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inkedmoth · 1 month ago

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Favourite Weather

For Anon, who requested a one-shot of an innkeeper's daughter unwilling to let Boromir continue through the storm. But oops! There's only one room left... Hers. I spent far too long dithering on how far to push the spice, so we have a fade to black to be safe! Hope you enjoy it!

Torrential rain was Eathril’s favourite weather, not only did the steady drumming of rain upon the roof tiles drown out any rowdiness from the common room, but it also covered the sounds from the rooms of the inn, be it snoring or other noises. Rain was calming, it was soothing, and it meant that the inn was utterly filled to capacity, therefore the lockbox would also be full, and they’d be able to eat come winter.

But a storm like this, meant the Silver Stallion Tavern wasn’t just full, but fit to burst.

Already every room in the building had been sold off, the summer traders having gotten in quick and some even doubling up, then the following travellers and merchants had to make do with bedding down in any free corner of the common room or the leaky stables. This late at night, there was scarcely any room to walk, let alone sleep.

Which meant when the room to the inn was flung open as a gust of wind and a figure bullied their way inside, more than a few disgruntled voices rose in protest.

Thankfully the door didn’t remain open for long.

Having almost been finished cleaning up behind the bar, Eathril bit back a sigh of frustration at the sight of water being dripped all over the floor, as the rather tall figure carefully made their way towards her. But she stood up straight, set aside her cleaning rags, and fixed a pleasant if forced smile upon her face.

It was late, she wanted to sleep, and then this hulking great brick outhouse of a man just let half a river and several trees worth of leaves into the common room. The common room she’d only just finished sweeping. Ugh.

“Can I help you?” she asked, through slightly gritted teeth.

“Apologies for the mess.”

Eathril blinked. Those weren’t the words she’d expected to hear, let alone what followed next.

“If you have a brush, I’ll clear it up.” The cloaked and hooded figure was saying, looking back over their shoulder towards the wet trail of dirt and muck. “Since it’s my fault I’ve dirtied your floors, the weather is rather vicious out there…”

She was staring. It wasn’t polite.

He –judging by the voice she was fairly certain it was a he– was tall, having to mind his head least he get clipped by a rafter. Broad too, with a heavy pack on one shoulder, a great round shield strapped to it that looked Rohirric in design, and a long sword at his belt. But beyond that, she couldn’t make out much.

He didn’t seem to be wearing armour like a solider, was he a mercenary? They often meant trouble, and trouble was the last thing she and her father needed with a crowded inn and irritable patrons having to kip on the floor.

Whoever he was, he turned to her, reaching up, and pulling his hood back. Dark hair plastered to his face, a short well-kept beard, and grey eyes with laughter lines at their corners. A gloved hand dragged through his hair, slicking it back out of his face.

He was, admittedly, rather handsome for a mercenary…

“Miss?”

Oh shit she’d been staring she should say something.

“No.” Well that was eloquent. “I mean I’ll clear it up in the morning,” she hastened to add. And then braced for what she had to say next. “But if you’re here for rooms we’re all sold out.”

Judging by the way his broad shoulders dropped in defeat, it had come out a little blunt.

“Ah, I should have guessed,” he said, with a rueful smile that made his grey eyes crinkle pleasantly, “the roads are empty from here to Gondor, as are the streets. I’m not surprised everyone has sought out shelter.”

He… he wasn’t pissed? Annoyed? Upset that there was no room left?

Eathril reassessed her earlier thought of him being a mercenary. He was armed, but so were most men in this region. Was he just a traveller? Although… now his hood was down she could see the collar of his tunic, a rich red satin with gold embroidery. Not a mercenary, or a solider… maybe a lord?

“Is there any chance of a hot meal? Or just a hot drink?” he was asking.

Good grief she needed to stop staring.

“The chefs finished up for the night, but we’ve got some cider warming and I can see about finding some cold cuts if you’d like?” she offered cautiously.

“That would be wonderful, thank you…?”

“Eathril.”

“Thank you, Miss Eathril.”

Gesturing to a barstool for him to settle, she passed him a dry cloth for his hair and face, before setting about finding a mug and plate for him. If he’d been a dick, she’d have quickly turned him away. But no, this possible Lord was surprisingly polite, so since he wasn’t able to stay, the least she could do was feed him and get him something warm to drink. She didn’t know many Lords that would be willing to sweep the floor…

Then again she didn’t know many Lords at all.

“Here you go,” she said upon her return, a tankard of steaming cider, and a plate with the last rolls of bread, several slices of chicken, a few cold roast potatoes, a hunk of cheese, and a slightly bruised apple. “I’m sorry it’s not much.”

“It’s more than enough, thank you Eathril.”

Oh well now she was feeling guilty.

Especially as he tucked into the scant meal as though it was the first food he’d eaten in days. Maybe it was, it had been raining near constantly for the past three, if he’d been caught in the deluge then perhaps he had ridden through it in a bid to find shelter.

Only to find that the inn was full.

And not complained.

Well shit now she really felt guilty…

“Is it just you running this place?” he asked, apparently having noted her watchful gaze.

“No, my da owns it, while I do the accounts and help run the bar,” she replied, moving closer to lean upon the countertop while he ate. “Have you travelled far?”

“From Minas Tirith.”

That was a solid four-day ride east, which meant he probably had ridden through the storm.

“Do you live there?” She already knew the answer to that, could tell by the finery of his clothing, but it was politer to ask than assume. “Are you a lord?”

“I do and I am,” he replied with an amused smile, and then held out a hand to her. “Lord Boromir, at your service.”

Amused, Eathril set her hand in his to shake, and then blinked owlishly as he bowed over her hand. It looked a little ridiculous, considering he was sat down and still had a good foot of height on her, but the intention was there regardless.

She wasn’t a doe-eyed teenager, but she could feel her cheeks burning at that simple gesture.

“You’re more polite than most the Gondorian Lords we get round here.”

The words were blurted in a bid to cover up her flustered reaction, but it was too late to take it back, as Lord Boromir’s brows shot towards his hairline. For a heart-stopping moment, Eathril feared she’d just insulted the man, but then he grinned, a smile so broad and bright it shifted his face from noble to almost… boyish.

“Well I’m both glad and disappointed to hear that,” he replied, finishing his meal and neatly stacking the knife and fork to one side, before wrapping his hands about the warm mug of cider. “Any names you can think of? I can always punish them once I’m back home.”

Alarmed noise rose in her throat, eyes flying wide at the thought.

But then Boromir chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that had Eathril’s stomach flipping. “I jest my Lady—”

“Lady?” she interrupted incredulously.

Ladies of Gondor were tall, elegant, beautiful, sophisticated, with stunning dresses, polite airs and graces, and skilled in conversation, dance, and the arts. She, on the other hand, was a barmaid, too stocky and well-built for her own tastes, and more than a little scuffed up and sweaty from the life of labour, wearing homespun clothing that had been patched one too many times. The one thing she was proud of, her long black hair, was nearly always dragged into a tight bun for practicality’s sakes. No, she wasn’t a Lady, no matter what he might say.

“What part of me makes you think I’m a Lady?”

“All of you.”

The sincerity of his words had Eathril’s mind going blank, staring at him in outright surprise and no small amount of doubt. Another blush was rising to her cheeks, unable to prevent her confused stare at the Lord sat at her bar.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable, forgive me,” Boromir apologised, taking an awkward sip of the warmed cider, as though he needed to give his hands and mouth something to do.

She wasn’t uncomfortable, not really. But watching his hands absently turn the mug, tracing the old engraving across its surface, Eathril found herself wondering what they were like without the gloves. Calloused from years of battle? Scared? Warm? Cold? She wasn’t uncomfortable… and she wouldn’t be complaining if he flirted some more.

“It’s fine,” she managed to say, voice slightly more breathless than intended. Clearing her throat, Eathril straightened up, gathering his empty plate, intending to return it to the kitchen. “I’m just not used to… compliments.”

“Really?”

Lord Boromir sounded so perplexed by that, that she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at him from the kitchen door. It wasn’t just his words, even his expression was confused, as though she’d posed him a riddle and demanded an answer. With an amused huff, she’d left him to it, let him wonder, let him puzzle it out.

Stepping into the kitchen, the door swung shut behind her, and Eathril let out a pent-up breath.

Maybe he had an ulterior motive, maybe he was just trying to get into her bed, maybe he was trying to get a free meal and drinks. It didn’t matter, she might not be accustomed to compliments, but that didn’t mean she was oblivious to the manipulation tactics of men. Especially soggy men who were hoping for a soft bed and possibly some company too.

Scraping the remains of food into the waste bucket, she left the plate alongside the sink, she’d see if he needed a refill, and then clean up and turn in for the night.

Stepping back out into the common room, Eathril froze.

The barstool was empty.

Except for two gold set alongside the now empty tankard. Enough for a room, and certainly far more than the meal and drink had been worth.

Had he left?

Shit. He thought she was uncomfortable with his flirting and had decided a fucking rainstorm was the better option? Was he going to sleep in the stables or was he going to keep riding and brave the elements? Was he insane?

Probably.

Which made Eathril utterly batshit crazy when she snatched up a cloak and bolted after him.

The full force of the storm slammed into her the second she made it outside, and the cloak hastily flung about her shoulders was rendered pointless immediately. Rain sleeted into her face, soaking her hair, her clothes, her skin. It felt like she was drowning on dry land.

One hand thrown up to try and shield her eyes, Eathril staggered to the stables, and ducked inside. It was noisy, it was leaking, but at least she could open her eyes, even if she couldn’t hear that well.

“Eathril?”

Thank the Valar he’d not left yet.

“I lied,” she blurted, earning an utterly bewildered look from the Lord in the midst of saddling his horse. Yes apparently the lunatic was planning to keep riding. “There is a room, we, we keep one in reserve for visiting dignitaries.”

A slight lie, since if she knew her Gondorian Lords, Boromir was that dignitary.

For a moment he didn’t move, remaining alongside his large mare, one hand on its mane the other on the leather saddle. But his eyes were very much on her. What must she look like? Shivering, soaked through, stood in the middle of the stables all but begging him not to ride out in the storm.

“You can’t ride out in this, the storm’ll kill you off,” she tried instead.

“It would take more than some rain to kill m—”

As though answering the challenge in his voice, a crack of thunder sounded, rattling the walls of the stable. Eathril jumped, a startled noise leaving her throat, and even Lord Boromir cursed, his horse tossing its head in alarm.

“Please, just, come back inside!”

“Alright, alright,” he relented, “one moment.”

It didn’t take long for him to unsaddle the mare, and even less time to lead her back into the stall and fling a blanket across her back. That done, he gathered up his pack, and joined Eathril at the entrance to the stables. For a moment, the pair watched as the rain moved in clear ripples and waves, the path between the stables and the inn turned into a quagmire. It was a miracle she’d made it to the stables without slipping and breaking her neck.

With a glance up at him, Eathril dragged her cloak tighter about her shoulders, and lead the way.

For all of two steps.

The wind and rain slammed into her, forcing her back a step, almost losing her balance. It was only the broad arm of Boromir hooking about her shoulders that prevented Eathril from taking a nasty tumble. He said something, voice snatched away by the wind, but she found herself tucked against his side, and the pair made it back towards the inn.

It was shockingly quiet once the door shut.

“T-this way,” she chattered, leading him towards a corridor.

On route, she snatched a pair of rough blankets from the storage cupboard, blindly passing one to the Lord following in her footsteps, and wiping at her own face. The spare room wasn’t upstairs with those of the other patrons, but tucked behind the kitchens, utilising the lingering warmth of the hearth. It was smaller, cosy, but the bed was comfortable and there were thick blankets.

Stepping inside, Eathril was quick to move across the room and pull the little lead paned window closed, and the sound of the thunderstorm dropped from a loud roar to a dull hum.

“It-it’s not much, but it’s a room,” she managed to say, beginning to sort the blankets heaped upon the bed, and trying not to drip too much water as she did so.

“This is your room, isn’t it?”

The quiet comment had Eathril pausing in surprise, looking over from where she was turning down the bed, and finding the tall Lord inspecting the shelves by the door. A couple of books, a few nicknacks, gifts from family and friends, dried flowers, and even a few trinkets from traders of distant lands. Boromir was careful to look, but not touch, which she appreciated.

But he’d caught her lie, knew that this room wasn’t reserved for dignitaries.

“It is,” she admitted, turning back to the bed, “w-we’re out of regular rooms, father’s already given up his to a horse trader from Rohan, so now it’s my turn.”

“And where will you sleep…?”

“The kitchens hearth will still be warm,” Eathril answered, turning away from the bed.

“No, no, you remain here, my Lady,” he countered, and picked up the bag he’d set down. “I must insist that you take the bed, I’ll take the kitchens.”

“You’ve already paid good gold for the room, and the bed.”

“I’d rather lose the gold than sleep in your bed while knowing you were uncomfortable.”

Oh.

Oh he was good.

Eathril breathed a laugh shaking her head in mock disbelief.

“I’m insisting you t-take the bed, you’re insisting I take the bed,” she murmured, “both of us are too stubborn to consider the ra-rather obvious solution.”

“And what would that be, my Lady?” he asked, pack now resting on his shoulder, looking fully prepared to head back out into the storm once again, no matter how dangerous it would be. “As far as I’m concerned the answer is clear, you’ll take the bed and I’ll—”

“Join me.”

Whatever Lord Boromir had been intending to say was silenced instantly with a click of teeth. Staring at her once more in confusion and shock, like she was a foe or opponent, he scanned her face for any misgivings, sought out any signs of distrust, of unwillingness.

Arms wrapped about herself to stave of the chill, she met his gaze levelly, watching as he blinked and then gave a low huff of surprise, shaking his head ruefully. Had she crossed a line? She wasn’t quite throwing herself at him, but it made sense to share if they were both so insistent.

“Are you sure, Lady Eathril?”

“I am.”

Apparently the fact she didn’t hesitate or have to reconsider, was surprising, as his brows rose briefly, but was quickly schooled. His head tilted, as though considering her anew, eyes roving across her face before dropping to her soaked clothing.

“Then I’ll see if any of my clothing survived the storm,” Lord Boromir relented, and unbuckled his pack. “And give you a moment to get changed.”

It didn’t take long for him to pull free a shirt and pair of breeches which were mostly dry, at which point he stepped from the room.

And Eathril tried not to exhale explosively.

Valar what had gotten into her, offering a Lord her own room and then suggesting they shared. Good grief was she really deluding herself that he had been flirting?

No, no if he’d been flirting, he’d have not resisted so strongly to sharing her bed, nor would he have stepped out of the room while she changed, or any number of things that he could have used to get closer to her or approach her or, or, or…

Okay maybe she was deluding herself.

Or he was being polite.

Shoving any more salacious thoughts from her mind, Eathril was quick to dry off the best she could. Her hair was damp against her back, but she’d need to leave it loose to dry quicker, and while a braid would have been more appropriate, her scalp felt tight after wearing a bun all day. Changed into one of her nightgowns, she threw a thick shawl about her shoulders in a bid to stave off the chill air, with minimal success.

A light knock at the door had her stomach flipping.

Squashing down that reaction, Eathril opened the door and immediately struggled to keep her eyes on his face.

Lord Boromir was tall, he was broad, he was well built, and that white undershirt was leaving very little to the imagination. Her scandalous thoughts became considerably harder to ignore when his chest was on a level with her eyes, and the dampness of his hair and body had it sticking to his skin in the most interesting of ways.

As the Lord stepped into the room her bed chamber abruptly felt cramped, not cosy. Like there wasn’t enough room, there wasn’t enough space between them. The bed shoved into the corner beneath the window didn’t look large enough anymore. Lord Boromir was tall, his feet were bound to hang off the end of the bed, Valar why did she think this was a good idea.

“I’ll take the window side, if that’s amenable to you?” Boromir offered, lifting a hand to slick his still damp hair back from his face.

The motion drew her eyes to the shift of his muscles.

With a thick swallow, Eathril dragged her eyes to his face, considering his offer. It would mean she’d take the side of the bed closest to the door, which meant she’d be able to leave without having to clamber across the bed, which meant she wasn’t trapped between the wall and this brick outhouse of a man. A surprisingly touching gesture.

“Th-that would be g-good.”

At her stammering, Boromir’s attention landed squarely on her face, brows furrowing in concern.

“You’re shivering,” his voice sounded shockingly loud in the quiet of her room, even with the rain pelting against the glass window.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking, I can see it,” he repeated, “I’ll bring you some cider.”

He turned towards the door and Eathril moved, putting a hand up to stop him, her palm landing squarely against his chest. There was a sharp inhale from him, but she applied pressure, and he stilled, staring down at her.

“I’m fine,” she repeated stubbornly. “T-the bed’ll warm up soon enough.”

He was the guest, if she needed a warming drink, she could get it herself, but right now the bed was far warmer than her room and her room was far warmer than the corridor. She had little intention of leaving it. She would warm up. It would be fine. She just had to wait for the shivers to subside. It would be fine.

A broad hand landed on hers, and with a jolt Eathril realised she’d not removed her hand from his chest.

Valar he was warm. The sheer heat radiating from his chest, from his hand, from his body, was enviable. Apparently noticing how cold her hand was, Boromir took her hands between his and lightly rubbing, breathing into his cupped palms, the heat of his breath tingling across her skin.

It was a kind gesture, but also incredibly… intimate.

A shaky exhale left her lips, and Boromir’s deep grey eyes glanced to her in concern.

“Come here.”

“What?” Her voice was little more than a strangled whisper. “Why?”

“Come, here,” he ordered, and gently pulled her hand.

It was far too easy to obey, too easy to step towards him, too easy to allow herself to be drawn into his warmth. One moment Eathril was trying to keep her distance, the next she’d all but plastered herself to his chest. Head tucking under his chin, face pressed against his collarbones, hands bundling into fists and gripping his shirt.

It was soothing, he was warm, it felt… safe.

Which was ridiculous really, considering he was a total stranger she’d invited into her bedroom on a whim, but at this point she didn’t care.

It would have been embarrassing how she clung to him, if it wasn’t for the fact his own arms had wrapped about her, gently running through her long black hair and moving the damp lengths from her back. His hands smoothed across her shoulder blades, skating up and down her back, gently rubbing warmth into her, the rough skin of his hands snagging lightly on her nightgown.

What would his hands feel like on her skin?

The thought was so unexpected, that a slight jolt ran through Eathril’s body.

Immediately Boromir froze, hands still resting on her back, but ceasing in their path. She didn’t want him to stop, didn’t want his hands to leave her back, didn’t want him to move away or put distance between them.

“Are you alright?” he asked, breath ghosting across the crown of her head.

“Y-eah.”

Fuck, that wasn’t convincing.

“Just cold, but th-this helps,” she forced herself to add, in the hopes his hands would resume their path. To her relief, they swept down her spine again, the motion was enough to have Eathril sighing.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more to warm you.”

“You could.”

The words slipped out without conscious thought, and once again Boromir’s hands froze, as did his breathing, it was only the drumming of his heart against her cheek that told her he was still alive. That was a little concerning.

“Do you want me to get the cider?”

The hoarse offer suggested he was oblivious, or perhaps polite, although Eathril was willing to bet a hefty sum of gold on the later.

“No.”

“Then what do you need?” he asked, voice dropping to a low rumble that made her own body buzz in delight. “What do you want, Eathril? Tell me…”

Nervously licking her lips, Eathril splayed her hands across his chest, feeling the beat of his heart, how his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, how the heat warmed her skin even through his undershirt. She lifted her head, so close to his own face, that their noses grazed, the dark grey of his eyes all but filling her vision.

“You,” she breathed.

There was a surprised inhale, and then shaky exhale, his breath feathering across her skin, scented with the cider she’d given him. Would she be able to taste it if she kissed him?

“Eathril.” Her name was little more than a whisper against her skin. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to.”

Her hands skated over the planes of his torso, fingertips dragging across the stubble at his throat, as she closed the gap between them. His lips were soft and warm beneath her own, hesitant and restrained, gently brushing, cautious and careful.

There was a low groan in his throat.

And then his hands resting against her back increased in pressure, fingers all but digging into her softness, pulling her flush to his chest. Lips moving against his, a thrill running through her body as she felt how eagerly he responded. One of his hands was in her hair, gently tilting her head to a better angle, the other digging into the soft curves of her waist.

There was a soft brush of his tongue across her lower lip, but Eathril didn’t hesitate to respond in parting them. The heat of his mouth was almost overwhelming, the teasing flicks and caresses of his tongue against hers, encouraging her to join, coaxing her to play. She could taste the cider, she could taste him, she wanted more. Hands sliding into his hair, she dragged her short nails across his scalp, and was rewarded with the most delicious groan against her tongue.

He stepped back, and she more than willingly followed, another step, a third, on the fourth, his legs hit something, and the man in her grasp toppled backwards.

Pulled along with his fall, a surprised yelp was pulled from her throat, which became a startled whoof of air as she landed on his chest. Pushing herself up slightly, Eathril found herself… straddling his hips, hands planted in her mattress, staring down at Lord Boromir sprawled on her bed.

That was a little unexpected.

But not unwelcome.

Boromir was panting heavily against her lips, his hands kneading at her flesh, his body pressed against hers. Eathril wanted more, wanted him, needed him. Why did he stop, did he want to stop, why was he stopping—

“Eathril,” Boromir panted, “Eathril, are you sure? You don’t, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

The eagerness of her response wasn’t lost on him, she caught a brief glimpse of a smile pulling at his lips, before his mouth claimed hers once again.

What she didn’t expect, was for his broad hand to drag lower, fingers kneading at her waist, her hip, her ass, her thigh. Each curl of his fingers, each possessive grip dragging a quiet gasp, a whine, a huff from her.

His hand hooked behind her knee and then he rolled towards her.

A startled gasp left her lips, but was quickly soothed away by a myriad of fleeting kisses. The weight of his chest against hers, the feeling of his hips settled between her thighs, the instinctive need to hook her ankles about his waist. It felt like she was burning up, any lingering shivers and chills chased away by the Lord between her legs.

“Valar, you’re stunning.” It felt like she was underwater, his voice muffled as his lips pressed to the soft skin just beneath her ear. “Beautiful.”

“Y-you don’t, have to say that,” she protested, all but panting against him. “You don’t have to lie.”

Lord Boromir froze, growing tense against her, his head lifted from her throat, staring at her with such a heated look, that something tightened about her chest. Pupils blown wide, lips bruised, hair dishevelled from her hands running through it, he looked wild.

He also looked utterly bewildered.

“Lie?” The word was said so incredulously that Eathril winced. “Why would I lie?”

It already felt like her body was burning up, which meant the embarrassment that flooded her face would easily be missed. It became imperative that she not meet the rather intense look in Boromir’s eye, instead finding a great deal of interest in the rafters of her room.

“I’m, I’m not a lady I’m not elegant.” That wasn’t quite what she wanted to say, but it was close enough. “I’m…I’m stocky, I’m strong, well-built, I’m not—”

“And I’m a soldier, not a poet,” Boromir said, making her blink at his words. “I can’t sing your praises, or write sonnets about how your eyes look like starlight, or that your hair looks like the darkest night, or how your skin is sun kissed and golden—”

“I thought you weren’t a poet.”

There was a low chuckle in his chest, head shaking.

“But I can say that you’re beautiful,” he said, and kissed her brow. “Stunning.” A kiss to her cheek. “Gorgeous.” A kiss to her lips. “Lovely.” A kiss to her jaw. “Glorious.” A kiss to her throat. “Divine.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“Do you not believe me?” he growled, head lifting just enough to meet her gaze, her stomach flipping pleasantly at the look in his eye.

“No.”

“Hm, then I’ll have to try harder.”

Boromir’s teeth grazed her pulse, making her groan softly, only to be replaced by burning open mouth lathing, his beard brushing across her skin, lips mouth tongue teeth, tracing the precarious neckline of her nightgown.

Eathril was all but panting beneath him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other finding the hem of his shirt, sliding across bare skin, raking her nails through the hair of his chest.

A satisfied growl that rumbled from him, was only reinforced by the nips and sucks along her collarbone. Leaning on one forearm, his free hand had found the bare skin of her calf, and was slowly creeping upwards, rough fingers caressing the back of her knee and earning a shiver, before tracing further.

The hem of her nightgown slid up, exposing her thigh to the cold night air. It should have been cold, but with Lord Boromir kneading at her skin and worshiping her body –worshiping her– with his mouth and tongue and hands and body, Eathril was more than warm enough.

Rumbles of thunder rattled the windows, rain drummed steadily upon the rooftiles, and Eathril’s favourite weather drowned out the sounds of the tavern perfectly.

Sunlight slanted through the lead paned windows of her room, spilling across the bed and managing to shine directly into Eathril’s eyes. Squinting against the disturbance, it took a groggy couple of minutes to realise what was wrong.

Maybe not wrong, just… unexpected.

She was warm, tucked beneath the covers and blankets of her bed, and unless she was very much mistaken, naked. That was a little alarming, but with wakefulness came more awareness, and the memory as to why she wasn’t wearing her nightgown.

Oh.

A girlish giggle bubbled up in her chest, but didn’t escape past her clamped lips, unwilling to disturb Lord Boromir’s sleep. His muscular arm was slung over her hips, pulling her back against his broad chest, warm breaths brushing the skin of her neck with gently rumbling snores.

He was so warm it took a concentrated effort not to wiggle deeper into his embrace, because as pleasant as this was, it was morning, and that meant there was work to be done. With any luck the chef had gotten in and started on breakfast, which meant she could at least wake Lord Boromir with a hot meal.

Shifting her weight, Eathril started to extricate herself from his arms, only to squeak in surprise as his grip tightened. Dragging backwards, her back pressed against his bare chest as Boromir gave a low grumble in his sleep, fingers curling into the plumpness of her hip, unwilling to let go. His face tucked into the back of her neck, beard grazing her shoulder as he inhaled and sighed heavily.

Maybe she could stay a little longer…

But no, there was the sound of patrons rising for the day, and she really needed to pee.

Another shift of weight had his arm tightening once more, so she changed tack.

“Boromir,” Eathril murmured, “Boromir wake up.”

“Hmmno.”

His voice was so thick was sleep it was a miracle he’d even managed that.

This time, she shifted towards him, and Boromir’s arm loosened just enough for her to roll over. Now face to face, his arm tightened once more until her breasts were flush to his chest, and their legs were tangled. She smoothed her hands across his face and jaw, earning a sleepy grumble.

“Do you want breakfast in bed?” she whispered.

And just as she knew it would, one eye cracked open to peer at her.

“Br’kfst?”

“Mm hm, bacon, eggs, toast, fried tomatoes, mushroo—”

“You?”

A surprised snort left her throat, but she grinned as he smirked at her, starting to actually wake up.

“Only if you let me up to get breakfast first,” she suggested with a cheeky grin.

“Y’drive a hard bargain,” he grumbled.

His mouth found hers, and Eathril almost forgot her plan at the taste of his lips and caress of his tongue. Or would have, if not for the pressure in her bladder.

“Let me up,” she chided, breaking off the kiss, “breakfast first.”

There was a sigh, but the arms about her loosened, and against her own wishes, Eathril rose, finding her nightgown abandoned on the floor, pulling it on and tossing a shawl about her shoulders.

“I won’t be long,” she reassured, looking over to him.

It was an effort to drag her eyes away from the exposed lines of Boromir’s chest, from the sleepy smile on his face, from his dark eyes locked on her. The sunlight streaming through the little window throwing every detail of him, of the Lord in her bed, into stark relief. But Eathril forced herself to go in search of breakfast.

She’d been right, the chef had gotten started, customers were already eating and beginning to get ready to go about their days, and barely anyone’s eyes turned to her as she weaved through the people bare foot and wrapped in a shawl.

With a large plate loaded up for two, she slunk back towards her bedchamber and drew up short at the familiar face leaving the next room down. Her father also paused, eyeing her, and her half-dressed state, eyes dropping to the hefty plate, and then to the door of her room.

A brow raised in silent question.

“A late arrival,” she answered, keeping her voice down, “a lord from Minas Tirith.”

“A lord?” her father asked sceptically.

Two could play at that game, she wasn’t the only one that had sacrificed her chamber for a guest, only to remain with the guest.

“A horse trader?” she countered in challenge.

He was quick to capitulate, hands raised, and palms shown in surrender. “You’re alright though?”

“I am,” she relented, not wanting him to worry, “now shoo, the patrons are leaving.”

Her father rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest as she slipped back into her chambers.

It was nice, eating breakfast with Lord Boromir, settled cross legged on her bed like she’d used to do with the other girls of the village. Talking quietly, stealing glances at one another. Her cheeks ached with how much she was smiling, a near constant blush staining her cheeks at his attention.

But it wouldn’t last, and his next words confirmed it.

“I… need to leave today,” he said quietly, “I have a long road ahead of me.”

She knew that, she truly did, but still Eathril’s stomach sank.

“Will you be travelling back this way?” she managed to ask around the lump in her throat.

“With any luck, yes.”

“Ah, good.” Eathril floundered for the words she wanted to say, but it didn’t take long to find, smile broadening as she said them. “Then I’ll make sure we keep a room set aside for you.”

“Reserved for visiting dignitaries?”

“That’s the one.”

Lord Boromir grinned. “Then I look forwards to it.”

#lotr oneshot #lotr fanfic #one shot requests #moth fic #boromir fic

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verya-gweinagar · 11 days ago

Text

The Endless Ache

CHAPTER TWO: AN ARRANGEMENT OF SORTS

Chapter Rating: SFW

Her smile stretched from ear to ear as he walked out to her proudly, a swagger in his step and a grin on his face. The sun peaked through the leaves of the tree that cast a great shade against the white stone wall, the rays reflecting off of his chest plate as he approached her, a rippling current of light danced across her delicate face. “Captain.” She curtsied as he got closer and giggled at the ridiculousness of it all. He said nothing, just placed a gloved finger under her chin when she rose, tilting her head upward, and kissed her deeply. She attempted to wrap her arms around the wide clunky armor and pulled herself to him.

Master List | Chapter Three

Boromir searched the crowd as he stood in line with his fellow Captain selects, desperately trying to find that one familiar face in the crowd of nobles and spectators, the only familiar face he wanted there besides his brother. But as soon as the marching cadence began, he snapped back to attention and kept in step with the other men. Their armor clanged as they marched in front of the crowd of dignitaries and nobles viewing their promotion. When they reached the center and stood in front of the Commander, the men halted and left faced, turning on their heel and clicking their feet together with a sharp metallic ping.

The heat was excruciating now, being in the middle of the citadel surrounding the White Tree of Gondor. The metal suits they wore making it worse, acting as ovens and their bodies a roast chicken cooking away. Boromir tried his best to keep his bearing as sweat dripped past his brow. He noticed out of the corner of his eye someone in the crowd fainting, a woman shrieked but was quickly shushed and the man who collapsed from heat exhaustion was dragged into the shade. The flags flapped loudly in the warm wind and gulls cawed as they flew over the formation.

Denethor stood and gave his speech, his attempt at rallying the troops, reminding them of their duties and importance of their position in the guard, but he came across rather pompous and Boromir could feel his cheeks burning under his helmet from embarrassment of his father who somehow made this about himself. He spoke of honor, of duty, and remaining loyal to the kingdom. He ended it selfishly, which was no surprise to anyone. “Remember men, make me proud. Walk through Middle Earth with me in mind. Guard Minas Tirith with your dying breath, for that is the oath you swore when you took up your swords and entered the guard. For the Steward, for the city, for Gondor.” “For Gondor!” The men in Boromir’s class shouted in unison as a sort of call and response.

With that, Denethor passed it on to the Commander to carry on with the ceremony. “Present arms!” He called and the men answered by unsheathing their blades and raising them in the air at an angle. The commander began the oath and they followed suit, over a dozen deep voices filled the air as they recited it.

I, before my comrades and brothers in arms, swear to uphold my duty as Captain.

To serve with unwavering courage and steadfast duty.

To lead with honor, poise, and wisdom.

To wield my sword in defense of the helpless and the weak.

To shield my comrades with unwavering faithfulness.

To serve with integrity, fairness, and strength.

To bear the weight of command with dignity.

Guided by the light of justice and the strength of loyalty,

I vow to be a beacon of integrity, in victory and defeat, in peace and in war.

I pledge to never falter in the face of adversity.

To uphold the bond of my men.

To stand as a protector of those who stand with me.

I vow to be a shield for my comrades.

This is my oath and I shall uphold it until my last breath.

They received the command ‘order arms’ and sheathed their swords, snapping back to attention in one swift motion. The Commander about-faced, turning completely toward the Steward and requested permission to promote the men. “Proceed, commander.” Denethor replied in a military manner, matching the tone of the ceremony. The Commander turned to face the men again and approached the first soldier down the line. One by one the men removed the shining helmet they wore and exchanged it for a new helmet with the proper insignia of a Captain, placed on them by the Commander.

Finally it was Boromir’s turn. He could feel streams of sweat rolling down his back under the heavy armor, and when he removed his helmet his head felt cool as the breeze brushed against his soaked hair. The Commander shared a few encouraging words with him and dropped a heavy fist down on the point of the helmet as he placed it on Boromir’s head, a rite of passage all of the men anticipate at their promotion. His head ached instantly and he couldn’t wait for this to be over, the heat and pain causing him to see stars for a moment.

Once all of the newly appointed Captains we properly capped, the Commander turned to the Steward once more and addressed him. “My Lord, the Captains of Gondor have been appointed. They have sworn their oath to the Steward and to Gondor. Permission to dismiss your Captains.” He shouted and Denethor replied with a nod and raised hand. With that, the Commander saluted and turned to face the men, giving the command to present their arms and salute the Steward one last time before dismissing them. The men marched in a line out of the court yard and into the Hall of Kings, all of them sighing and groaning at the instant relief the cool air in the hall gave them as they removed their helmets.

Various family members close to the men waited outside for their newly promoted Captain of Gondor, and Boromir waited inside for Faramir and his father, and if he were lucky, Sedryneth too. After a bit, Faramir appeared and hurried to his brother, hugging him as best he could around the shining armor and smacking his hand on his back firmly. “Congratulations, brother!” “Captain.” He corrected his little bother jokingly and the two laughed. Boromir glanced behind Faramir, searching for his heart. Faramir noticed and shook his head at him, smile never leaving his face. “I told her to wait for you behind the kitchens. Go.” Boromir hesitated, worried his father would come and wonder where he was but Faramir pushed him, seemingly reading his mind and urged him to go to her. “He’s not coming, just go.” Boromir patted him on the shoulder and turned to leave for the kitchens.

***

Just as Faramir said, Sedryneth was waiting for Boromir behind the kitchens. Her smile stretched from ear to ear as he walked out to her proudly, a swagger in his step and a grin on his face. The sun peaked through the leaves of the tree that cast a great shade against the white stone wall, the rays reflecting off of his chest plate as he approached her, a rippling current of light danced across her delicate face. “Captain.” She curtsied as he got closer and giggled at the ridiculousness of it all. He said nothing, just placed a gloved finger under her chin when she rose, tilting her head upward, and kissed her deeply. She attempted to wrap her arms around the wide clunky armor and pulled herself to him.

The heat of the sun wasn’t the only thing making the pair pant and sweat as their kiss deepened and Boromir’s hands explored her body furiously. He pulled away reluctantly and started removing the armored chest plate. “No better way to be demoted I suppose.” They giggled at each other as the metal clanged on the ground, Boromir shushing it before returning his lips to hers. Her fingers tangled in his sweat drenched hair, their tips brushing against the tender spot made by his helmet, while his hand desperately tried to gather her gown so he could free her soft thigh, gripping it with his thick strong hand made thicker by the leather gloves he wore. His lips trailed off to her neck and he sucked lightly as to not bruise her delicate flesh, she sighed and threw her head back at the sensation. The two existed in bliss for a brief moment until they were startled out of it by someone clearing their throat behind them.

Sedryneth pounded a fist into Boromir’s shoulder in an attempt to get him off of her, he turned to face the voyeur and laughed to himself when he saw who it was. He smoothed his hair down in the back nervously. “Mistress, how are you? Staying cool?” The old woman didn’t reply, she just stared somewhat amused and disapprovingly at the same time at the two young lovers. “What’s…what’s for dinner tonight, mistress?” Boromir asked awkwardly as he shifted on his feet, all too aware of the obvious bulging in his trousers now that he had removed his chest plate which would have concealed that area. The woman let out a ‘hmph’ and turned back around the corner and into the kitchens’ back door. The two laughed to themselves, panting from adrenaline and lust.

“She will never let me hear the end of this, mark my words.” He shook his head, amused at the whole idea of being caught by his old nursemaid-turned-scullery maid, and picked up his discarded armor. He kissed Sedryneth once, then again, and again, each one getting longer than the last until she finally pulled away and said enough. “My parents are probably wondering where I am, Boromir.” He nodded and landed one last peck onto her lips, completely smitten for this woman, before taking her hand and leading her into the kitchens. They passed the old mistress and she gave Boromir a damning look before calling out to him in her thick accent. “I mean to take care of that there pest issue back there, me Lord, they be making noises of all sorts back there, they do. Like clanging pots ‘n pans, a right ruckus.” She pointed her flour covered rolling pin at the armor Boromir carried in his hand, making it clear that she was not referring to rats or coons, but him. “Yes mistress, those pests can be a handful I hear!” He teased back and winked at the old woman, winning a smile from her as she shook her head at the young man she cared for as a babe.

They reentered the now-empty Hall of Kings, except for Sedryneth’s parents, who were there speaking with Faramir. “Ah, Lord Boromir, congratulations are in order.” Ivandur bowed slightly to Boromir but looked back at him with a puzzled look, noticing his chest plate in his hand. “Demoted already? My, you certainly are the reckless one they claim you to be, aren’t you?” He laughed and Boromir felt his face flushing again. “The sun makes it as though I were a cast iron pot, Lord Ivandur, I had to remove it for relief.” He sighed and only half lied to Sedryneth’s father. The armor truly was as if he were in a rustpot and he were meat broiling within it. He earned a booming laugh from her father, his greying mustache twitching under his nose as he did so. He clapped his shoulder with a heavy hand, squeezing it so hard that Boromir had to resist the instinct to wince, though he knew he did not have ill intent with this gesture. Ivandur was always a heavy handed fellow. He crushed every hand he shook without meaning to, and every embrace seemed to knock the wind out of whomever he wrapped his arms around.

“Congratulations, son. A fine man you have become. A Captain of Gondor.” He smiled and inhaled solemnly before continuing. “Your mother would be so proud of her boys. So proud.” He looked at Boromir, then Faramir, both a reflection of their late mother in the way their hair was fair and their eyes shone in the sunlight. Sensing the mood shifting, Naurmiriel interrupted her husband and redirected him. “Ivandur, let the boy celebrate with his comrades. And you must be getting to your meeting soon.” “Yes, my wife is right. Go son, revel in your youth!” He clapped his shoulder a last time and winked at him as Boromir walked off with Faramir, looking back at his love before disappearing. “Sedryneth, you take your mother to the horses and make your way home. I shall return separately. I have business to discuss with the Steward.” He gave his daughter a wink now too when he finished his command for her. Her eyes widened, assuming what her father meant by this, that he was going to present her to Lord Denethor as an offer for Boromir. She attempted to remain calm but couldn’t resist hugging her father briefly before taking her mother’s arm and walking with her out of the great hall.

***

Sedryneth paced the halls of her home anxiously until completely tiring her legs out, throwing herself onto a low couch against the wall. Her mother crept up on her resting daughter before interrupting her brief moment of peace. “You nearly scuffed a moat into the stone.” She examined the slight discoloration on the floor in front of the couch, surely not created by her daughter’s worried feet but it was a silly coincidence. “You have no need to be nervous, my dear.” She sat next to Sedryneth and pet her copper golden curls attempting to sooth her like she would when she was a small child. She groaned and leaned against her mother. “Father could say everything right and Lord Denethor would still refuse his request. There is no guarantee in this happening mother, and if it doesn’t I have no intention on going on in life without him. I’ll run off, take him with me if his father denies it.” Naurmiriel raised her eyebrows and laughed at her daughter. “Run off? My child, you are ever the wild one. And how would you survive with this man out there? Eat mushrooms and worms like the little folk of Middle Earth? Calm yourself, child. Your mind is rushing for no reason. Your father is a very convincing man. Denethor will see it for what it is and agree.” She wrapped her arms around Sedryneth and comforted her daughter, feeling her laughing a bit at her comment about eating bugs and fungi. “Have faith, my love. It will all go in your favor.”

***

“My Lord.” Ivandur bowed as he entered the Hall of Kings and stood in front of Denethor. “Ah, my friend. How is business? Thriving I’m sure. I will say I am surprised you have come to my halls empty handed as you normally come bearing the fruits of your labor.” He smiled deviously at Ivandur from his throne, referencing how he would bring a cask or two of the wine and liquor he made a side profit from when he was not doing the duties of a nobleman in Minas Tirith. “You are observant my Lord. But I intend to provide double my usual gift at a later date, my crops were not as prosperous this season and I intend to gift only the best product for your enjoyment.” “So be it. But you have not come here to speak of business with grapes and barley I presume, Lord Ivandur. Pray, for what do you call my counsel?” He waved his hand in the air as if brushing off the prior subject now that the pleasantries were finished with. Ivandur cleared his throat nervously before continuing with his request.

“My Lord, you and I have been good friends and partners for many a year, have we not?” Denethor nodded slowly in agreement. “And we have spoken of creating a powerful alliance countless of times in our day.” “Yes, get to it.” Denethor urged him impatiently, his lip twitching in displeasure as he assumed his friend is about to make a request Denethor could not—would not—agree to.

“Of course, my Lord. As you may know, your son—Lord Boromir—and my daughter have been, well, courting for some time under the noses of their parents it seems—” Denethor raised a hand stopping Ivandur from continuing. “My son and your daughter? No, no that cannot be. Boromir may be a strapping young man, but he is not all...he does not share the wit of his younger brother, that’s all. He wouldn’t be wise enough to attempt to court your daughter in secret, not without me knowing it.” Ivandur smiled as he listened. “My Lord, if I may, you think little of your son’s mind and tact. He and my daughter, my Sedryneth, have been courting for a few years now. Surely you knew this.” Denethor shifted in his throne, uncomfortable with being made a fool, shown how little he may actually know of his sons. “Boromir runs off with many women of the city, how should I know which one is your daughter.” He shouts, lying of course to compensate for his incompetence and lack of attention to his sons whereabouts and personal engagements. Ivandur felt his face grow hot from anger but he ensured to keep his composure, determined to seal this arrangement for his daughter’s sake, if there were to be an arrangement after this that is. He had to pose this as a benefit for the Steward now, seeing that the plain truth of love wasn’t enough to convince him.

“My Lord, if we were to come to an agreement and arrange a marriage between the two, our families could work together to bring a great profit to the city. With my experience in business and your noble connections across foreign kingdoms, you could come out of this coupling a very prosperous man.” He shifted the reasoning for the marriage from the genuine one to one Denethor would be enticed to agree with so long as it proved to be beneficial for himself. “As for Lord Boromir, I could not think of a better match for our daughter. He is an honorable young man, a fit leader, he will make a fine Steward one day. And Sedryneth would be a proper wife to your son. She is well studied and her mother has prepped her for her womanly duties. She is loyal and kind.” Ivandur paused and contemplated saying what he was thinking, worried Denethor may not receive it positively or see it as another attack toward is inattentiveness toward his sons. “And if I may, my Lord, your son and my daughter seem to be very keen of one another. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

Denethor sat quietly in his throne, brows furrowed in thought as he considered the offer Ivandur was making. After some silence, he finally spoke. “I suppose their union could prove to be fruitful for both yourself and I in matters of business and profit. And getting a marriage out of the way could eliminate the stress of finding a better suited woman in the future, and it would ensure Boromir is not distracted by sneaking around with your daughter any longer, he can focus on his duties as a Steward to the city and Captain of Gondor.” “So we have an arrangement my Lord?” Ivandur questioned, perhaps sounding a bit too pleased and eager. Denethor’s eyes flicked to him in displeasure. “Yes. But I will say there will be no need for I to provide a dowry for your daughters hand, as you have come to me with this request, and as you have said their union would prove to be profitable for both myself and you, Lord Ivandur. I see no reason for any further payment.” Ivandur stared at his old friend slightly shocked but he did not protest, he made the arrangement for his daughter and that is all that mattered to him.

Denethor smirked at the slight look of shock and discomfort on Ivandur, feeling the surging sense of power throughout him. “Is that all, Lord Ivandur?” Ivandur nodded, bowing his head before thanking him for his counsel and taking his leave.

***

The sound of hooves echoed in the courtyard of Sedryneth’s home and she rushed to the front of the house to greet her father. Her mother beat her to the receiving room and took her daughter’s hand to ease both’s anxiety, one could mistake who was being offered for marriage at how excited both mother and daughter were.

“My loves, you seem eager to see me!” Ivandur’s voice boomed as he entered the door, handing off his cloak to a house servant. “Oh, Ivan enough teasing!” Naurmiriel shook her hand in the air at her husband, urging him to get on with it. “I think tomorrow we shall have a feast. With the finest of spreads.” His wife and daughter looked at him confused, they wondered if he had fallen off of his horse and onto his head on the way from the citadel. Did he forget why he had stayed behind? Or was he teasing his girls?

“Tomorrow, we’ll have a feast to celebrate.” Sedryneth and her mother squealed and shrieked with excitement when they finally realized what was meant by this, and jumped onto Ivandur, wrapping their arms around his neck and practically bringing him down to the ground with the weight of the two of them.

***

“You called for me, father?” Boromir bowed when he reached Denethor on his throne. “Yes. Lord Ivandur’s daughter, you are familiar with her?” Boromir swallowed nervously, unsure what will come out of his father’s mouth next after he answers. “Yes, I am familiar with Sedryneth.” His father watched him intently, curious to see how his son reacted to her name. “How familiar?” He paused again. What was he asking this for? Had the old maid told Denethor what she had seen? Surely it didn’t constitute this level of conversation. A mere off handed comment while eating dinner or a passing statement in the hall would suffice. “I-I’m not sure I understand father.” “The girl, how familiar are you with her?” Boromir stood there searching Denethor’s face for any clue as to what he was implying. “Oh, for pity’s sake Boromir, are you bedding the girl?” He shouted this time, impatient with his son.

Boromir felt his eyes widen. Sex wasn’t a taboo concept in his life, but speaking about it with his father was. The man rarely cared to know the happenings in his life, why would he be asking him of this?

“No, father, I am not.” Denethor laughed shortly at his answer and Boromir knit his brows together slightly. “But you’ve been courting her for years?” He quoted Ivandur, acting as if he caught Boromir in a lie. “Well, yes, that is true.” “How long?” He hesitated but his father pounded his fist defiantly against the flat stone arm of his throne. “How long, boy!” Boromir flinched at his father’s voice echoing loudly in the hall. “I-I-I don’t know, three, maybe four years now?” Denethor shook his head at his answer and relaxed back into his throne again. “I find that hard to believe.” “That I’ve been courting her for that long?” “That you’ve been courting her that long and haven’t bed her.” Boromir stood there in awkward silence, unsure what to say next. It was a long time to not bed a woman he was in love with, but it was something she was determine keeping from him until they were joined in marriage. And Boromir respected that. He was able to satisfy himself in other ways with her in mind, he wasn’t rushing to lay with her in that way so long as she was not ready to do the same with him.

“I find that hard to believe.” He repeated himself and Boromir continued to be silent, not bothering to argue with him. Servants came and began placing food on the short black table Denethor frequently ate his meals at, and Boromir’s stomach began to rumble at the smell of the cooked meat and herbs. Denethor rose from his throne and made his way to the lone chair at the head of the table and sat, pushing back his sleeves and throwing food onto his silver plate before continuing the conversation with his son.

“I spoke with her father today, after the promotion ceremony.” He paused as if he waited for his son to eagerly ask him ‘what for’. When he didn’t get that reaction, he continued with a plain unenthusiastic tone. “He offered his daughters hand to you.” Again he paused, looking at his son out of the corner of his eye. “Does this please you?” “Yes, father, very much so.” “Of course.” He scoffed and shook his head, taking a sloppy bite of the meat on his plate. “Then it is settled. You are to be wed to…” He struggled to recall her name and Boromir could feel anger bubbling deep in his gut for a moment. “Sedryneth.” “Yes, Sedryneth.” He swallowed and turned to his son, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Maybe I’ll teach you how to properly bed a woman by then, so that you do not embarrass yourself on your wedding night.” Boromir fought the instinct to cringe at the thought of his father giving him lessons in sexual endeavors. Boromir was a 27 year old man, he had slept with women before, and plenty of them at that. Denethor noticed his son still stood awkwardly in the hall, clearly put off by his last comment, and he laughed to himself before addressing him one last time. “That is all.” Dismissed, Boromir bowed and turned on his heel and made for the dining hall.

***

“You seem far too excited to be a Captain of Gondor, brother.” Faramir watched Boromir curiously as he smiled from ear to ear across the table, grabbing copious amounts of food and placing it onto his plate. “It is not my promotion I am celebrating, little brother. Or rather, it’s a different kind of promotion when you think about it.” Faramir shook his head and fanned his hands outward as if saying ‘well, go on with it’ and Boromir continued. “I am going to be a husband.” He paused, reading his brother’s face for a reaction and he surely got one as Faramir’s mouth fell open and curled into the biggest grin he could muster. “That’s excellent cause to celebrate, Boromir! How exciting. It’s about time after all. Before you know it, your well will be dried out and you won’t give father those heirs you promised him. Unless of course you’re going to spite him and hold out as long as you can, which then you have my full support.” Faramir rambled on, clearly elated for his brother and the prospect of having a sister.

“So when will it be?” “Hm?” Boromir looked up at Faramir confused as he worked at the chicken thigh in his hand. “The ceremony, when will it be? Surely a date has been set.” “I assumed her family would determine that. Besides, father just informed me of this moments before I came here.” Faramir, displeased with his brother’s answer, rolled his eyes and sat back into his chair. “You act as though you’re the one being wed, brother. Have patience.” Boromir laughed at his anxious kin and continued eating, his mind trailing off to how the future nuptials may be.

***

“An invitation has been sent by Lord Ivandur and Lady Naurmiriel.” Denethor waved the folded letter in the air as he took his place on the throne. “They have asked for you to join them this evening for a dinner, celebrating Boromir’s promotion and the news of the union of he and their daughter, Lady Sedryneth.” His voice echoed through the Hall of Kings. Faramir looked to his brother and smirked, still proud of the news. Denethor sighed from his throne and rubbed his wrinkling forehead with the tips of his fingers as if this invitation caused him a great deal of stress. “Do not embarrass me, sons. Act as what you are, Lords, Stewards, men of honor.” He waved them away but the two did not move from where they stood, confused what he was implying. “You are not accepting the invitation?” Boromir questioned a bit angrily, how could his father refuse to join his future in laws, celebrating a union his own hand had blessed. This was surely a bad look for the Steward, but he knew that his father did not care how he appeared. Rather, he preferred people having great disdain for him, it made him feel as though he had more power than reality. Denethor looked down at his son in disgust, as if his genuine question repulsed him. “And what of it, Boromir. My decision does not change based on my lack of appearance in their hall. Besides, I am much too busy for pleasantries.” Too busy for pleasantries. Boromir repeated that last part in his head, irritated at his father’s outright disrespect for anyone who could not benefit him in some way. He got what he wanted from Ivandur, so why should he try any further to strengthen whatever bond they once had?

The two were dismissed from the hall and they went off to the courtyard, Faramir breaking away heading toward the study. “Are you abandoning me too, brother?” Boromir jest and Faramir rolled his eyes before turning back to face him. “I could never and would never. But I crave adventure and it’s waiting for me this way.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing toward the library and continued on his way. Faramir always had his nose in a book ever since he learned to read. Their father hated that trait about him, and it was something he inherited from his mother. She had tried to get Boromir to be interested in reading tall tales when he was a child but he was more of a brute than a brain, always opting to play with wooden swords and wrestle the guards when he caught them off their game.

***

The brothers rode through the tall gateway of Lord Ivandur’s home and brought their steeds to a slow trot, hoofs clicking and clacking against the stone below, until they were met by stable hands who took the reigns of their horses and led them to the barn for the evening. Boromir nervously adjusted his tunic as he walked beside Faramir, who found his anxiousness amusing. “You’ve met Lord Ivandur many times before, Boromir, what are you fretting for?” “Yes but I haven’t met him under these circumstances, now have I?” He hissed at him, tugging at the neck of the leather vest, forcing it to stretch and cease rubbing the skin of his throat raw. Faramir laughed quietly at him and earned a thick fist to his arm, cutting his laughter off abruptly. “Ow! Now why would you do that?” Faramir went to strike back but the doors to the receiving room opened for them before he could land it and the brothers had to act as though they had no flaws about them, that they oozed poise and properness.

“My Lords!” Ivandur came bounding into the room and bowed smally, pulling them each into a strong hug. “What’s this, your father cannot join us this evening to celebrate?” The two young men shared a look with one another, telepathically discussing whether or not they should be honest with their host or leave it at that. Ivandur decided for them, however. “Ah, more food and drink for us, eh?” He laughed and clapped his large hand onto Boromir’s shoulder, catching him off guard and causing his eyes to bulge from surprise and pain. Faramir laughed at the karma dealt to his brother and followed Lord Ivandur to the dining hall of the house.

The home was no mere home, but it also was no palace like the one they lived in. This was a beautiful stone castle, with many pointed archways and cobblestone, moss and ivy grew through the cracks on the outer walls and hung like curtains outside of the windows. There was a fireplace in each room, all burning and casting a golden warm light throughout. Candelabras were staged everywhere, hundreds of variously colored candles lit the walls of the place, the wax dripping and rolling into intricate mounds around the base of them.

When they entered the dining hall, Boromir and Faramir were greeted by Lady Naurmiriel and Lady Sedryneth with a graceful curtesy and everyone was seated, Ivandur and Naurmiriel at the heads of the table, Sedryneth across from Boromir, and Faramir across from the empty seat meant for their father. They noticed his place was not set, perhaps their hosts had anticipated Denethor not accepting the invitation.

Sedryneth looked at Boromir from her seat, her face glowing from firelight as it danced. He smiled at her and attempted to wink secretly without her parents seeing, but it was clear Naurmiriel caught the exchange as she smirked at her husband from the other end of the table. Ivandur cleared his throat and reached for his glass, raising it into the air in front of him and began to address his guests. “A toast, shall we?” Everyone followed suit and raised their glasses as well. “A toast: to our worthy new Captain of Gondor, whose strength and fearlessness have earned him this honorable title. May your leadership be as steadfast as your sword in battle. And to the union of this noble Captain of Gondor and my daughter,” he looked to Sedryneth and smiled warmly at her and reached for her small hand, taking it in his, “may their lives together be filled with love and unbreakable bonds, may their marriage be filled with the grace and prosperity that ours was.” He looked to his wife now and winked at her, earning a blush from the Lady across the table. “To valor and to love!” He ended the toast, hoisting his cup higher into the air. “To valor and to love!” The rest of the table echoed him and brought their cups to their lips, the sweet crimson spirit warming Boromir’s chest as he swallowed.

The night went on with laughter and stories of adventure and life, Lord Ivandur being ever the gracious host kept the young Lords’ cups filled with his wine. After one bout of laughter, Boromir looked to his little brother next to him and smiled, the two knew what the other was thinking. This was how their life was meant to be. Laughing, bellies full, a life dripping with love and care and warmth. They didn’t want to leave, to return to the cold that awaited them in the citadel.

Noticing the moment the brothers were sharing, Ivandur cleared his throat again to bring them back to the present and asked the servants to bring out the deserts. Brother, did you hear that? He asked them. No cursing, no demands. The kindness Lord Ivandur and Lady Naurmiriel showed their staff was something new to the brothers as their father was ever the unpleasant one when it came to requesting things in his halls.

The table was cleared swiftly and a plethora of sweet treats were placed in front of them. Ivandur rose from his place and brought back a rather large decanter of a golden brown liquid along with five snifters, the stems of the glasses wedged between his thick fingers. “Now, gentlemen, this is a once in a life time opportunity for you lads.” He spoke far more relaxed now, the wine from dinner certainly doing its part for everyone at the table. He poured a generous amount of the drink in each glass and passed them down, starting with his daughter and wife, then the two young Lords. “In your glass is my finest product, saved only for nights like these and occasions of which we are celebrating. It is the only brew I have not given away or sold for profit, for I hold it dear to my heart. It was distilled upon our engagement,” he raised his glass toward his wife for a moment before continuing, “and tapped the day my daughter was born.” He directed his glass toward Sedryneth. “Now, I share it with you, with my future son, to celebrate your engagement.” He lowered the glass and swirled it under his nose, directing them to do the same and sip the drink to savor the richness. “My Lord, this is incredible.” Faramir spoke excitedly, his cheeks red from the alcohol in his bloodstream. Boromir laughed at his brother smiling stupidly next to him, clearly drunk. Ivandur looked at Boromir and chuckled with him at his younger brother’s reaction to his brews and continued to sip from his glass. It truly was his best product. He was known in Minas Tirith for his exquisite wines and scotch and whiskey, but none of them compared to this. Boromir savored it, unlike his brother who took it down far quicker than Boromir was sure he even noticed.

Time went on and more stories were shared around the table, and before they knew it the night was over. It felt too short of a time to have been there but the brothers had stayed well past dinner and were barely leaving the house of Lord Ivandur in the late hours of the evening. Faramir had sobered up a bit, Lady Naurmiriel ensuring he ate enough bread to make a full loaf before leaving to soak the alcohol in his stomach, which Ivandur rolled his eyes at and argued it was an old wives tale, which then prompted another hour long story of fables and childhood beliefs they carried into adulthood.

Boromir and Faramir thank the Lord and Lady for their hospitality and they gave Sedryneth and her betrothed a moment alone to say goodbye for the evening before their horses were returned and they were sent on their way. Faramir drunkenly sang out of tune the entire journey on horse back to the citadel and Boromir carried his little brother to their room, throwing him onto the bed and pulling his boots off before draping a blanket over him. That night, Boromir dreamt of life with Sedryneth, how he would be as a father, a mirror of Ivandur sharing stories and laughing loudly with his beautiful wife at the head of the table.

#Spotify #lord of the rings #lotr #boromir #boromir/oc #boromir/original character #captain of gondor #boromir fanfiction

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knithacker · 2 years ago

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White Tree of Gondor Gloves by Natalia of Elfmoda: 👉 https://buff.ly/3oywGld

#knitting #handmade

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frodo-with-glasses · 2 years ago

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fight and chocolate? thanks!

I wrote a little something for the word “fight” here, so let’s talk about chocolate!

Unfortunately, my nerdery is actually putting the kabosh on my fun this time, because I know for a fact there’s no way chocolate exists in Middle Earth. In the real world, cocoa trees originate from the Amazon Rainforest in South America, and only came to the attention of Europeans thanks to the Spanish conquistadors. This is important because Tolkien meant for his histories of Middle Earth to be a sort of mythology for England; which means the story takes place in some vague pre-historic era centuries (or even millennia!) before cocoa ever gets across the ocean.

Even putting aside the history angle, there’s no getting around the fact that the cocoa tree is a tropical plant, and that the climate of Middle Earth is decidedly temperate. This thing only grows in hot, wet areas near the equator. Middle Earth is Not That. Even the southernmost regions of Gondor get cold in the winter. It is not the right conditions for growing cocoa trees.

So as much as I would love to write a fic of little hobbit children tumbling indoors after hours of playing under a grey winter sky, puffing and stamping and peeling off layers of coats and gloves and shaking the snow from their hair, and warming their chilly fingers and red noses and little bellies with delicious cups of hot cocoa, alas, ‘tis not to be.

But.

If you play a little hard and fast with the historicity of this thing, there is a way you can get cocoa into Middle Earth. In modern times, cocoa trees aren’t just cultivated in South/Central America, but also in other tropical places worldwide, such as West Africa and Indonesia. Tolkien does account for the other sectors of the Eurasian continent in his worldbuilding: that’s what Rhun and Harad are for! SO. If you REALLY wanna get chocolate into Middle Earth, I suggest the following scenario.

The War of the Ring is over. Peacetime is well and truly in swing. King Elessar has kept himself very busy restoring Minas Tirith, creating much-needed infrastructure in the outlying territories, establishing trade relations, and dealing with the few remaining skirmishes on the borders.

This is around the time that an embassy comes from Far Harad, hoping to establish friendly relations with the conquering King of Gondor. They’ve heard about the decisive military victories that he won over their kinsfolk in Near Harad. (It’s whispered that he challenged Sauron himself.) They don’t think it wise to be this guy’s enemy. They’d rather be his friend. To sweeten the deal, they’ve brought gifts: a whole entourage of gold, jewels, spices, and some of the most curious and wonderful things from their part of the world.

There’s a bird that’s roughly the size of a falcon, but it is resplendent in blue and green and yellow, and at a sign from its handler it whistles and clicks and speaks like a person. There is an animal that looks like a small, skinny, hairy child with a tail, and its feet are like hands; they watch in awe as it climbs onto and off of the shoulder of its handler and plucks the hat off his head. There is a baby mumak; orphaned, they say, but they found her and cared for her. There are foods that make the mouth feel like it’s burning without heat, tastes more incredible than anything they could imagine.

And!

There is a reddish-brown drink in a cup.

The ambassador from Harad takes a sip of it first, to prove that it is not poisoned, and places the golden goblet into the hand of the king with a deep bow. The king thanks him with courteous words. He breathes in the aroma coming from the goblet; it is heady, earthy, and slightly sweet. He can only imagine that this is some sort of delicacy, a luxury of far-away kings. With all formalities out of the way, he raises the goblet to his lips.

The taste, when he takes a small sip, is extraordinary. There is sweetness, yes, but also bitterness, a powerful complexity of flavor. It takes him aback for a moment, and he’s not sure if he enjoys it, but now knowing what to expect, he tries again, and realizes that it is quite delicious.

He calls over the translator. “This drink,” he says, holding forth the goblet; “I like it. What is its name?”

And just like that, huzzah! You have chocolate in Middle Earth :-D

WORD ASK GAME!

#word ask game #aragorn #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #much wikipedia-ing was done for this drabble #always bolster your useless trivia knowledge with ResearchTM

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everythingheard · 2 months ago

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for Mylis ( @amused-bouche ).

For the Rangers of Ithilien to catch Orc scouts near the Anduin was a common occurrence. Loud as the creatures were and with a lack of fluidity in their movements, they were many and dispensable, as well as brutal in their strength. The footprints Faramir had noted earlier in the day pressed into the soil along the river attested that the group currently nearby was of a decent size ( certainly large enough to cause more than a little trouble ). Thus, he and his men had wasted no time in hunting them, following any further tracks until they happened upon the band amongst the trees.

Far less common, however, was to find a solo traveler situated directly in the Orcs' path.

After clandestinely overtaking their quarry and arriving at a steep hill overlooking the Orcs' route which allotted them an excellent vantage point, some of the Rangers began to notch their arrows for the ambush. Initially, he noticed the slight figure as he surveyed the surrounding area for anything else which might be of use; was this a child walking unwittingly into the direct path of the Orcs? The notion of anyone so young traversing here alone was absurd, however, and upon straining his gaze, Faramir saw that the wanderer was in possession of a beard — a dwarf, then. This close to the nearest bridge, the intention was most likely to cross in order to reach one of Gondor's closest towns with their markets and places to rest comfortably, or while less likely, as some form of aid to the Enemy.

Making his way down the precipitous ridge, he concealed himself once more amid the foliage as he cut through the distance between him and the dwarf, his soft footsteps ( said to be not dissimilar to those of the elves ) and verdant cloak shielding him from notice. The moment the stranger was within reach, he clamped one gloved hand over the traveler's mouth and the other around the waist before dragging them both back into the trees. Faramir didn't release his grip as he murmured near the dwarf's ear, "Whether you are on your own or serve the same Master as the Orcs headed in this very direction, you are coming with me."

#╰ ––––––– ✧ FARAMIR : ic ˙#╰ ––––––– ✧ FARAMIR : darkness will not endure ❨ main verse ❩˙#amusedbouche

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coolnerdyrn · 2 months ago

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Lionheart

After Arathorn's death, Gilraen took her small son, Aragorn, to Rivendell for safety. There, she discovered her husband had not left this world without leaving her one final gift: she was expecting another child. Aragorn's sister, Amathorn, is a Ranger like him, and has sworn to follow her older brother for all of her days. She believes he is the one who will claim the throne of Gondor, even if he himself does not. When she helps him escort Frodo and the other hobbits to Rivendell, she meets a man who reinforces her belief that her brother is destined to restore the line of kings. Along the way, Amathorn realizes that for the first time in her life, her heart is being pulled in two directions...but does it have to be?

Chapter 1: Answering The Call

Amathorn watched from her post under an old beech tree as the cold pre-dawn light spread towards Buckland. From her hiding place, she could clearly see the Road as it wound across the landscape until it reached the border. She turned her gaze across the Road; even knowing where he was, she couldn’t see where her fellow Ranger, Lenglinn, had hidden himself. Good, she thought with approval. If I can’t see him, no one else can.

Suddenly, a loud, clear call rent the air. A great horn was sounding, its voice carrying all the way across Buckland to the two Rangers keeping watch. Amathorn tensed, gripping her strung bow tightly and nocking an arrow. A clatter and shouts of alarm were issuing from behind the wall.

Just as she was about to signal to Lenglinn that they should move closer to investigate, three black horses with hooded and cloaked riders blasted through the gate. They tore down the Road like demons, their horses snorting and frothing at the mouth. As she raised her bow, movement caught Amathorn’s eye.

Lenglinn, who had apparently already decided to move closer to the gate, was now in the Road, directly in the Riders’ path! Amathorn cried out a warning and loosed her arrow. It missed its mark, but Lenglinn dove to the side as the lead Rider’s horse swerved to avoid the projectile. The second Rider, however, spotted the downed Ranger, and his horse veered off the Road.

Amathorn’s heart leapt to her throat as a howl of pain pierced across the forest. Once the Riders had passed and gone around the curve of the Road, she sprinted from her post and rushed to Lenglinn’s side.

He was lying on the ground, his face white as a sheet, his left leg bent at an unnatural angle. A quick, gentle feel of the bone showed it was broken below the knee, thankfully only in one place. Amathorn quickly gathered two downed limbs, as straight as could be found, and placed them on either side of Lenglinn’s leg.

“Here,” she said, taking out a pair of leather gloves and offering them to him. “Bite down on this. I have to set the bone before I can splint it.” Lenglinn nodded, taking the gloves and clamping his jaw tightly around them. He groaned, clenching his fists, as Amathorn quickly aligned the bone before taking a leather cord and binding the wood tightly on either side of his leg.

She sat back on her heels with a sigh as she finished. “There,” she said. “It was a clean break. You should be back on your feet in a few weeks. Can you make it back to camp?”

Lenglinn nodded, still pale, but his jaw set firmly. “Help me up.”

As carefully as she could, Amathorn hauled him to his feet, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Slowly, they made their way across the Road and up the hill to his carefully concealed camp.

Once she settled him onto his bedroll, Lenglinn looked up at her, his face grim. “You have to go. Whatever the Riders were after, it plainly is no longer in Buckland. You have to warn Aragorn.”

Amathorn hesitated, torn. Her heart begged her to make haste and go to warn her brother, but surely duty demanded she stay here with Lenglinn?

As if sensing her thoughts, Lenglinn gave her a weary smile. “This camp is well-concealed, and if the Riders are after something that is no longer here, they will not be coming back. They will continue on and pursue their quarry.”

She sighed. “Very well. I’ll make for Saeradan’s cabin. I can gather supplies and send him to help you, while I go after Aragorn and his charge.” Amathorn began packing what few items she had left at the camp, which was little more than her bedroll and a few other small things. “Stay hidden until Saeradan comes for you. I likely won’t be back for some time.”

Lenglinn nodded. “Safe travels, sister.”

She clasped his arm gratefully. “Stay vigilant, brother.” With one last nod of farewell, Amathorn slipped off into the trees. She intended to cross the Southern Bree-fields, staying off the Road, and so hopefully she would come to Saeradan’s cabin before nightfall. It was no good heading for Bree; Aragorn would not linger, and passing through the town would draw unwanted attention as well as take valuable time.

The sun had just slipped below the horizon when Amathorn finally approached the cabin tucked away beside the hill. Silent as a shadow, she slipped up to the front door and knocked sharply, three short, two long. Friendly. Immediately, she heard footsteps inside, and a moment later a tall, balding man opened the door.

“Amathorn?” he exclaimed softly, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Hey, Danny Boy,” she said, lowering her hood with a small smile. “Is there anything for dinner?”

Saeradan rolled his eyes before ushering her inside and closing the door behind her. “I thought you were with Lenglinn, over by Buckland.”

“I was.”

He gripped her arm tightly, but his voice was steady. “He’s not…?”

Amathorn shook her head. “Injured, but alive. His leg is broken. I wanted to stay with him, but he insisted that I go on to warn Aragorn, and unfortunately, he was right. His camp is well-hidden; he’ll be safe.” Saeradan ladled out a bowl of stew and set it before her, along with a couple of slices of fresh bread.

She ate a few bites gratefully before meeting his gaze. “It’s as we feared, Saeradan: the Nazgul are in Bree-land.”

Saeradan, to his credit, gave little more reaction than for his face to turn pale. His voice and hands remained steady as he poured them both a cup of tea and sat across from her at the table.

“So you’ll be going after your brother, then?”

Amathorn nodded. “The Nine’s search will lead them beyond Bree, straight to my brother and the halfling in his care. Aragorn is a great warrior, but to face all of the Nine, alone, with a defenseless halfling to protect? Such a task is beyond even him.” She sipped at her tea. “And given what happened at Archet, and after…I cannot leave him to face this threat alone.”

Saeradan took a sip of his own tea thoughtfully. “You’ll be needing supplies, then. As much as you can carry.”

“I hope to catch them up before they make the Midgewater,” she stated. “If not, I can still aim for where I think they’ll go, but it won’t be certain. I cannot track them through the marsh, and trying to chase them through the Weather Hills could attract attention.”

“You’d best get some sleep, then,” Saeradan ordered. “You’ll want to set out before dawn if you want any hope of catching your brother, even with a halfling or two in tow.”

Amathorn quickly finished the rest of her hasty dinner before setting about packing her supplies. Her pack was bulging and heavy when she finished, but she knew the weight would disappear all too quickly once she left the Chetwood. She also penned a short letter, sealed it, and gave it to Saeradan.

“Send this to Esteldin,” she ordered. “You and the others will look to Halbarad in our absence. Aragorn has taught him well; he can keep an eye on Eriador until we return.”

In a rare show of deference, Saeradan bowed slightly as he pocketed the letter. “As you wish, my lady,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be gone before I’m up in the morning.” Saeradan gave her a playful grin. “If you run into Candaith out in those hills, tell him he still owes me five silver.”

Amathorn laughed. “I will, Danny Boy, don’t you worry.” She sobered, fixing him with a piercing gaze. “The Nine may be moving on, but I fear this will have consequences for the Little People. I want as many as can be spared watching the Southern and Eastern borders of the Shire. Gandalf charged us to protect it, and we cannot let him down now.”

“It will be done, don’t you worry about that,” Saeradan promised.

She turned to descend into the cellar, where the extra bunks were housed, before stopping and looking over her shoulder. “Stay vigilant, brother.”

“Safe travels, sister. Sleep well.”

Amathorn nodded and sought her bed, immediately falling into a deep sleep, knowing she would need to be up before the Sun to continue her journey.

#lord of the rings #aragorn #lionheart #amathorn

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