evening, he had assembled the host. On the morrow, only two people had been present at the stables to see the party off. Boromir’s own squire, Huor, his face red and eyes tear-rimmed, had come to attend to his Lord one last time. And the Lord Steward himself, who had descended to the Sixth Level's stables to bestow upon Boromir a proper blessing and impart the final advice. 

“Seek out the Wizard Saruman on your way to the West,” had been the Steward’s last charge. “He alone among our allies can point for you the path to Imladris. Otherwise, you shall err and roam the Valar-forsaken desolation of Arnor in vain, and lose both your life, and our only hope.” 

Faramir had been notably absent when Boromir’s small host had departed. Even now, after five days, the thought was almost too painful to bear.

Such were his somber musings as he advanced on the West Road. He reached the guest house where he had used to always stop for a meal during his journeys to Edoras in the years past. Their bokenade had a special place in his heart (and hopefully soon also in his stomach) and he had been looking forward to a more substantial repast ever since his party had left the Rangers’ Camp in Druadan. However, to his surprise, he found The Grasshopper closed for business, with the quaint wooden building’s doors and windows barred and nailed shut. Further investigation revealed no signs of recent traffic. That cannot be good, he thought. He had a nagging suspicion that The Grasshopper’s closing down had something to do with the ongoing evacuation of the Gondor’s populace, that it might mean that the people of Rohan had also experienced the unrest of the brewing war. He resolved to content himself with a quick meal of dry rations and to not tarry on his journey any longer; the importance of his mission only grew in his mind.

Alas, as he continued west throughout the afternoon, a sight appeared that gave him an even further pause. Behind the road's turn, that encircled one of the rocky hills of Eastfold, a grey pillar of smoke billowed towards the sky ahead.

He had not known any settlement nor a camp to have ever existed in that location. He could only conceive of one cause for which a Rohirrim patrol could start this sort of fire in the wilds - a funeral pyre. But such a thing, here, in broad daylight? Could it be the Enemy? he wondered. After all, orcish warbands weren’t exactly known for environmental conservationism. But that would belie his so far unshaken faith in the Eored, that would allow no enemy encampment in the King’s Fold. In addition, from his dealings with the orcs in Ithilien, Boromir knew that the creatures remained dormant during the day and only became active during the night, sometimes into the morning hours. He was too far west for it to be the Haradrim and too far east to stumble upon a Dunlending tribe, under ordinary circumstances. No place for highwaymen to hide for miles ahead, either. Upon consideration, he deemed it his duty as a friend of Rohan to discover the source of the smoke, and report about the suspect activity once he reached Aldburg.

Resorting to stealth seemed to be the wisest approach, as Boromir was only one man and the nature of the threat - an unknown. He knew that Bathor, as a fine steed bred and raised among the Horse Lords, a gift from Theoden King himself, would wait for him patiently without revealing himself. Having left his horse in the safety of the nearby bushes, Boromir commenced his trek uphill, meaning to take a measure of the source of the smoke from the top, hoping to remain unnoticed. He approached the rocky outcropping at the hill’s crown and peeked out from behind it.

A view of the Eastfold’s rolling meadows stretched from his vantage point, and right under the hill he spotted what he'd been looking for. An orc encampment, after all! Unexpectedly bustling with activity during the day, even though Boromir knew that all goblins hated sunlight - these goblins however seemed unaffected by the day’s brightness, and, more worryingly still, appeared to be readying for something. The smoke was coming from a huge cauldron in which a foul concoction boiled and bubbled. How can it be, that a fully furnished goblin camp has been set up here in the Eastfold, right by the West Road, not half a day’s ride from Aldburg, and that the Marshal of the Mark would suffer it? Boromir thought in amazement. 

He dutifully noted the commando's numbers and their armaments. The orcs were about a dozen warriors, attired in mismatched and incomplete armor, that nevertheless served to cover their vital parts well. Savage they may be, but the orcs know their warcraft, he thought, admiring the heavy, vicious weapons that the goblins seemed to be able to lug and wield without much effort. They had no mounts; instead, several crudely constructed carts, that must have housed their equipment, served as makeshift walls of their camp - a rudimentary cover in case of an attack.

Having satisfied his curiosity and his sense of duty, Boromir thought to retreat, reunite with Bathor and pass around through the thicket on the other side of the hill, to give the encampment a wider berth. Just as he was about to turn around to descend the knoll, he heard a slight rustle behind his back.

The years of training availed him, then; he drew his blade just in time to parry a heavy, ugly orcish club aimed straight for his head. Alas, he hadn’t enough time nor wit about him to account for the second orc, who seized Boromir from behind his back and caught him in a lock. Boromir tried to hold on to his sword for dear life, but it had gotten stuck in the first orc’s wooden club when he had parried the blow. With Boromir overpowered, the first orc yanked the sword from his grasp with frightening ease.

The orcs uttered a throaty gurgling laughter and traded a few grunted words in Black Speech. After years of battling the enemy forces on the banks of Anduin, Boromir had learned a few Dark Tongue phrases. He caught two familiar words: one, "alive", that sparked a small hope in his heart, and another, "food", that swiftly extinguished it. What a dullard I have been to turn my party back to Minas Tirith, before having reached even the first major stop on my journey! A foolhardy, puerile mistake, that will now cost me my life, and worse still, my oath, he thought bitterly. Had his situation not been so dire, he would have laughed at himself and his own half-witted hubris. He had thought himself more practical, more down to earth than Faramir, and so more suited for the quest! Yet he had already, not a week into his journey, acted in a way that had made a mockery of his noble intentions.

One of the orcs bound his hands behind his back with a length of coarse rope; the other pulled a dirty burlap sack over his head and torso and then tied it. Boromir was then swiftly thrown over the back of one of his captors, who carried him down the hill towards the camp. What shortsightedness, he thought, to not realize that the vantage point on the hill would be guarded. The foul smell of whatever had been carried in the sack earlier overpowered him and almost made him retch.

After a bumpy ride on the orc’s back, still tied in the sack, Boromir had been thrown face down onto the dirt, and kicked on the back for good measure. From the smell of smoke and the heat emanating from nearby, he surmised he was now in the middle of the camp, near the fire pit with the huge cauldron. He was truly going to end up as an orc supper, unless he managed to break free!

The first step was surely to regain his vision and free his limbs. However, if he began to struggle overtly, the orcs would only bind him tighter and kick him even more, to prevent his escape. Boromir wriggled slightly to dislodge a hunting dagger he had sheathed under his belt, that the orcs, careless and impulsive as they were, had forgotten to take from him. To them, a small dagger might appear no more dangerous than a toothpick, Boromir thought, as he moved carefully, causing the dagger’s crossguard to catch on a small rock jutting out from the ground. The dagger slid out of its sheath; it was now lying under Boromir inside the sack. After some effort, careful not to raise any suspicion on the outside, Boromir maneuvered the dagger towards his head. He listened and made sure that no orcs were walking directly near him and all of them sounded occupied with… well, with whatever it was that they were doing, then got ahold of the dagger’s grip with his teeth. He jerked his head, managing to pierce the sack through and drive the blade into the ground. They say to always keep one’s blades sharp and they are right, he thought triumphantly. He might have also chipped one of his teeth in the process. Better to walk out of this with a chipped tooth than to become orc dinner with a perfect smile. The orcs had tied his hands, but not his feet, evidently having assumed that he couldn't run if he couldn't see - that had been their mistake, as it gave him more options. Having made an opening in the sack, Boromir tried to guess how much time he had until the orcs decided to chop him and throw the pieces into the cauldron.

He had to rely on his hearing, but soon another of his senses took the lead. Something had gotten the orcs on high alert. They stopped their bustling near the cauldron, where Boromir lay, and all of them gathered on the western edge of the camp, close to one of their carts. Before Boromir could think of the root of this disturbance, he felt with his whole body a sensation that caused a burst of hope in his chest: a deep, reverberating through the earth, unmistakable vibration of hoof beats.

Boromir let go of the dagger’s grip and yanked his body, which, with the dagger still stuck in the ground, caused the sack to rip open. He peeked through the tear: the orcs were crowded on the other side of the camp, bracing for a fight, preparing to use two of their carts lined up as a barricade. He couldn’t see past the carts, but he could feel the vibrations grow stronger; they were now accompanied by the sound of hoof beats that seemed to resonate with Boromir’s very heart. It poured new vigor into his veins. He sat up abruptly, which caused the sack to rip even further, and emerged from the torn canvas, fully regaining his vision. He crawled towards the cauldron, and twisting his neck forcefully, he held his tied hands out close to the fire behind his back. His flesh sang with agony - muscles taut, tendons overstretched; his skin burned when the flames licked his leather gauntlets, but he achieved his goal: the rope that bound his wrists caught fire. He tugged at it forcefully and it gave way, knots coming unraveled momentarily by the flames. He bit his cheek to stifle a cry of pain, but was not afforded any time to examine his singed armor nor the burns underneath it, for the Riders of the Mark descended upon the orcish camp in that moment like an angry tornado, and it was all Boromir could do to scramble from under their hoofs to avoid getting trampled.

The orcs started shouting in Dark Tongue and hacking blindly at the Men with their crude weapons - vicious giant scimitars and heavy war hammers. Boromir used the commotion to stand up and disentangle from the remains of the sack and the ropes. He wasn’t much help in the fight without his sword, that could not be located among the wild tangle of orc, horse and man. He prayed to the Valar that none of the goblins would remember him and think to strike him down before he could make an escape, but the orcs, who evidently held a vendetta against the Rohirrim and were eager to meet them in battle, paid him little heed. Avoiding errant blows, he picked up his dagger from the ground and looked around in search of any other weapon he might claim for himself. 

The battle was in full blow. The Eored counted about a score of warriors, and as many horses. The Lords of the Mark evidently had had some practice with raiding similar orcish camps, as they were making short work of this one. The carts had only served to slow them, but had not prevented the riders from invading the encampment, and the space around the fire pit was crowded with Rohirrim on their horses trying to skewer orcs on their long pikes from above. The orcs in turn would either try to knock the riders down, or they would attack the animals directly - a bad move on their part, for one would be hard pressed to find braver and more formidable opponents than the steeds of Rohan. Any goblin that tried to come at one of the chargers would inevitably end up with a horseshoe in their skull. 

Suddenly, a loud thud to the right alarmed Boromir. He spun and saw one of the riders fall to the ground. The young warrior's plate got cleaved in two by one of the orc’s ugly hatchets, rivulets of blood sprouting from the wound in his chest. The goblin that had attacked him now raised the hatchet and readied for the final blow that would have finished the effort - but for Boromir, who readily jumped the monster from behind, with a knife to its neck. He felt the warm juice flow through his fingers and pushed the blade in deeper. The orc tried to shake Boromir off his back, but he was too late - already he was gurgling and gasping for his last breath, and swaying on his knock-kneed legs. Together with Boromir, the two of them toppled to the ground, right beside the wounded rider. The goblin uttered his last, blood-curdling shrieks, as Boromir was trying to disentangle his limbs and rise from the ground.

Unfortunately, another goblin, mayhaps the fallen one’s companion, rushed to Boromir to deliver swift retaliation, with his giant club raised and ready to strike. Boromir, whose right arm was pinned to the ground by three hundred pounds of dead orc, had nowhere to run and no way to shield himself. He was tempted to close his eyes, but he resisted, wanting to meet his death bravely, without flinching. Here ends my quest, he thought, as the world around him slowed down. He saw his attacker swing the club overhead; the mismatched plate that covered the orc’s torso rode up revealing the rippling, cording muscles of the orcish underbelly, as the warrior prepared to drive the club into Boromir with all the might in his robust grey body…

… at once, a blurry mass of hooves and plate slammed into the orc from the flank. He was knocked down and trampled, yelling and swinging the club blindly, until a well measured kick to the head silenced him for good.

“Bathor!” cried Boromir, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. Bathor stood proudly over his goblin victim and neighed at Boromir with self-satisfaction.

That was entirely too close, Boromir thought. Around them, the sounds of skirmish were slowly dying down, signifying that the Horse Lords had conquered the camp.

"Up you go," said a voice over Boromir’s head, and he felt the weight that was pinning him down lift. An outstretched hand appeared above him; Boromir took it and hauled himself upright.

“Hail Boromir of the White Tower,” said the rider who had helped him up. Boromir recognized his pointed helmet with horsehair crest as the sign of the Marshal of the Mark, but even without it, his voice was familiar and gladdened Boromir’s heart.

“Hail Eomer, son of Eomund!”, he said.

“Ever are the Lords of Gondor welcome in the King’s Folde, and Boromir first among them,” said Eomer, who seemed to be in high spirits, still in battle frenzy. “Even when he appears mid-fight, out of thin air, no less. We heard someone blow a mighty war horn in the morning, and we rode out, ready to aid whoever be in need. Yet, none of us expected we’d find you. Now I must know, whatever were you doing in this orcish camp, alone and unarmed?”

“Preparing for dinner,” said Boromir tersely. He was glad that he’d decided to blow the Horn of Gondor when crossing into the Eastmarch. “‘Tis true what they say, then, that when the Horn of Gondor sounds, her friends and allies listen,” he remarked. “I was on my way to Edoras, when I chanced upon this camp; you’ll hear all about it. But first - one of your men is gravely wounded,” Boromir turned and pointed to the unfortunate dying soldier. The young man was lying on the ground, bloodied and unconscious, and already the other riders were by him, wiping and tying his wounds. Eomer knelt down by the man and beheld his pale face. His brow grew heavy.

“Reinmar son of Reinhold. You fought bravely,” said Eomer. “Bema guide you,” he invoked reverently. “I fear he is past hope,” he added once he stood up. “Eorlingas! Build a pyre! We cleanse this place and then we take our fallen brother back home!” he bellowed. The riders of the Eored were already busying themselves with piling up the dead goblins and all the filthy remains of the encampment in one place. Eomer once again turned to Boromir.

“Your horse fought well too,” said Eomer. “Valiant Bathor, Rohan welcomes you back,” he addressed the horse, who wouldn’t leave Boromir’s side ever since the skirmish had ended. Boromir couldn’t help but smile, despite the loss of the young rider’s life still weighing on him. That Eomer remembered the name of every horse that had ever come out of Theoden King’s stables, and could greet each of them as an old friend, never failed to astound him.

“Aye, that he did,” he agreed readily. “I’d be orcish marmalade by now if not for him. Best boy in all of the Western Kingdoms,” Boromir patted Bathor’s head.

“I’d say he deserves a good night’s rest in Aldburg’s cozy stables, and a sack full of Rohan’s best oats,” said Eomer. “And we deserve some mead.”

***

The Eored did not talk much on their way back to Aldburg, and they reached their destination just as the sky began to blush. Even in the best of  years, compared to Minas Tirith, or even to Edoras, the town of Aldburg wasn’t much to behold - two dozens of wooden houses and several shops crowded around a few cobbled streets. The settlement served as a commercial center and the lonely guard to the farm fields that stretched far and wide around the fortifications. Now the town seemed to Boromir even more empty and quiet than he remembered. The main street led to the Hold, where Boromir headed with Eomer’s men, while Eomer himself went to return the body of the fallen rider to his kin. The castle consisted of a walled courtyard with two watchtowers and the well maintained stone Keep. Boromir beheld the old fortress that had once served as the seat of Eorl the Young. Out in the courtyard, the Men of Rohan busied themselves with their chores - mighty warriors in their prime, tending to their horses and their weapons, just as it had likely been in the times of the First King. Boromir left Bathor with the stable hands and followed Eomer’s lieutenant Eothain into the Keep, to clean himself and have some refreshments.

No sooner had Boromir finished the supper of bread, sop and cold cuts, that the Lord of Aldburg returned to the Keep. Boromir had known Eomer since the latter had been a lad with a loose tooth and scraped knees, barely able to lift a shield. In fact, Boromir distinctly remembered several occasions on which he, along with Theodred and Grimbold, had tutored young Eomer on footwork and proper defensive stances, during Eomer’s years as a squire. 

"I see you have been fortifying Aldburg," Boromir said, when Eomer approached him in the hall of the Keep. "Though ancient, the Keep holds strong. The masonry is in excellent condition."

"Aye. We spared no expense," said Eomer proudly.

Boromir also remembered that the House of Eomund had a daughter, a wispy yet fierce young thing, that would follow Eomer everywhere and try to fight men twice her height with swords thrice her weight. The people of Rohan valued bravery and battle prowess, and took great pride in warcraft. Boromir knew that, in the ages past, some of the Ladies from the House of Eorl would choose to train as shield-maidens. He had often wondered if little Eowyn would follow in their steps one day. Only, she is likely not so little anymore, he thought. After all these years that I’ve been absent, she will now be a woman in her prime.

"Is the Lady of the castle present?" he asked.

"My sister dwells in Meduseld nowadays,” said Eomer calmly, even though his face tensed up. When Boromir said nothing, Eomer clarified. “She bears great love for Theoden King. Our uncle requires care in his old age."

"Old age?” Now Boromir could not halt himself and spoke out in surprise. “Mine own father has nigh to a score of years over the King, yet he would allow none to dote on him!”

“Aye, that might be true that the Steward has weathered more winters, but his must have been kinder than my uncle’s. He has been infirm of late, and very jealous of his health.”

“Has aught unfortunate befallen the King? An ailment, or a misadventure, Valar preserve?" asked Boromir. He had long harbored filial sentiments towards Theoden King, and was now struck with guilt. I ought to have at least written to him and inquired about his health once in all those years, he thought with self-recrimination.

"I wish I knew," said Eomer, leaving Boromir still somewhat puzzled and very worried. "Come, Boromir,” he said, aiming to change the topic. “We ought to stand vigil by Reinmar's bier tonight."

Boromir felt tired and discouraged after the day's adventures, but he wouldn't disrespect the Rider who gave his life to liberate the orc camp. Together with Eomer they left the stronghold and passed through the evening streets of Aldburg. Reinmar’s home was lit and its door opened wide, inviting any who wanted to pay their respects to the fallen warrior. Several men were standing vigil out on the street, and once Boromir and Eomer entered the house they saw even more mourners crowded inside. The body of young Reinmar, already cleansed and dressed in finery, was laid out on a makeshift bier. By it stood a young woman, her cheeks tear-stricken, but her head held proudly up. She carried a tyke on her hip, who was also crying and clutching her neck. On the other side of the bier, a young lad lamented the departed by intoning a sad dirge.

"Lord Eomer!" exclaimed the grieving woman, interrupting the chant.

"Hail, Léofdis" said Eomer. "We are come to honor your departed husband. May he ride in Bema's hunt."

"Lord Boromir," said Leofdis, turning to him. “Yours was the hand that killed the one who took my Reinmar's life, as I was told. That is a kindness you did to my son, as his would now be the duty to avenge his father, despite his young age. I thank you."

Boromir was moved by this display of magnanimity. Truly the people of Rohan are pure of heart, to greet death itself with such grace and dignity, he thought.

"May your noble husband rest in peace and with honor," said Boromir. “He died bravely, and may have very well saved my life.”

"I shall take solace in that, when there is little to be had," said Léofdis.

She intoned another dirge, pathetic and heart-wrenching. Boromir listened to her hypnotizing song. It appeared to him as if even the flames of the numerous candles lit by the bier flickered to its rhythm, casting long, trembling shadows of the gathered mourners on the chamber’s walls. After the sad song, Léofdis opened a cask of mead, and everyone present drank of it, toasting the departed - only then did Boromir finally get that cup that Eomer had promised on the road. The vigil lasted for hours afterwards; Eomer and Boromir stood by the bier with the others and listened to the tales and the singing, and once the midnight oil had been burned, they returned to the Keep in sombre silence.

A sturdy bed with fresh linens had been prepared for Boromir in the Keep’s barracks. Going to sleep next to the other warriors would be a comfort, he decided, as he would not relish solitude on such a night. The kinship felt with the Riders of Rohan contented his spirit.

"I will see you in the morning," said Eomer. "We will go to the Golden Hall together. I must report to the King about our recent battle, and you should seek out Theodred. He and Elfhelm have been battling Dunlendings in the Gap of Rohan for some time now and I imagine he has much to tell you.”

***

On the next day, Boromir and Eomer left Aldburg early. They were traveling with several of Eomer’s men, Eothain among them. The White Mountains towered on their left, and the seemingly unending meadow and the open sky of the Folde enveloped them. Here and there, they would pass farmhouses and hamlets - they were now approaching the very heart of Rohan, and Boromir suspected that, here at least, his journey would be safer than on the borderlands of the Eastmark.

Eomer was in a better mood than on the day before and considerably more chatty.

“Tell me, Boromir, what do you seek in Edoras?” he asked, as they rode on. “If you’ve come to seek allies, to recruit men to fight the Enemy in the East, I fear you will not win them easily.”

“Why?” asked Boromir, incredulous. “Have the Men of Rohan forgotten their friends in Gondor?” He would sooner believe in Mordor freezing over than in the Sons of Eorl forsaking their oaths.

“Friends to Gondor we remain,” said Eomer, not a little indignant at the accusation, “and yet we have to first and foremost protect what is ours. Uneasy times for Rohan are coming.” The Marshal’s face darkened.

“Aye, you do not have to tell me,” said Boromir. “It is the same in my homeland. Goblins on the prowl, towns and farmlands abandoned… Even Aldburg, the seat of your House, I have found much changed - once a place of bustling commerce, now more akin to a military base.”

"I have been fortifying the whole of Eastmarch,” Eomer admitted. “It's all we can do to weed out the orcs and the bandits from Dunland, but they keep appearing like mushrooms after an autumn rain. Most of the farmers have evacuated."

"To where?" asked Boromir “To the Folde? Or to Edoras?”

“To Dunharrow,” said Eomer.

“To the mountain fortress?” Boromir exclaimed. “Is it truly so dire? Surely while Minas Tirith and Cair Andros yet stand, Edoras cannot fall?”

"You are thinking of the threat of Mordor, like many with you," said Eomer with pain in his eyes. "Yet it is not Barad Dur that has me worried - it is Orthanc.”

"Orthanc!?" exclaimed Boromir. "It cannot be! Though I harbor no great love for the White Wizard, long has he been a friend to Gondor and other tribes of the Men of Numenor."

Eomer scowled.

"Yes, I have heard that already, from my uncle and cousin alike. We have had no overt signs of hostility from Isengrad so far, they say. And yet, in my very bones I feel it, the tides have changed.” Boromir noticed Eomer’s fists tightening about the reigns. “Saruman the White is arming for some secret ill-doings. The weapons that the goblins lug on their carts are Orthanc-forged.” He sighed. “Theoden King will sadly not heed my counsel in this. And you know how Theodred is."

“Aye.” Boromir knew Prince Theodred and his constant nature. In contrast to the hot-blooded Eomer, Theodred, with his diplomatic inclinations, was unlikely to throw accusations or see hostility where there had been none previously.

“I am hoping the news from Gondor that you bear shall serve to open their eyes to the direness of our situation,” said Eomer. “And about that, you never answered my first question - what is it you came here seeking?” he turned on his horse to regard Boromir with renewed curiosity.

“I seek only a safe passage through the Gap of Rohan,” said Boromir. “The Lord Steward entrusted me with a mission, and for this reason I must reach the Old Arnor.”

Eomer looked like he wanted to ask more questions about this secret quest, but he must have sensed that its nature was delicate, and, perhaps for the presence of Eothain and the other men, he refrained from further inquiries. Instead, another matter captured his focus.

“You mean to climb the hills of Dunland and traverse the ancient woods of Edenwaith with Bathor as your steed?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Boromir. “Why should I not? You said it yourself, yesterday: Bathor is valiant and has ever served me well!”

“Aye, that may be - during grand battles! As a cavalry horse, part of an entire rank of other riders,” said Eomer. “To brave the wilds, you need a steed that isn’t easily provoked, that is cunning and effortless to guide.”

Boromir knew that when a Man of Rohan offered advice on horses, a wise Man of Gondor listened. Bathor, on the other hand, yanked his reins and stomped his hoof, neighing in indignation at Eomer’s words.

“Peace, Bathor!” said Boromir. “Let it be known far and wide that you are plenty cunning and stout of heart!” he declared.

Eomer laughed at the horse’s antics. 

“Nay, Bathor,” he said. “None would ever dare to suggest that you are slow-witted,” he amended, which served to appease the proud stallion.

“'Tis true what Eomer said, that you love the open fields much more than woodland paths and rocky passages,” said Boromir. “Though, I am loath to part with Bathor.”

Such was their chatter for most of the way. They dined in one of the roadside taverns, then admired the view of Edoras, as it first appeared from behind the Ironsaw Mountain, and as it grew bigger and more splendid with their approach. Boromir let Bathor drink from the Snowburn. Must be like tasting mother’s milk again for him, he thought, for he knew that Bathor would graze on the grasslands surrounding Edoras and drink from the icy river in his foal years.

“Ah, Bathor,” Boromir said when they passed the hallowed Barrowfield, “you are home again and I am among brethren.”

And yet, the ‘brethren’ did not welcome Boromir and Eomer with overmuch cheer at the gate. This was a change from what Boromir remembered from the time of his frequent visits to Edoras in the past, when the guards at the gate would greet him as a celebrated guest. What did you expect, when you have been absent from so many years? he gave himself a light reprimand. But he found it hard to dwell on his disappointment, when the Golden Hall glinted invitingly in the afternoon sun and he was momentarily overcome with a new wave of warm nostalgia. 

Together with Eomer they climbed through the meandering street uphill on their horses. Despite Boromir’s cherished memories that readily lent color to all things around, not everything in Edoras was as he had remembered it, either. The burg had lost some of its glow in his absence. The local folk seemed downtrodden and dreary, the houses weren't as clean as they had used to. Could it be that the people of Rohan have lost their pride? His initial enthusiasm at being back gave way to creeping sadness by the time they reached the summit.

The crown jewel of Rohan, Meduseld - the Golden Hall, towered now over them. How many times in his youth had Boromir climbed up the stone steps, only to be met with Theodred’s warm embrace, and greeted as a friend by Theoden King? He would inquire after the health of the Princess; on a good day, he would even be allowed to meet her and escort the Lady on a walk around the Hall. Countless nights had Boromir passed under Meduseld’s golden thatched roof, drinking mead with the King and his family.

And yet the Hall’s doors, with their heavy wrought-iron hinges and weathered wood carvings, that Boromir had always, in the past, found wide open, akin to a mother’s arms beckoning a child, were now closed. In front of them, two guards were stationed, as had ever been the custom. Only this time, the men did not look like they had been put there just for the sake of appearances. An even greater shock came, when Boromir and Eomer approached the door. Boromir had thought they would be readily allowed to enter, and yet the guards made them wait, as one of them went to fetch someone.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Boromir. “Surely the Marshal of the Mark is allowed to enter the King’s Hall?”

Eomer only shook his head, resigned.

“This is a new edict of the King - all must be first questioned who come knocking, no exceptions,” he said. “Better just wait -” But he was cut off by the door opening, and out came Hama, the captain of Theoden King’s guard. Boromir knew him well, and was pleased to see him in good health, even if the years had sprinkled Hama’s temples with more silver. 

“Who comes here?” the doorward asked solemnly.

“Eomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, and Boromir of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower,” Eomer answered. Boromir elected not to comment any further on the new closed door policy. I am a guest here. I would be amiss to put my nose into Rohan’s internal affairs, he thought. Only after hearing their names announced according to the new custom did Hama’s face lighten. 

“Lord Eomer! Lord Boromir!” he spoke with candor. “Your arrival gladdens me, as it is sure to gladden the King,” 

“We shall see,” Eomer muttered darkly, so quiet that Boromir barely caught it.

“Enter in peace,” said Hama, and pushed the door wider for them, allowing them a passage.

The Golden Hall took its name from its outside appearance - made entirely of Firien Wood’s hallowed oak timber, thatched with the straw mowed from Rohan’s grassy plains, it would blaze golden under the sun’s caress. The Hall’s real treasure lay inside, though. The walls, the wooden supporting beams, the floor, and even the stone fire pit had been decorated over the centuries by the hands of Rohan’s most talented artists and craftsmen. Its carvings, paintings, tapestries and mosaics depicted the history of Eorl’s people and everything they held dear. The silhouettes of the Horse Lords of old would ever dance, and chase, and battle, animated by the flickering flames of the central fire pit and the numerous torches that bathed the Hall in their warm glow. It made for an almost religious experience, and it had never failed to render Boromir awestruck upon entering the chamber. Never until now, it seemed, for this time the Golden Hall did not seem to Boromir all that golden. 

The hearth at the center was dead, with only mounds of cold ash remaining where the fire had used to burn. The hall was illuminated only by the bluish light falling through the louver in the roof and the small windows high on the eastern wall. The air was foggy with incense smoke and dust lingering in the air, which completed the eerie, chilling ambiance. The masterpieces of Rohirric arts and crafts remained covered by the heavy shadows lingering about the chamber’s corners. The Hall was empty of people, save three: Theoden King, sitting, or rather - slumping, upon his throne, a tall, handsome Lady clad head to toe in white, and a third man dressed in all black, whom Boromir had never met before.

"Hail, Theoden King," said Eomer as he bowed before the throne. "Your servant Eomer greets you. I bring with me Boromir of Gondor, who is seeking hospitality in your Kingdom."

"Hail, Theoden King," Boromir echoed and bowed before the King as well.

"So you have come to me, at last, Eomer," spoke the King, his voice feeble, but with a stony undertone. "A long time has passed since your prior report,” he remarked. 

“I have been keeping busy, Sire, with defending the Eastmarch,” said Eomer and bowed again. The King ignored him.

“Longer still since last the son of Denethor has graced these Halls with his presence,” he said. Boromir perceived the jab and had the conscience to feel sufficiently chastised. “Rohan welcomes you, Captain of the White Tower."

Standing before the throne allowed Boromir to assess the monarch’s health for himself. Theoden King appeared much changed. He was bent and dourly clad, with his once bright face now overshadowed with a frown and obscured by a tangled beard. But the greatest change appeared to be in Theoden's manners. Boromir had always known the King as an energetic, jovial man, generous and kind to all guests, cordial with his family. The cool distance, the underhanded remarks - this did not agree with Theoden King’s character, and yet…

“Theoden King,” Boromir began. “None is more saddened by my long absence from Edoras than I, and none more happy to be standing here again,” he said. “I bring with me dark tidings from Gondor, and I humbly ask for a safe passage through the Gap of Rohan for myself.”

“Aye, aye!” said the King. Ha waved his hand impatiently. “You may respite in our Guest Hall, then pass and be on your way.” This felt an awful lot like a dismissal. Theoden did not appear at all concerned with any news from Gondor that Boromir might relay.

Boromir was shocked. This was the first time that he’d been greeted so curtly in the Golden Hall. In the past, Theoden King would invite him to his private chambers, where they would discuss in detail the state of Gondor's affairs, the Steward's health and Boromir’s present tasks. He would also be given accommodations in Meduseld proper, with the King’s family. Relegating him to the Guest House was a new development, one of which Boromir was hard pressed to figure out the meaning.

“My Lord,” the white Lady spoke out. “Allow me to escort Lord Boromir to his chambers and see to his needs in your name.”

Boromir had guessed the dame’s identity immediately, though reconciling her present image with his memory proved more of a challenge. Young Eowyn, sister to Marshal Eomer, as Boromir had remembered her, had favoured boys’ attire, and would wear her hair tightly pleated around her sun-bronzed, perpetually scrunched visage. Now, standing on the dais tall, in all her womanly glory, with the cascading hair catching any sparse light and creating a halo around her, she made for a study of contrasts. Her skin was clear, and yet unnaturally pale, her face as gentle as it was unresponsive. The youth that adorned her seemed eclipsed by burdens beyond her years. A sad and pathetic image she made, and Boromir's heart was gripped with grief. She had used to be a cheerful child, always so eager to meet and greet him. Now - nothing save the barest nod of her head signified she had even noticed his coming. Boromir was tempted to yank her from the gloomy Hall, which might as well have become her tomb.

“Yes, go, sweet daughter. See to our guest, if it be your will, and return swiftly to me,” the King allowed. “Eomer, you shall stay. There are things we must discuss in private,” he ordered, and Eomer once again bowed in acquiescence.

The Lady moved, yet as she descended the dais, another voice spoke out - an oily, whimpering opposition, the source of which Boromir had at first some trouble placing.

“Be this strictly wise, my Liege,” questioned the advisor, to whom Boromir paid little attention until now, “to let the sweet Lady go alone with the foreign Lord? Could not some ill fortune befall her, away from our watchful eyes?”

This insinuation outraged Boromir. Beside him, he saw Eomer also bristle, and lay his hand on the pommel of his sword, Guthwine. Boromir’s first impulse was to challenge the impudent to a duel. How dare the lowlife suggest that he, Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, could ever allow, or worse yet - cause any injury to a dame in his presence? This could not stand! Only the advisor’s measly stature and the lack of any weapons on his mean person, which would make for a rather uneven match, stayed Boromir’s hand.

“Mark your words, sir!” he warned instead, but, as it turned out, he need not have worried, for he found an equally staunch defender in the Lady herself.

“A sad day would it be for our Kingdom, indeed, and cause for much shame,” Eowyn declared coldly, not even gracing the advisor with a glance, “on which, instead of a soft bed and a warm meal, our noble guest would be met with cowardly mistrust and discourtesy.” The advisor winced and blanched. The Lady’s disdain wounded him more severely, it seemed, than Boromir’s iron ever might. 

“You may leave,” said the King, and that was apparently all he was going to contribute to the matter. Deeply saddened, Boromir bowed.

“Come, my Lord,” said Lady Eowyn and passed him, swishing her white gown. “If you would follow me.”

They came out of Meduseld, into the last light of the day. As they descended the stone steps, the Lady addressed him again.

“I beg you, my Lord, do not take my uncle's manner as a slight meant for you,” she said, and looked to Boromir solemnly. “No one, save for the Crown Prince and I, has been allowed to reside in the Golden Hall for some moons now. The King’s health has unfortunately worsened, of late. It has made him reclusive and less trusting." Lady Eowyn's words were measured but even Boromir could tell her distress ran deep. “Believe it, he is glad for your coming,” she offered.

“Do not trouble yourself on my account, Lady,” Boromir said. “I am, and I shall ever remain, a friend to the King your uncle, and to your people.” Lady Eowyn nodded, thankful. “That advisor, however, is, if you’ll allow it, a right piece of work.”

“Oh, I allow that and much more,” Eowyn bristled. “Grima son of Gutlaf, he calls himself, though good old Gutlaf must be turning in his barrow for all his mischief. Ever since Grima became an advisor, he has sown only discord and worry among the court.” She sighed. “But, he is very attentive towards the King. My uncle came to rely on him greatly in his infirmity, so all of us must suffer the wretch.”

“If I may, Lady,” said Boromir, “you did not strike me as particularly long-suffering when you had told him off.”

Though she made light of it, Boromir marvelled again at the burdens that young Eowyn had to shoulder daily. 

The Lady smiled privately, at that.

“I have my ways,” she said.

"I laud your spirit, Lady. I hope it never dims," he offered, and admired the first tinge of colour that dawned on Eowyn’s face in response. 

The Guest Hall was a spacious wooden building, with stone foundations and decorative carvings on the walls, erected in the vicinity of Meduseld and the King's Stables. Boromir followed Lady Eowyn through its well lit main chamber with several rows of wooden tables and a big fireplace with a stone chimney, to one of the adjacent suites meant for the guests. The Lady then ordered that a bath be drawn and a meal prepared for Boromir.

"The Prince my cousin should arrive shortly,” she said. “A patrol in the Westfold must have delayed him.” Then she departed, bidding him a good evening. 

The legendary hospitality of the Horse Lords did not disappoint. Boromir could not stifle a groan when he entered the steaming bath, feeling the flesh of his back and legs release the tension that had accumulated during the days spent on the road. He washed the highway dust off of his body and hair. Would that I could clear my head of all the worries just as easily, he thought. He realized that this might be the last time he got to enjoy a warm bath and a meal freshly prepared for him. Whatever awaited amidst the treacherous hills of Dunland, and among the ruins of the lost kingdoms of Arnor, he very much doubted scented oils were part of it.

Thoroughly refreshed, Boromir left his clothes to be cleaned and emerged from his assigned chambers. He was unprepared for how the sight of Prince Theodred, who had been sitting by one of the tables in the hall, and now stood up to greet him, would affect him. When the bath had lightened his body, Theodred’s embrace eased his mind.

Boromir and Theodred had been friends since childhood, acquainted at an early age during one of the formerly frequent diplomatic visits between Gondor and Rohan. They weren't exactly kindred spirits. Theodred was a calm and reticent man; he often had a mollifying influence on Boromir. It had been the similarities between their circumstances, and their shared lot in life that had made brothers of them. There used to be a time when they would correspond daily. Now, as statesmen and warriors, they had less time to continue with the frequent letters, but Boromir knew that it had not diminished the honest regard in which they held each other.

"Welcome," said Theodred.

“It has been too long,” said Boromir. Tears nearly choked him, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “I almost forgot how your face looks,” he resorted to humour. “I certainly don’t remember it being so long.”

Theodred released him and frowned, regarding Boromir earnestly.

“Your brow is also marked by worry,” he said. “If the unrest brewing in the East has clouded the sky of Rohan, then Gondor has been weathering violent tempests for years now because of it.”

“I take it you have heard of Osgiliath?” Boromir asked, not really needing a confirmation.

“Aye,” said Theodred. “The waves made by the Great Bridge falling have reached Rohan in the end.” Boromir frowned. Theodred's words and manner seemed to indicate at something hidden.

"The waves? What do you mean?" he asked. He saw Theodred hesitate, as if he were mustering the courage.

"There are tales of frightful Black Riders, among the people," said the Prince finally. "They have passed through the Wold, leaving despair in their wake."

"The Black Riders of Mordor?" Boromir gasped. He trembled even at the mamory of their last encounter. "Whither did they go? Do you know?" he asked urgently.

"They rode to the West," answered Theodred. "Beyond that, none here could tell you aught."

Wonderful, thought Boromir. They rode west, which is, coincidentally, where I am also going. This did not fill Boromir with much confidence. He had hoped that in Osgiliath he had seen the last of the Morgul Knights.

Some of Boromir's morose thoughts must have shown on his face, for Theodred made an attempt to lighten the mood.

“There are no Black Riders here at present, at least," he said. "Come, Boromir, let us sit in peace and dine together.”

Theodred signaled one of the serving girls, and they sat down at the table. Before long, platters laden with fresh bread and roast meat, along with two tall tankards of mead, appeared before them. For a time, they traded news as they ate. Boromir recounted the defense of Osgiliath and Gondor’s fortification plans. In turn, Theodred told him about the heavy trouble that the riders of the Mark were facing on their Eastern and Western borders.

“Of late, it feels as if Rohan was squashed between two hostile forces, Mordor and Dunland,” he said. “The White Wizard has made no move to help us during the last raid, nor have we heard any news from him for some time now.”

"Eomer seems to believe that Saruman broke faith with the race of Men," Boromir ventured.

"Aye, I have heard that," said Theodred. "Eomer has had his hands full, defending our eastern borders. Out of despair he gives way to such dark thoughts."

“You do not suppose there might be some truth to it?” asked Boromir. "You said it yourself, Curunir has allowed the Wildmen to cross the Gap and challenge you in his wake."

“The Eorlingas have never known Saruman to side with evil,” said Theodred. “I only wonder what he is doing, locked up in his tower like that."

"Mayhaps he is pondering his orb, or whatever else the Wizards be doing in their long hours," Boromir said tersely. In truth the situation wasn't funny. It's always something with the Wizards, isn't it, he thought. I sure hope there are no Wizards in Imladris.

"We have to hope Saruman will keep faith," concluded Theodred, "for I do not think we can challenge Mordor without his support. We shall try sending envoys to Orthanc, once the valley is cleared of the Dunland Men.”

To that, Boromir said nothing. He had his own matter to bring to the Wizard, as per the Lord Steward's instructions. And yet, could the old Curumo be trusted? The riddle of Saruman's alegiance rattled Boromir's mind in vain.

They finished the repast and then raised their tankards.

"Your arrival here gladdens my heart, Boromir," said Theodred and they drank together. "Only looking upon you brings to mind a happier time. I dearly hope it will serve to cheer up my Lord father, as well. Say, Boromir, will you stay for longer?”

"You mean to go into the land of the Dunlendings? Now, so soon after the raid? Whatever for?" asked Theodred, mighty surprised.

At that, Boromir grew wistful.

"Would that I could,” he said with genuine regret. “Alas, I have to push on to the West as soon as I am able."

Theodred agreed easily and the two ended their meal. They went outside, enjoying the warm air of summer night and full stomachs. Boromir afforded himself a minute to forestall his awesome tale and simply walk with Theodred. Edoras, the Golden Hall surrounded from all sides by golden fields, would during the warm months erupt after dark in cricket song so loud, that Boromir often wondered how the dead could slumber in the barrows amidst such clamour. The chirping of insects now served to cover Boromir's secrets, so that none save for Theodred could learn about the sword that was broken, his quest for Imladris, nor about Isildur's Bane. He recounted the dream and the riddle in full to his friend.

Boromir looked around the crowded Guest Hall, which afforded for excellent company, but very little privacy.

"I shall tell you, but not here,” he said. “Let us walk to the stables, if you will. There is a thing I wanted to ask of you, anyway.”

"Why would you need a sword that was broken?" asked Theodred soberly. "Wouldn't it be a disadvantage in a battle?"

"Doesn't sound very helpful, does it?" Boromir grimaced. "These visions are filled with such nonsense. Though, Faramir says it could be the lost sword of Elendil, if you can even imagine it. I suppose I won't know until I find this land of Imladris."

"I've never heard of it," said Theodred. The whole thing clearly perplexed him. "And what about the so-called Halfling? There are songs of Halflings from ages past, but I do not think anyone has seen a proper gnome in hundreds of years, if indeed they ever existed," the Prince mused.

"Let there be a Halfling, or even a flock of them, I care not," Boromir bristled. "It is the part about Isildur's Bane that has me worried the most. The lore is forgotten, the ancient scrolls misplaced or stolen. I find myself venturing in search of the Bane, not even knowing what it might truly be." Boromir fell silent for a while and felt Theodred's eyes on him in the darkness. "Do you suppose it is some terrible weapon?" he asked quietly, dreading the answer. "It must be, to have felled so mighty a King. Who will I have to fight for it? To what lengths will I myself have to go to secure it?"

"Very well," said Boromir. "Thank you for the advice and for your company." The words failed to encompass the depth of gratitude that he currently felt, but they would have to do. Their walk had taken them to the King's Stables. The light of torches spilled out from its open gate. The musty smell of animals that wafted from it had a calming quality.

The welcome weight of Theodred's hand settled on Boromir's shoulder, anchoring him to the present.

"Nothing good comes of guessing. Venture out, see the Bane for yourself, and only then decide the course of action," Theodred said, ever the voice of reason. "Tomorrow, I will see you off with my men. I have cleared the path west with Elfhelm's Eored, yet I cannot in good conscience let you travel through the Westfold alone, so soon after the raid."

"Let us go inside," said Theodred, "and make sure our horses are ready for the journey."

"Ah!" said Boromir, entering the stables after Theodred. "That is the very thing I wanted to ask you." They passed along the row of stalls, that housed the horses in the whole of Middle Earth. Boromir halted in front of Bathor's cubicle and opened it for Theodred's appraisal. "Behold my steed. What do you make of him?"

Theodred approached. Bathor snorted in way of friendly greeting and let the Prince pat his head.

"That is the horse you mean to take with you to Arnor?" Theodred wondered.

"His name is Bathor. He was a gift from your father," Boromir said defensively.

"Aye, I recall," Theodred nodded. "And do not mistake me; he is a fine steed, picked especially for you. But - a war destrier? In the wilderness?"

Boromir sighed.

"Eomer advised against it," he admitted.

"As he should!” exclaimed the Prince. Horses were the sole topic that could get him excited in no time at all. “Bathor can push through and trample, but will he find his way alone, in the wilds?” Throdred tutted and shook his head. “A lone rider on a treacherous terrain, with some need for stealth, as you will be, shall have more help from a lighter steed, with a shorter back and surer hoofs.”

Theodred beckoned him and they passed onto another stall.

"Here. Felar has been uneasy to venture forth for some time now,” he patted the horse’s neck. “He is nimble, wicked smart and easy to reign in. Should you get lost in the wilds, he can find his way home without mistake.”

Boromir heard the wisdom in Theodred's words. He knew better than to argue with the Prince of Rohan about horses. But Bathor was his friend, the only friend he had thought he'd be allowed to take with him to Imladris... Was he to part with all that were dear to him after all?

As if reading his mind, Theodred spoke further.

"Unused as he is to braving the wilderness, he might come to harm on steep mountain paths, or drown in a bog," he warned.

Sooner will I leave him behind than let any ill-adventure befall my friend in the Wild West, Boromir thought, and his mind was made.

"And what will become of Bathor?" he asked.

"I will take care of him personally,” offered Theodred. “When you come back, you can claim him again."

"Nay," Said Boromir. “Better you send him to Minas Tirith, with a rider and a missive for the Steward. I am not sure when I shall return, or indeed if I shall pass through Rohan on my way." He did not mention the possibility of him not coming back at all, because that in Boromir's mind wasn't a viable option - he was under oath. He had to keep it, or else Gondor would perish, and with her - dearest Faramir, and the Steward, and Derufin, and the beloved White City, and Rohan, and Theodred...

***

Despite the long journey that awaited him, sleep eluded Boromir that night. Ere the first rays of dawn he rose, got dressed and left the Guest Hall. His feet took him down, and down, seemingly of their own accord, through the languidly rousing city, through the gate, towards the Barrowfield that stretched outside of it. Covered in mist, the meadow appeared to him akin to the Sea, as it had been on calm summer mornings he’d spent in Belfalas as a child - with an archipelago of burial mounds of the Eorlingas covered in white bloom. Though the barrows looked nearly identical, even after all the years, Boromir had no difficulty seeking out the one that he had come to find. He waded in the mist until he stood before the sealed entrance to Princess Idis’s* tomb.

Not for the first time he wondered how his life would have been, had fair Idis had survived her illness and had they wedded. Would she have stayed in Minas Tirith, while he had gone off in search of Imlardis? Would he have left a child in Minas Tirith, as well? Or several small ones? He could hardly wrap his mind about the idea. Going to war would have been much harder, had he had a family of his own to orphan. Aye, but returning might be easier, he thought, remembering Celeg, so eager to be with his young wife again, and Reinmar, whose body had been washed, and dressed, and looked after by his kin. I should be glad, he thought, to one day return here, to Idis's barrow. It was easy to lay down his life for an entire nation - had something happened to Boromir, someone, likely his brother, would readily take over his duties. But who would have been a father to his children and a husband to his wife, in case of his untimely death? Do not think along those lines, Boromir, he told himself. First, you do not have a wife. And second, even now, there are people that would grieve you. His thoughts went once again to Faramir. Would they yet have a chance reconcile their wounded hearts?

Right then, Boromir felt a presence near him and turned around to see who had come. He blinked, wanting to dispel the remnants of sleep clouding his sight still, for the vision before him appeared taken straight from one of Faramir’s prophetic dreams. Here, among the buried bones of the Eorlingas, one of the great Kings of Rohan from yonder days marched through the mists - his brow solemn, his back straight and his step plenty spry. Boromir knelt before the Lord of the Mark.

“Rise, Boromir of Gondor,” said Theoden King. For it was Theoden King, and not Eorl the Young himself, as Boromir had at first guessed in his awestruck wonder. The proud, noble Lord that Boromir remembered from his youth, and that now stood before him, was an image so far removed from the dotard that had greeted him on the day before in the Golden Hall, that it left Boromir disoriented, with a vague sense of his mind reeling. “Though you already have a father to claim you, in my heart I still name you my son,” the King spoke further, unheeding of Boromir's inner turmoil. “And even so, even for all the love I bore for you, Death became my daughter’s groom before Boromir did, and this cold tomb became her alcove. A shroud in place of a gown. A dirge for a hymn. Where are Boromir and Theoden to find consolation, when all hope appears lost with the Ladies that we have loved?” Though the King’s face was clear again, his speech remained mournful and marred with despair.

“In the memory of their goodness and in the service of our Kingdoms, Valar permit,” said Boromir, his voice raspy from unshed tears. The deaths of Queen Elfhild and Princess Idis, while tragic, had fallen on the House of Earl years ago. And yet it appeared that to Theoden’s heart these wounds were as if fresh, opened anew and bleeding.

“Ha!” Theoden uttered a mirthless chuckle. “That was rightly spoken indeed,” he said. “The Steward has taught you well. Is that what you have come here seeking? The solace of her memory?” To that, Boromir said nothing, feeling his supply of wit depleted for the moment. “Tell me this, Boromir. Why is Gondor’s most valiant protector leaving her fields on the eve of a great battle?”

And Boromir almost told the King about Isildur’s Bane. Almost, for he saw in that moment, over the King’s shoulder, another figure approaching. A thin, mean silhouette, that appeared to be skulking even when traversing an open field on a bright morning. Boromir knew him - it was the advisor, Grima, that had offended him yesterday in the Throne Hall. A strange feeling of suspicion and ominous foreboding seized him. Do not reveal your true purpose, the spirits of the barrows whispered in the wind.

“In search of allies beyond Gondor and Rohan,” Boromir answered instead, which was true, but vague enough to conceal his quest for Isildur’s Bane. One day I shall tell Theoden King all about it. I shall tell him when my purpose is fulfilled, when he is himself again, and this dark malady of the spirit has abated in him, Boromir vowed.

"No harm done, my Lord," Boromir rushed to reassure the King. "I harbor only gratitude for you and yours." The King smiled. Over his shoulder, Boromir could see the advisor steadily clearing the field, heading in their direction.

Theoden sighed and his shoulders rounded.

“You will have to forgive this old man for not having been a better host yesterday," he said, regretful. "I lose my temper easily these days, it seems.”

"Thank you for not forgetting about her," said Theoden. "One child I have lost already. If aught happens to Theodred..."

Boromir almost choked on his own tongue, hearing that.

"My Lord!" he objected. "The Prince is in good health. Why say so?"

"My heart grows heavy with worries sometimes," said Theoden King. It seemed that his strenght was leaving him again. “Every time the Rohirrim ride out to battle, I get this vision of another burial mound sprouting from this hallowed ground…” Theoden’s eyes became glassy, as if he bore witness to some yet unheard of grim future, that only he could see.

"My Liege!" sounded an oily voice from behind the King. It was the man, Grima, who had finally reached them. "My Liege, you shall surely catch a cold if you are out this early! Be this Lord Boromir's doing?" he asked, throwing an accusing glance Boromir's way.

"I do not recall that we've been introduced," said Boromir coldly, indignant at Grima's continued impudence.

"Ah," Theoden sighed. "A more concerned advisor than Grima I could not have hoped for. But hold Lord Boromir blameless for my escapade - the thought was independent; I see it's folly now," the King rambled on, in every way now the dotard that he'd appeared yesterday. "A chill has overtaken my bones, indeed, I must hurry inside."

Was this how the mighty Theoden King spent his days, then? Cowering inside the golden walls, behind the closed doors? Boromir wondered this, as he watched the King and the advisor retreat towards the gate. I must allow an old man his eccentricities, he decided finally, more to reassure himself. Seeing what had become of Rohan, he felt all the stronger the import of his mission. Once again he made a vow to himself, to his father, and to the bones of Princess Idis, that he would not fail. Wherever you are, Lady, please, guide me and watch over the success of my quest, for much depends upon it, he prayed.

Trust your heart, and do not give in to despair, the ghosts of the barrows answered, or mayhaps it was just the wind. With a heavier heart, Boromir returned to Meduseld. Theodred awaited him by the stables.

***

Boromir and Theodred made good progress through the Westfold. It took them near to two days to reach the Fords of Isen - they sheltered for the night at a small riders' outpost, in one of the farming villages surrounding Hornburg. They whiled away the hours spent on horseback with idle banter, talking about this and that, just like they would in the old, much simpler times. It would be hard for Boromir to express how much that camaraderie meant to him, how blissful was it to hide in the illusion that nothing had changed, that this was just one of his many friendly visits to the Land of the Horse Lords. 

And yet so many things were different. Theodred, for one, had ever been a solemn, thoughtful man, but now he came across as downright broody. In those moments when the Prince thought Boromir wasn’t paying attention, his face would become drawn and his eyes downcast, as if he were shedding a mask of good humour he only kept up for his friend’s sake. The March seemed eerily silent - abandoned in the wake of recent raids, as if the land itself held its breath.

And finally, the fantasy of a carefree country ride shattered completely, for when they reached the Fords and looked upstream, through the Wizard’s Vale, the sight of Orthanc, that stood proudly erect and seemed to dwarf even the mist-clad Methedras itself, made Boromir remember the Steward’s parting words. Seek out the Wizard Saruman on your way to the West. His father’s charge had weighed heavily on him even before, and caused some inner confusion, so he had not mentioned this design to Theodred on their way through the Fold. And now that he beheld the sight of Isengard’s walls glistening in the distance, a heavy and bitter dread entered Boromir's heart. He remembered the strange feeling that had seized him upon beloved Idis's grave, the bone-penetrating, ominous foreboding that nothing was in truth as it presented itself.

He decided then and there not to go to the White Wizard and to forgo his counsel entirely. He had promised his father he'd bring the Bane back to Gondor - and he would. However, how he went about it remained his concern. Boromir might not have been a strategist like the Steward, nor a clairvoyant like his brother, nor a wise man like Saruman, but even he could tell, after nigh to ten days of his journey so far, that some unforeseen powers were at play in this entire quest for Imladris, and he would do well not to tempt them. The Wizard's betrayal was unthinkable. And yet, to trust him fully was also an impossibility. He could not, he would not in good conscience appeal to Curumo as a friend. Ignoring his father’s advice sat ill with him, as it ever had in the rare cases where he had not heeded the Steward’s word in the past. Yet, a strange thought occurred to him: Perhaps by not going to Saruman when his allegiance remains untested, I am indeed protecting my father, and Gondor as well. But protecting from what? That, he did not know.

Theodred must have guessed that Boromir’s thoughts were heavy, for he had not intruded upon Boromir’s brooding and only spoke up once Boromir looked to him, his dilemma finally resolved.

"This Ford is the limit of the Westfold,” said Theodred. “You are leaving the King’s Land behind and entering the Great Wilds. The Valar avail you, for none else will."

“What of Felar?” Boromir asked, rubbing the horse’s neck affectionately.

Boromir dismounted and took Felar’s reigns. Slowly, solemnly, he approached the Ford. He would not go to the Wizard, but neither would he cower from Orthanc’s sight. Nor from anyone or anything that might meet him in the Wilds. He unfastened the Horn of Gondor, inhaled a lungful of fresh mountain air and blew with all his might.

A rare glimpse of mirth chased through Theodred’s face.

“Aye, Felar shall aid you, so long as you do not slack off with his care.”

To Felar and Brego’s credit, the horses did not spook, though their ears twitched and Brego snorted loudly, clearly offended. Theodred, who had also dismounted, only shook his head, but knew better than to tell Boromir off for blowing the Horn. 

"Theodred, Prince of the Horse Lords, from the bottom of my heart I thank you. And Gondor thanks you,” Boromir said, clasping the Prince’s arm. “We may not be brothers in blood, but we are brothers in mind and heart."

"So we are. Be safe, brother. And Boromir…" Here Theodred’s voice faltered wetly, so overcome he was with feeling.

"Aye?"

"I pray that you come back bearing hope for our people. It is long since we had any hope."

=======

* Princess Idis of the House of Eorl is JRRT’s own OC, not mine. In the initial drafts, Theoden King had two natural children: Theodred and Idis. Tolkien later either scrapped her parts or gave them to Eowyn. You can read about her on Tolkien Gateway (they cite Christopher Tolkien’s The Treason of Isengard ). I used the discarded lore to give Boromir a more setting-appropriate backstory. It just didn’t make sense for an heir to the Stewardship, with such a controlling father like Denethor, to never have made even an attempt at courtship and marriage. Their engagement also adds to the reasons why Boromir was so well liked in Rohan.

This part of Boromir's journey ends here. See you in other works!

Cover image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you so much! <3

[darkwood-sleddog]

Would you recommend any of those wolf/dog books today? I remember reading The Good Dog, and to this day I still dream of pot roast (ive never had it).

Yes! I have read all the books in that post, but The Sight (and its sequel, Fell, as well as Fire Bringer, another of David Clement-Davies books) are genuinely amazing Young Adult novels that I re-read on a frequent basis. There is something really eerie about his prose I just love. Out of the books on the list I think The Sight is the most likely to appeal to a variety of readers. It is more fantastical than the other books, and the prose is accessible but mature. You can read this as an adult and be pretty darn happy with it, the same cannot be said for some of the children’s books on that list (they’re not bad books, I just need more out of my narratives as an adult but I’ll reread them for pure nostalgia).

Call of the Wild and White Fang are classic literature, but also great reads if you are interested in gold rush era Alaska like I am (less than tasteful, but expected during the era they were written, representation of indigenous Alaskans with these tho, as a warning).

Wolf’s Rain is an anime, it’s graphic, but beautiful. It has a manga adaption, but the anime is the original version of the story (they diverge significantly). Admittedly this was my first foray into anime as a young teen (watching it in parts on ye old MegaVideo oh boy). You will cry.

I’ve read the other books, but they’re more for children and didn’t impact me as much, but I was a pretty advanced reader as a child with pretty morbid taste in literature (this has continued as an adult. Cozy lit is not for me). All of the books in the post deal with themes of man (or domesticality) vs wildness, civility vs harshness, finding your place in a potential harsh/difficult situation or world etc.

[imsogonesposts]

Ocean Blue Eyes, Looking in Mine

|| ao3 || finnick masterlist || an: i wrote this cause i thought rep tv was gonna be announced 😕 || based on the song gorgeous by taylor swift || requests are open!! ||

summary: Finnick flirts with you at one of the Capitol parties. (wc: 942)

warnings: drinking, I think thats it!!

The only interesting thing about the Capitol parties you were forced to attend, was that every now and then, you got to see Finnick Odair. The two of you had spoken a few times in District 4, but never enough to be considered friends. But he had always seemed nice, and he clearly still was, even after all these years, even after the Hunger Games.

“You might get alcohol poisoning if you keep drinking tonight, honey,” he whispered, his voice smooth as silk. 

“Why do you talk like that?” You ask, playfully swatting his hand away as he tries to take your glass of wine away. You needed the wine to distract you from the party. From its blinding lights that were starting to hurt your eyes, and the overly eager citizens of the Capitol that were beginning to get on your nerves. You needed it to keep you from counting down the seconds until you could go home. 

“Talk like what?” He asked with one of those charming smiles he always seemed to have on. The smile you both loved and hated. 

“Like that,” you reply, smiling as he looked at you in confusion. 

You had never admitted it to anyone, but you had always had a bit of a crush on Finnick Odair. It started when you were both five years old, and he helped you up after you tripped over a few seashells on the beach. He had helped you up, brushed some of the sand off you, and helped you look for your parents after noticing your legs had started to bleed. And after he brought you back to them, he had stayed to make sure you were okay. You weren’t sure if he remembered that day, but you did, and you couldn’t help but have a crush on him afterward. A crush that still stood as you looked at his face. At his golden hair, at his dimples, and at those blue eyes that reminded you all too much of the ocean that surrounded your shared district. It wasn’t fair that he could still make you feel this way, all these years later, even if you two have only spoken a handful of times since then. You decided to blame it on the alcohol.

“Excuse me,” you suddenly state, “I see someone I should talk to,” you say with a smile. You didn’t know who you would go talk to, but that seemed like a problem for the future. Right now, you just needed to clear your head, and Finnick Odair certainly wasn’t helping with that. 

You noticed the flash of a small frown on Finnick’s face before he quickly replaced it with one of his charming smiles. “Of course,” he replied, taking your free hand and raising it to his lips. “It was lovely talking to you again,” he finished, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand as he said your name. 

You knew Finnick Odair was a well-known flirt, which is why you tried to calm your heart as his lips touched the back of your heart. But the alcohol coursing through your veins certainly wasn’t helping with that.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” You suddenly asked, immediately regretting the question as he smiled at you—a soft, sweet smile. 

“No,” he replied, “I do not.” 

The two of you stared at each other as you went over his response in your head. His ocean blue eyes looking into yours as you contemplated how to respond. You felt as if you could drown in those eyes as he creased his eyebrows, looking at you in confusion. 

“Why do you look confused?” He asked as you shrugged with a smile.

“I’m deciding if that’s a good or bad thing.” You replied.

“If I have a girlfriend?” He asked with a laugh. You simply nodded. “Why would it be a bad thing?”

Because you’re so gorgeous, it actually hurts. It doesn’t make sense how you of all people could be single. “Because if you’re single, there’s no hope for the rest of us,” you joke. 

“I’m sure there’d be hope for you,” he replies with a smile. “You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

You could feel yourself grow warm at his compliment. “Does that usually work on the other girls?” You joked. He just laughed. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied. “I don’t really go around calling other girls gorgeous,” he said with a wink. 

Oh. “What do you call them then?” You asked. 

“Pretty,” he replied, moving a piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re the only one I’ve ever called gorgeous.” His hand drops back to his side as he smiles. 

Oh. He only ever called you gorgeous? Oh

“Well,” he says, glancing around the room, “I shouldn’t keep you from the person you needed to talk to,” he said. 

You had forgotten that. You wanted to admit you had lied about needing to talk to someone in order to avoid his gaze. To avoid the butterflies in your stomach every time he looked at you, touched you, and flirted with you. You wanted to stay and continue talking with him. To continue letting him compliment you as you stared at the captivating eyes you wished to get lost in. But you had embarrassed yourself around him enough for one night. 

“Right, of course,” you replied with a nod, fighting a smile as he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand once more. “I’ll see you around, Finnick,” you said as he smiled, lightly squeezing your hand before releasing it. 

“I hope so,” he responded before leaving to mingle with the citizens of the Capitol. 

[umbralstars]

When Cloud was a child, was he ever so lonely that if he sat and listened to the quiet for long enough, he could hear the lifestream? Did he ever talk to it? I think about that a lot. Did the voices fade as the reactor sucked the life out of his hometown? Was it quiet when he went to Midgar?

His mother chuckled once while caressing her fingers through his hair as she worked out the kinks and knots. "You have a sight not many have, my little cub," she had said. Cloud looked up at her with large eyes. "I saw you speaking to the garden. With the niddsi. Hold on to that gift, not many children do as they grow..."

That little exchange wasn't something Cloud remembered readily while growing up. He'd been so young that the exact words were forgotten in a year. Still, that didn't stop others from remarking on his 'sight.' How he'd stare and make faces at things the adults said weren't there. How he'd insist to his ma on leaving a plate next to their garden with little offerings because the tiny spirits who helped them asked so nicely. How he knew the ravens watched them with curious eyes.

The adults in their old tribe thought him humorous and praised him for it. Not so much when ma and him were forced to stay in Nibelheim. People in the town were jealous their garden did a little better--despite how the niddsi seemed sicker. Other kids called him 'weird' for seeing things they didn't; the adults were worse and called him 'touched'. There was less of them in the village anyhow. Green wisps didn't hover above the flowers and none danced even if you stepped out into the woods.

Cloud liked being out there more than being in town. The other kids would go out to play, or when in the company of adults, but none would ever go as far as he did. So they stayed far away from him--which was fine, they were all idiots. Out there, in the quiet, he could listen to how the wind spoke as it rustled the needles of the evergreen or shook the twisting branches of oak. He could ask it for help. To tell him when prey drew close enough to his perch where he could strike it with an arrow; thank it for letting ma and him eat a little better that week. It listened when he recited stories to it.

Some people called what dwelled in the forest "vattr". Others would curse or speak in hushed reverence and fear to "jótun" when they spoke of places which could not be tamed by human hands. Nibelheimál may not really believe in vattr--Shinra's documentaries always said they were only fairy tales--but they were superstitious enough to not discount them entirely. But, even as he grew up, Cloud couldn't bring himself to ignore them. Who else could he talk to? Who else would listen? He knew deep in his heart the vattr listened.

It made being too close to the mako pipes unbearable. Any time there was a crack, or it was too quiet as he listened to the sound beneath the whirr of electricity and hiss of steam, he could hear garbled whispers of confused voices. Or wailing that dissipated to silence. It was the same silence he'd heard up on the mountain when he ran after Tifa--silence which was only broken if one traveled to the close to the mako dense caves. It was the voice that had been strangled from the mother mountain.

Then, he decided he was too old for fairy tales too. All the Shinra documentaries kept saying the "lifestream" was nonsense. Mako was mako. That's all it was, and who could argue with the scientists on tv? They were at Shinra for a reason. The Planetologists stopped coming to the village, and anything by them or scientists outside of Shinra stopped airing all together. What good would he be as a SOLDIER if he was childish like that? Surly, Sephiroth didn't believe in those fairy tales either.

One day the niddsi disappeared from the garden. He...couldn't tell if they had ever really been there. Ma's garden died that year. Most of the village's did too. Not much could be salvaged, and Cloud could only help a little with the few rabbits he could bag. They were disappearing too. The deer were long gone. Nibel wolves drew closer to the village or their packs disappeared away from Nibelheim and its reactor. Shinra sent more food; the other tribes were willing to trade but their enmity was clear. Cloud couldn't really blame them.

By the time he left for Midgar, it was quiet. Not completely. The wind still rasped weakly if he stood in silence long enough. He had to say goodbye. It wasn't until he was in a truck driving through the Wastes that Cloud understood what real silence was like. The land had been drained of everything aside from apathy. He'd been too miserable doubled over in the back to care, and Midgar itself was always full of human noise.

It was always too loud. Everything was too loud and vast compared to Nibelheim. Even if he passed by a broken pipe around the cadet apartments, or walked through districts closest to the reactors, he couldn't hear the wailing like one could in Nibelheim. Or maybe the screaming faded into the din of the city. Not that he thought much of it. He'd gotten used to ignoring those childish fantasies. He had so much to prove after all...

For the first time in years, he heard a little chime of laughter. It wasn't from Aerith, who was gleefully humming as she surveyed the flowers and waited on him to pick, because it was a much younger voice. A little girl who said something in a tongue he'd never heard. It was gone as quick as he heard it. Cloud tried to shake it off as he picked out those foxtails. He didn't believe in fairy tales...but he did wonder if Aerith knew she had niddsi in her garden.

[cheerysmores]

Here's the story! (AO3)

Freedom. 

The word tastes of some long-forgotten language on Asatrion’s tongue, as rotted away as the memories of his face. It was something he prayed for once. He’d roll over as his siblings slept, murmuring near-silent words to every God he could remember seeing venerated in the city. And as the nights drew on, those whispers became more honeyed, his offerings desperate. His body, his blood, his unlife, he’d leave it all at those perfectly polished statues if it meant something could hear him.

“Why me?”

He’d gotten his answer the day he'd been fool enough to let that question slip between the palace walls. He’d woken face down in the kennel, it easier to count which parts of him weren’t broken or missing. A snap came from somewhere, then a voice, maybe his own, screaming in the darkness.

Cazador’s words had come much later, cold as chains through Godey’s twisted jaw bone:

“Is that clear enough for you?”

That was the night he learned that those statues were nothing but stone.

Freedom. He turns the word over again. After centuries of silently screaming for it, banging at the bars clamped around his mind and his body, it’s almost strange to have it. He’d pictured it loud and triumphant as he boiled Cazador’s corpse and kept his skull for a chalice. Instead it’s… quiet. The night is still, the cemetery’s path deserted. He rests naked and sweaty against his own gravestone with the only person he’s ever cared for dozing against his shoulder. 

He feels the epitaph pressing into his back: ‘In loving memory.’ It’s almost comical how shit of a choice that was, most likely picked by some random official who’d forgotten his name the second it left their desk. He’d stopped considering who might have come to his funeral long ago. Those faces, the choices that left him bleeding on the street that night– it’s all rotting underneath him now.

He touches the grooves of his name, rain-slicked and old. That he still has. But what else? He’s no longer a slave, not the prettiest lamb trotted out for slaughter, only hurt in the places he can’t use to lure back prey for his master.

He flinches as visions of his bloody fingers scrabbling at cold tomb walls swim unbidden into his mind.

No. Not his master, not anymore. He’d stabbed Cazaodor again and again and again until his hands were soaked with death. And then… nothing, just the familiar thud of a body hitting the floor. After all that monster had done, the all-powerful Cazador Szarr is just another corpse left in their wake. There was no fanfare or cheering or lights igniting inside him. Even the stars as they’d left the palace were no brighter. 

He remembers counting them through the bedroom window whenever he was forced to go through the tired play of his seduction. Sometimes his mind would leave his flesh completely, wishing he could flit amongst those very stars and spit on the Gods while he was there.

“Are you alright?” Tav’s lips suddenly move against his shoulder. 

He brushes a damp strand of hair from their forehead, his smile back in place. “After that? I was hoping you wouldn’t need to ask.”

They jab his side. “You know, you’re not as good a liar as you believe. And you’re thinking so loudly I can hear it from here.” They shift onto his lap, gently moving his chin until he’s looking at them properly. Their eyes are soft but he can feel them looking right through to the silent stone of his heart. Even so cold, he’s sure their hands could almost make it beat again, cracks and all.

Ah. Love. That’s what’s left. The thought is so saccharine he isn’t sure if he wants to have them again right now or throw himself in the river.

“Now, are you alright?” they say, quieter this time.

Gods, what a question. He’s had 200 years of enslavement, a few tendays of parasite-fuelled chaos, what tomorrow might bring he has no bloody idea. He lifts their hand, presses his lips to each knuckle, then the delicate web of veins at their wrist. It thrums with life, of something they can share together when they survive this— if they survive this, he supposes.

He brushes the fresh bite at their neck. It’s still flushed, still so much smaller than his own. 

“For once, I’d say that I actually feel like me.”

***

He’s burning.

He saved the world, reduced the Netherbrain to the wreckage in front of them and he’s burning. The caress of the sunset turns to fire against his skin. It slices with a malice he’d almost forgotten, his arms, his hands, his face– all smouldering like lit parchment.

He staggers back, hissing in pain.

The parasite really is dead, and it dragged his life in the sun into the abyss with it.

Something grabs his shoulder, Tav he realises. Their body shakes with coughs as the stench of copper and smoke engulfs them both.

“Astarion–”

Disgust breaks in their eyes as his skin crumbles under their fingers. It falls to dust between them, a cruel reminder of exactly what he still is. He shoves them away with all the strength he has left. 

“I have to go. Now.” They can’t see him like this, no one can.

He runs from the pier, from the sun, from them, away away away until he’s gasping and alone under a tarp. He wants to break something, hurt someone the way he hurts now. What was the point of all those disgustingly good deeds, of giving up the power to keep himself safe if he was still fated to flee like a rat once the game was over.

He crawls further underneath the cover and back into the old embrace of the shadows. 

Midnight has come and gone by the time he walks back to the pier. It’s empty now, the brain nothing but an ugly lump on the oil-black surface of the Chionthar. A handful of stars shine from the horizon and to the spot where his reflection should be, yet another reminder that he cannot simply wash away his past like the blood still dried to his fingers. 

He kicks some debris into the water and watches them ripple. They’re the same stars as 200 years ago. Still cold. Still silent. The pattern of Jassa's Dagger glints in front of him, pointing west and out of the city. His foot pauses between kicks. There’s nothing to stop him following that path now. He could go anywhere, turn around and do– Gods what would he do? There are the other spawn waiting red-eyed and ravenous in the underdark. He supposes could help them…. or he could never think of them again. He could simply take his blade, pilfer some poor soul’s purse and see where the night takes him. 

He contemplates throwing himself in the water and just letting the current wash him away. It can’t flow back to its beginning and neither can he, maybe it will spit him out somewhere nice. He grimaces as he touches the surface, still thick with illithid slime. 

Alright, maybe not that particular plan. Forward it is then. 

There’s just one person to pick up first.

He finds Tav in what remains of the Elfsong. They’re curled asleep, their clothes still on and a candle burned down to nothing beside the bed. They turn in the darkness the moment he sits on the mattress. 

“You’re a bastard.”

He pulls off his boots, chuckling softly. “Good evening to you too, darling.”

“Do you know how long I spent searching for you? That we all did?” Concern cuts through their tired rasp. He avoids their gaze, busying himself with the ties of his armour. 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come back for you? I’m hurt.”

He narrowly dodges the pillow that flies at his head.

“I wanted to help, you idiot.”

The tiniest thread of guilt twinges through him. Someone wanting to give rather than rip pieces out of him is still a strange concept, no matter how many times they’ve proven it. 

He sighs as they slowly brush their fingers through his hair. 

“That version of me is not something you wanted to see– some creature fleeing into the dark. A ghoul, a shadow–” He grunts when the tie to his pauldron snags. “Whatever I am now.”

They touch his forearm, halting his movements. “How about hero?”

The word curdles inside him. He’d seen plenty drowning in their cups at Sharess’ Caress, blind or ignorant to the walls of the Szarr palace. Night after night he’d sat with the other shiny toys on display, waiting for one to notice the flicker behind such a clearly painted smile. 

Maybe he can be better. Maybe worse. They do seem to be paid very well…

“That would have positively disgusted me once,” he whispers as they take over, pulling until his armour falls to the mattress with a soft thud. 

“Whether you like it or not we fit the description now. There are already half a dozen drinking songs carrying our names. And since you missed those drinks–” They pull down their collar, throat bared in clear invitation. He buries his face into that familiar curve, inhaling deeply. He can almost smell the sun still on them, golden and warm.

“Perhaps it’s not so terrible when you call me that,” he whispers, biting into the apple of their skin.

“How about if we do it together?” 

Blood drips from his mouth as he pulls back, peppering their shirt with rosy spots of gore. “Well that depends. Is this really what you want?” Am I, is what he doesn’t say. He’s not afraid of his own darkness, not anymore, but if it takes away his one last slice of sunshine in this world…

There’s no hesitation as Tav brushes the blood from his chin, ruining their shirt further. “I love you, every version that might come to pass. And whatever the future holds, I want to be there.”

Their mouth is on his before he can answer, whispering away the taste of that ridiculous question for good.

Whatever the future holds. He can almost picture it, some boundless path stretching on into a thousand-thousand years of possibilities, Tav’s hand in his and a blade in the other. With everything that’s been taken from him, maybe it’s finally time to start rebuilding himself, piece by jagged piece.

He collapses on the bed with them, pulling away for only a second to murmur against their lips. “Then we are going to have an awful lot of fun, my love.”

***

Make sure to check out the other pieces from @bg3tarotdeck

✨ THE STAR | HOPE, HEALING, RENEWAL

My piece for the @bg3tarotdeck. What a pleasure it's been!

Big thanks to the project’s organisers, its incredible creatives, and especially to @cheerysmores for being such a wonderful partner and writing a stunning accompaniment to this piece.

[daily-basil]

could you maybe draw basil feeding a stray cat I beg of you

Featuring an outfit by @dyesprout0ysphoria !

[keithkog]

I still don’t know what a fraunhofer line is by the way.

-Keith

[firsttimedmsendhelp]

I'm neither an expert nor am I qualified to say what I'm about to say. However, I have chosen this hill and I shall die in it happy. Mohabbatein is without one of if not the best Bollywood movie ever made (in my opinion). Here I said it, fight me on it. And if you haven't watched it go educate yourself on this elite form of art!

[nickbutnodick]

i find it hilarious how the millenials and older gen z on this site complain about kids being too young for it whilst also reminiscing about being kids on it

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

is ur name actually macintosh....like my little pony 😭❤️🥰

LMAO no no my name is just short so i have like... the opposite of nicknames from my friends where they will actively make my name longer because its silly hehehe!!! ive gotten mactintosh.. mac n cheese... macaroni... macadoodle... macademia... and my personal favorite mackerel (because. fish)

ALSO I HAVE NEVER SEEN MLP pleaseeeee tell me about macintosh i need 2 know about my name twin. who are they are they cool . i hope theyre cool. i know theres an apple themed one but i thought her name was applejack. is there ANOTHER apple pony.