#If Boromir had lived

[sweatandwoe]

BOROMIR'S BACK!!

HE HAS RETURNED

IN A MAID OUTFIT AND CAT EARS

#i ain't erasing the extra there it lives there now #If you went to charity stream last year this is the same boromir I had #sweaty asks

[sugar-salt-n-spice]

do you think gandalf knew that boromir had died? or did merry and pippin have to tell him?

#either possibility is each uniquely devastating to think about #like he’s brought back after fighting the balrog and just instinctively /knows/ #or he has to hear from two of his friends that the fellowship had been so badly broken while he was gone #idk a lot to think on #boromir i love u so you will always live on in my heart #lord of the rings #lotr #boromir #gandalf #mithrandir #the fellowship of the ring

[softboiledwonderland]

Boromir from LOTR and Bigwig from Watership Down have similar character energy. No I will not elaborate

#kidding nobody wants this elaborated on #(except for me only I don't want to be the elaborator) #I can just totally imagine boromir saying #'my chief rabbit has told me to defend this run and until he says otherwise I shall stay here' #in reference to aragorn #later on in the books if he had lived #they also both BREAK MY HEART a bit #boromir my beloved and bigwig my beloved #lord of the rings #watership down #also these are both stories of hope!!!! #boromir

[rohirric-hunter]

I am once again reminded that the Wind Will Set Me Racing 'verse is a Boromir Lives AU.

#lotro #i keep forgetting that #long story that i dont much feel like getting into now but i feel like he needs to be involved in the umbar questline #in order for me to do the thing that i want to with his story #but i am not finding a boromir shaped hole anywhere in my plans #well i mean there are a couple but there are also the Problems #i am starting to wonder if all this hassle is really worth the one scene i needed him for in leonys of rohan #what if i had him trip on a brick and break his neck #that was a JOKE i do not write character lives aus just to kill them again later #thats a Rule #it doesnt matter if it was “”“”“”worth it“”“”“” i made my bed and now i get to sleep in it #it will be made to work

[qrowpilled]

watched return of the king in theaters for the 20th anniversary and i am feeling So Normal right now

#shush jesse #[holding back tears] im fine #its just. the. not all tears are an evil. and the sea calls us home. #and. you wish now that our places had been exchanged that I had died and boromir had lived. #im going to look after you #i can't carry it but i can carry /you/ #i can't recall the taste of food nor the sound of water nor the touch of grass. i'm naked in the dark. #i see the shire sam. i remember now. #i am glad you are here with me. here at the end of all things sam #death is just another path one that we all must take #the grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass and then you see it #what gandalf see what? white shores and beyond a far green country under a swift sunrise #well that isn't so bad. no...no it isn't. #FUCK

[pinoruno]

hozier’s little side quest narrations in between songs are so important to me. saw him (live !!! first time ever !!!!) today spend a solid three minutes going “i’ve just seen the most amazing bootleg hozier tshirt. if i could sell it without getting in loads of trouble i would. if i could WEAR it without getting in trouble i would. it says HOZIER and then it just has pictures of faramir from lord of the rings. oh no— oh i’m sorry, it’s a higher honor, it’s aragorn. and you have— is that boromir? and who’s that, that’s— that’s your fella from the princess bride” about a group of 3 people who had aragorn, boromir, and inigo montoya respectively on their “bootleg hozier” shirts. king.

#hozier

[emilybeemartin]

Next installment of Lord of the Rings AU: It's Fine, Everybody's Fine is Aragorn's coronation, at which Boromir W E E P S:

I think in a circumstance where Boromir lives, or even just in interacting with Faramir in canon, Aragorn would be very aware of the optics of striding in out of the wilderness to take a throne that the line of stewards had been fighting and dying for in his absence (Thorongil cosplay aside). Cool thing is, in this AU, seeing the king's throne filled and experiencing Gondor at peace for the first time in living history is more than Boromir EVER hoped for.

The day the White Tree sapling blooms, Aragorn wakes up Faramir and Boromir like a six-year-old on Christmas:

And then there's that FIRST SUNRISE over the Mountains of Shadow, when day breaks over a defeated east that's clean and clear and Boromir WEEPS AGAIN because he NEVER THOUGHT he'd see such a thing and YES this is a THIRST TRAP why do you ASK

Hell yeah I gave him a tattoo, it's the seven stars of Gondor plus a coastal rockrose that grows in sandy soils along the Mediterranean because I figure that's like Dol Amroth in honor of HIS MOM because I LOVE SYMBOLISM

#you can't stop me i'm like a raccoon in a garage #lord of the rings #au: boromir lives #lotr #boromir #faramir #aragorn #legolas #gimli

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

Underutilized bit in LOTR, I feel, is how deeply out of his depth Boromir is within the Fellowship.

And by that I don't mean that he's the weakest or the stupidest or any of that, but rather that –against all appearances– he is the sole member of the Fellowship who is a Regular Normal Human, and he would have such a shocker slowly figuring all that out over the course of their journey. I mean:

Age. Legolas and Gimli wouldn't surprise him, since the lifespan of elves and dwarves seems commonly known to be way longer than humans, but Gandalf? The hobbits? None of these ages work as advertised and when he goes down to sit and commiserate with Aragorn about being the only Men in the company and how weird this all must be for them both Aragorn has to cough into his fist and mutter "Eighty-seven." "WHAT?!" (Yes, I know that Gondor keeps records of their Númenórean ancestors and said ancestors' extended lifespans, but consider this: the blood has thinned so much in Gondor that practically nobody lives longer than regular humans nowadays, and Boromir is canonically the jock in a family of scholars. He had to look up what/where Rivendell was after he got Faramir's Prophecy Dream, for god's sake.)

Bilbo. The entire Fellowship except Boromir has a personal relationship with Bilbo, and Boromir has neither seen nor heard of this creature in his life. Everyone else is starting off this quest with significant background knowledge of Bilbo's life and The Hobbit, whether having been told by Bilbo himself or having had family members personally involved at the time it occurred, and Boromir, again, has no clue what they're all on about.

Moria. Dwarves presumably have some built-in sensory adaptions for living underground, elf eye physics are bullshit, hobbits are stated to be far more comfortable/better navigating underground than most races, Gandalf is an Istar, and Aragorn has been hunting and tracking in various ungodly locations for most of his eighty-seven years. This means that, once again, Boromir is the only Normal Person trying to Normally Navigate a mostly-pitch-black cave system while everyone else side-eyes him for bumping into walls all the time.

Elves can sleep with their eyes open. This is admittedly not the most common thing among the Fellowship, but please imagine Boromir, still struggling to understand the fact that he's surrounded by nonhuman beings who have no shared concept of the passing of time, rolling over at 2AM to see Legolas bluescreening contentedly up at the sky, and then everyone acts like he's the weird one when he starts freaking out about it because all of them are used to traveling with/know more about elves than he does.

Even just remembering stuff off the top of my head, Boromir must have had such a weird time adjusting to being the only normal human being among the Fellowship before he, y'know. Died.

(Plus I can totally imagine Merry and Pippin giving him shit for "Well, if you're the only normal one amongst nearly a dozen people, then that's not very 'normal', is it? Maybe Men are the odd ones out and everybody else is normal.")

#LOTR #lord of the rings #Boromir

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Established Steddie, they have been living together for over a decade, did their best to heal their wounds from the Upside Down and learn to enjoy life again. It's not easy but they do it.

When the Lord of the Rings movies come out, it's actually Steve who suggests watching them to Eddie. He really tries engaging with Eddie's passions, but his focus is not the greatest when it comes to books. That doesn't mean he doesn't listen to Eddie ramble about them though - he knows all about hobbits, second breakfasts, the culture of smoking in the Shire...Eddie admires a lot of characters from the books, but ever since experiencing the Upside Down fuckery, he actually admits that the hobbits had a point. Good food, even better company and good tobacco? What else does one need? It also inspires Steve a few years later to prepare a full day of hobbit-inspired meals for their trilogy marathon when the extended editions come out. But this is about their first time watching the movies.

They both go to the movie theater excited. Steve is familiar with most of the characters, including Eddie's self-admitted crush on Aragorn. And Steve can see why, he can see so much good in all the members of the fellowship. After the first movie, he's wiping his eyes because Boromir deserved better. Eddie has a lot to say about what was lost in adaptation, but Steve knows Eddie loves those movies and would cut off his only remaining nipple before missing the next ones.

The Two Towers have Steve rooting for the ents and he feels strangely touched about how everyone underestimates Pippin, yet it's him who gets the ents to march. He really can't pick a favorite character. He can't wait for the third movie.

They go to the premiere of the Return of the King with Eddie. They secretly hold hands in the last row, and Steve watches the ride of the Rohirrim with bated breath. He clenches his hand in Eddie's when Theoden gets gravely injured, but then Éowyn is there and...oh.

He is staring slack-jawed at the scene. Éowyn's large, terrified eyes, the towering frame of the Witch King. Her posture was fearful, crouched, but still she faced him. And something surfaces in his head, something he's long forgotten.

He's unusually queit when they come back home, he still loves the rest of the movie, almost cries at "my friends, you bow to no one,", then definitely cries at Frodo leaving the Middle Earth. But there is still that something and Eddie can sense it. When they're falling asleep together, Eddie finally asks him. And Steve's had enough time to process what he felt.

"When Éowyn faced the Witch King...it reminded me of what it felt like. I mean, for the first time. I know it's stupid because saw so much unnatural shit, but...it's the first time that I have hard time forgetting," he admits quietly. "She reminded me of me in 1983 so much. I had no clue what I was getting myself into. I thought I'd do the right thing, but then I had a gun pointed at me, they both had blood on their hands...and then it appeared."

Eddie doesn't speak, he only holds Steve closer.

"It was so tall. I remember that petal-like mouth, those teeth, but mostly...I remember the crippling fear. I felt absolutely terrified. I couldn't move. There was even a moment when I thought of running away, but...I couldn't leave them there. Seeing someone go through something similar and being praised for being a hero...it makes me think. I used to be so ashamed for freezing in that moment. For even considering running away. But Éowyn...she was like me." There's awe in his voice and warmth, relief. "She had no idea what she was getting into. She froze. She didn't do everything perfectly and gracefully like Legolas or something, but when it mattered...she did what she had to."

He holds Eddie tighter and asks, almost shyly: "Will it offend you that I think she's my favorite character? Not Aragorn or Sam?"

Eddie just shakes his head and drops a kiss to Steve's hair. "Nah. She suits you well. And you're both amazing."

And if it becomes a silly endearment in their household, that Steve is sometimes called the Shieldmaiden of Hawkins? ("I'm not a maiden, Eddie!" "I'm not calling you a shieldboy or shieldbachelor, Steve!") Then Steve feels a hint of something that he thought he'd renounced, but now, for the first time he feels it's deserved - pride.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #steddie drabble #lord of the rings steddie #not proofread I'm sleep deprived af

[astronicht]

Actually Boromir’s death being at the beginning of a chapter (and of Two Towers, tho my pagination is pointedly NOT returning to 1) is an striking fucking death, especially as someone so familiar with the films. There’s no proverbial swelling music or sudden silence and Aragorn doesn’t manage to ask where Frodo is fast enough and unlike Gandalf, Boromir’s last stand is offscreen. As he dies he despairs and Aragorn tries to correct him but he doesn’t live long enough for anyone to know if it got through.

It’s scattered and awful and if you stop and think you can reason that maybe he drew the orcs away from noticing that Frodo and Sam had left. But what he does is confess and despair and die! And then Aragorn doesn’t remember to ask an important logistical question fast enough, and frankly no one gets to fucking stop and think. Aragorn sobs kneeling on the ground holding Boromir’s hand because there are no good options and someone else is dead. The prose around this is just. Yeah!

#Astro lotr

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine you enter the woods of Lothlorien with the Fellowship.

Gimli: Stay close, young hobbits! They say a great sorceress lives in these woods. An Elf-Witch.

Y/N: *Smirks* Of terrible power?

Gimli: Tis no joke m'lady. All who look upon her fall under her spell.

Galadriel: *Telepathically* Frodo..

Gimli: And are never seen again.

Y/N: Do not fear little ones. We will keep you from harm.

Samwise: We should be saying that to you Y/N.

Galadriel: You're coming to us, is as the footsteps of doom.

Galadriel: *Telepathically* You bring great evil here. Ring bearer.

Sam: Mr Frodo?

Gimli: Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox.

The elves of the Lothlórien woods appears with bows.

Y/N: *Unsurprised* Is that right?

Haldir: The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark.

Y/N: *Stifles a chuckle*

They walk to Lórien

Haldir: *In elvish* Well met, Legolas son of Thranduil.

Legolas: Our Fellowship stands in your debt. Haldir of Lórien.

Y/N: Yep, I love it when he speaks elvish. *She smiles down at the hobbits.*

Haldir: Ah, Aragorn of the Dúnedain. You are known to us.

Aragorn: Haldir..

Haldir: Pethryn.

Y/N: *Nods silently.*

Gimli: So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves. Speak words we can all understand.

Y/N: *Grins* They are greeting eachother. Be patient my friend.

Haldir: *In the common tongue* We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the Dark Days.

Gimli: And you know what this Dwarf says to that? Ishkhaqwi ai duru- (I spit upon your gra-)

Y/N: *Stops Gimli with her hand and gentle taps his shoulder.* Now now Gimli.

Aragorn: That was not so courteous.

Haldir: *Turns to look at Frodo.* You bring great evil with you. You can go no further.

Aragorn: *In elvish* We need your protection, the road is fell. Please we need your support.

Legolas: Y/N, you understand Sindarin?

Y/N: What, me solving the riddle wasn't enough for you? *She grins*

Aragorn: *In Elvish* I wish we may come with you. The road is very dangerous Haldir.

Boromir: Gandalf's death was not in vain. Nor would he have you give up hope. You carry a heavy burden Frodo. Don't carry the weight of the dead.

Haldir: You will follow me.

They travel to Caras Galadhon.

Haldir: Caras Galadhon.

Y/N: The heart of Elvendom on earth.

Haldir: Realm of the Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light.

Y/N: *Smirks to Aragorn.* I get to see the pretty elves again.

Aragorn: *Rolls his eyes*

Legolas: *Mutters* Am I not a pretty elf?

Y/N: *Laughs* You are the prettiest of all elves Miluir ("Lovely one" in Sindarin)

Legolas: *Gapes in surprise.*

Y/N: *Chuckles and walks away.*

Legolas: Wait! What did you just call me? Say it again!

#legolas x reader #lotr shitpost #lotr imagine #legolas #legolas x y/n #legolas x you #aragorn #aragorn x reader #imagine lord of the rings #lotr incorrect quotes #lotr x reader #lotr gimli #legolas greenleaf #Aragorn x you #lotr fanfic #lotr #lord of the rings x y/n #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings imagine #lotr x y/n #lotr x you

[ironmandeficiency]

the fellowship + romance

characters included: aragorn, boromir, gimli, legolas, pippin

word count: 1177

summary: just some soft shit bc these men are all sappier than any tree in the greenwood

a/n: there’s still an overwhelming lack of gimli content that needs to be fixed and i will do my part

aragorn 🗡️

aragorn’s quiet presence is the warmest blanket on a cold night, the first bite of a meal you slaved over for hours, every comfort you’ve ever experienced

he’s never been one for overwhelming displays of his affections; instead, he shows you in simple ways that add up - giving you the more full bowls of broth, laying his blanket over you if he notices you shivering during night watch, sharpening your weapons (this one had gimli nearly brought to tears by the devotion it spoke of), anything that helps your days pass easier

he grew up around stories of elves who committed astounding feats in the name of those they loved, fighting wars and risking their lives with alarming frequency. but none of them ever talked about the everyday ways they showed love. his mother taught him what she could about those things, stories of his father’s steady presence and stalwart love for his family. a young aragorn took these lessons to heart and used them when the time was right

it was why, when he caught his heart skipping beats around you, he let his actions do the speaking for him. without fail you would thank him with a soft smile, slowly coming to realize that aragorn felt something much deeper for you than camaraderie. when you woke up early one morning to find your weapons sharper than they were the day before (not for the first time), you went straight to aragorn and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. he nearly dropped your bowl of stew in his flustered state

having your affections secured didn’t mean he stopped his small acts of kindness, it did quite the opposite. it just made him bolder and more confident in his actions

boromir 🍻

this man is so damn tactile it’s ridiculous

if you’re the cuddly type like he is, it makes him all the more eager to always have some form of physical contact with you, no matter where you may be

unless you tell him to back off, he is always touching you one way or another. a gentle hand on the small of your back, your pinkies interlocked, an arm wrapped around your shoulder, anything to keep you close to him

his favorite time of day eventually becomes the end of it, because that’s when he can hold you close and whisper soft words of love in your ear while he holds you. he makes it his goal to give you a goodnight kiss every night you spend together

the best cuddle position in his mind is you leaning your back against his chest, one of his hands resting on your hip where his thumb rubs small circles above the bone, and his chin resting on your shoulder just right to where he can turn his head to kiss your cheek or burrow his face into your neck

gimli 🛡️

valiantly is the best way to describe how gimli approaches any situation he comes upon, including (and especially) matters of the heart

this is a dwarf who says what he means & means what he says, who does nothing that he wouldn’t be proud of the next day. because of this, you couldn’t find it in you to not believe him when he professed his love for you with such unwavering confidence you were nearly brought to tears. gimli never said anything just because his lips could move so you simply had to believe him

will do you favors big and small simply because he wants to help you however possible. you can’t remember the last time you carried your own pack or made your own bowl of soup. if you encouraged him (which you wouldn’t), this romantic fool would not let you lift another finger for as long as you both live

he grew up watching his parents with keen eyes, his adad showing him by example how a true dwarf treats their one. he embodies these lessons with every interaction with you, striving to be the one you deserve him to be. it ranges from the ferocity of his protection to opening doors for you. may mahal strike him down if he ever hurts you

he just wants to be a dwarf you’re proud to love, proud to call yours

legolas 🏹

physical affection can be difficult for him, but one thing legolas is good at doing is speaking his mind and his heart

if you thought his regular speaking pattern was overflowing with poetic descriptors, you’ve heard nothing compared to when he’s being truly romantic. no one you’d been with before had ever described you with such beautiful prose, never whispered soft poetry about your eyes to lull you to sleep

and he’s a cheeky bastard about it too! it’ll be a regular conversation between friends, nothing important, then BAM! he’s making quippy one-liners about your overwhelming skill/beauty/personality that catch you off guard and has your friends cackling at your flustered reaction to his flattery

even better, his praise will often include sindarin and on the off chance you don’t speak it, you’ll have to gauge the meaning from the silent looks shared between your dear elf and aragorn (doesn’t really work). eventually legolas tells you what some of them mean; after all, he needs to have an element of intrigue about him or his name isn’t legolas thranduillion

he carries a lot of pride for you and will brag about you to anyone who listens, his melleth being one of unparalleled skill and beauty and bright laughter that carries his soul on great wings

pippin 🥕

his already strong need to be silly and foolish grows exponentially when he finds out how happy it makes you

pip doesn’t care what it is you ask of him, he will do anything to hear your laugh. he’ll put baby carrots in his nostrils, respond to conversations exclusively in farm animal noises, he will even do his spot-on impressions of the rest of the fellowship and make them say all sorts of silly things

the best one to date is him doing an aragorn impression that consists of all the different ways he says legolas’s name

you’ve never heard such astounding colloquialisms from anyone until you met pippin - “don’t eat half the berries and say the pie shell’s too big,” “his cornbread isn’t done in the middle,” “if brains were leather, he wouldn't have enough to saddle a junebug” - and each time he says one, there’s always a not-so-subtle look to you so he can see your reaction. the ones that get the most laughs are used a little bit more, just enough to not lose their appeal but enough to hear your laughter all the more often

there is a single-minded determination to hear your snort when you laugh at something he says, and he will not rest until you do. his personal goal to do this resets each time you do actually snort, him now aiming for the next joke or prank that will bring it out again

#gimli x reader #legolas x reader #aragorn x reader #boromir x reader #pippin took x reader #lotr x reader #lord of the rings imagine #lotr imagine #lord of the rings fanfic #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings reader insert #lotr reader insert #aragorn imagine #boromir imagine #gimli imagine #pippin took imagine #legolas imagine

[rohirric-hunter]

.

#I done fucked up #actual train of thought: 'well if youre going to take that route in what is at its core still a lotr fanfic' #'Then you got to understand the themes youre in conversation with a bit better' #'Time to reread the silmarillion' #And unfortunately I cant argue with myself because I am right. I should do that #Le siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh #Also on a different fic I just had the characters VERY RUDELY remind me that the LoRCU is technically a boromir lives #Did I ask? No. Am I going to have to deal with it? Yes. Did I make this problem for myself? Also yes #Is it fair? Yes but Im gonna complain about it

[lesbiansforboromir]

In a BoromirLives fanfic, Faramir must be forced to confront this line of his in particular; Whether he erred or no, of this I am sure: he died well, achieving some good thing. His face was more beautiful even than in life. It's vital to me that this is addressed. Because in Tolkien beauty is holy, they are intertwined inextricably, the holy will be beautiful.

Boromir did not live a beautiful holy life according to most, his life is not spoken of with uncomplicated worth by any but Denethor, Eomer, Theoden and Pippin (all either 'simple' or outwardly rebellious against god). But he did die a beautiful holy death, it is what most people praise him for and in Faramir's mystical dream where he sees Boromir's dead body floating down the river, this is his reaction. Boromir's corpse was more beautiful than his living body, because in death he was 'redeemed' and served his purpose in the great holy plan. He 'died well'.

This is horrifying right? It horrifies me when I read it. And I think it so concisely reveals how Faramir and many others viewed Boromir. I am essentially here to argue that this is all about piety, once again, yes I'm a one track record.

Gandalf, when hearing of Boromir's death from Aragorn, declares; It was a sore trial for such a man: a warrior, and a lord of men. Galadriel told me that he was in peril. But he escaped in the end. I am glad. It was not in vain that the young hobbits came with us, if only for Boromir’s sake.

Now, what is Gandalf saying here? Boromir did not escape, he died. Does he mean he escaped corruption? Well, no, since apparently this 'escape' had something to do with Merry and Pippin and Boromir shook off the pull of the Ring long before he was sent to find them. What role did Merry and Pippin play in this 'escape'? Well, Boromir died for them, he had too, there was no other way out of that ambush. So by process of elimination the only thing the 'young hobbits' did that was 'for Boromir's sake' was... to be there so he could die for them, right?

And remember, his death did not actually save them or really help in any way, the hobbits are still taken and the Uruk-hai's downfall has nothing to do with Boromir. In fact Aragorn squandered any time Boromir might have given him to catch up to the Uruk-hai by spending hours on his funeral. So, the death alone is what is being called 'good' here, what is beautiful. Boromir dies and that is beautiful and something to be glad for, according to Gandalf and Faramir.

But why do they think this? Faramir has his 'alas for Boromir, whom I too loved' and Gandalf laments 'poor Boromir', so they have at least some pity for him. What was 'good' to them about Boromir dying? Well we all know this one don't we, it's the accepted narrative of it all, Boromir 'redeemed' himself with this deed. He tried to take the Ring, and for this crime he needed redemption that he gained through vainly giving up his life to try and save Merry and Pippin.

But, in fact, Boromir himself has a slightly different way of phrasing it. Boromir says, of his own death; ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ [-] ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’

He paid for it. To Boromir, in this cosmic exchange, he chose wrongly and paid for the offence with his death. This wasn't redemption, it was spiritual commerce, crime and punishment. Which is a perspective that once again demonstrates Boromir's enduring lack of 'faith' or spirituality. The powers of the west and Eru may exist, but they exist to him as forces of nature, some fact of the world we all must just live with, not something that fills him with hope or brings him nobility or meaning or a 'higher purpose'. Boromir does not want to be closer to divinity, he does not want to be beautiful or noble, he wants his people to be safe.

But of course, this is entirely opposite to Faramir's perspective, and if not downright heretical then at least unfaithful. So, when alive, Boromir cannot achieve 'beauty' in Faramir's mind, because he is unfaithful. It is only when he is dead, when 'fate' draws him into this spiritually good 'end' that sees him give up his life for a holy quest, when Boromir's life is no longer defined by him but by his death, that he can be beautiful.

And bringing this all the way back around, there are two ways you could do this in a boromirlives fic. Either, Boromir comes back but he does not look like he did in Faramir's dream. He did not pay, he is still alive to define who he is and Faramir finds himself slowly drawn into this terrible psychological horror as he realises he misses his brother's death more than he missed his actual brother.

Or Faramir needs to be confronted with a brother who looks dead to him. Boromir has come back and to Faramir's eyes he looks exactly as he did in the dream, but now this corpse moves and speaks and can no longer be confined to one perfect conceptual moment. And this also horrifies him. It is for authors to decide if this is just an aspect of Faramir's perspective, or if Boromir actually 'came back wrong' as it were, he did pay but somehow he came back anyway.

#text post #boromir #faramir #erran vs tolkien

[thewulf]

Never a Burden || Legolas

Summary: Request: hiyaaa i have another legolas fic ideaaa! You write him soo well. How about reader who hasnt slept in a while and always offers to take watch. Legolas ofc notices after a bit and demands she doesnt take watch that night... Read Rest Here

A/N: Another one for my fav elf. Thanks always for the requests!!

Pairing: Legolas x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.1k +

TW: General LOTR triggers, anxiety, fear

Throwing out your bedroll you knew it would be a useless effort trying to sleep as it was so dark out. The stars were hiding behind a thick layer of cloud that had other plans for the night. The further along in the journey to Mordor the more your anxiety grew. Ever since the group was attacked by orcs not long back you couldn’t seem to fall asleep at night. You were left to sleep during the small breaks the Hobbits needed or when you got to sit on the horse.

The attack was weeks ago now. The lack of sleep and the constant moving was really starting to get to you. You’d do anything to be back in Rivendell under the elves protection. One of those elf beds would feel immaculate in this moment.

“I’ll take the first watch.” You yawned, speaking to the group as they huddled around the fire trying to keep warm.

Legolas looked up to you with skepticism in his eyes. He was the most observant of the group. He’d noticed you slept less than he had ever since the ten of them left Rivendell. He didn’t know you well. You’d come accompanying Boromir, but he quickly grew a liking to you. You were quiet and reserved, speaking only when you thought it was needed and always helping. Even him being an elf didn’t negate the fact he found you quite striking for both a non-ellon and a human altogether. That and you were far more intriguing than any other creature he’d come across in all his years across middle earth. How had the thirty-year-old mortal done that to him? What were you doing to him?

Legolas was a far departure from his father, King Thranduil, who had a disdain towards the human race. Instead, Legolas found humans, you more so, absolutely fascinating. How much the race managed to cram in their short lives. It exhausted him at the thought of what mortals went through. But it was their normal.

“Aye Lassie. Why don’t you let Legolas take the first watch. You’ve been up quite a bit, yeah?” Gimli spoke up after Legolas had confided him in of his worries over you. Usually, you were chatty and upbeat, but that personality Legolas had looked forward too had vanished all too quickly.

“Oh, it’s all right. Really. I’m not terribly tired.” You lied. You were exhausted but sleep just wouldn’t come.

Legolas shook his head, “I insist, Y/N. You’ve taken watch nearly every night for the last few weeks. You need a break.”

You bit your cheek trying to bite back your usual sharp tongue. He was just trying to be kind. Little did he know he was doing the opposite of what you wanted. You craved a distraction from the darkening thoughts in your mind that drove your fear and anxieties through the roof.

You gave up after a few hours. The snores of all the males around you irritating you more than soothing you too sleep at this rate. You got up from your bedroll and walked down the path to find Legolas. You knew he’d be displeased at your arrival but truly, you could not sleep. After a few moments of wandering in the dark it was he who found you. He had the advantage of being an elf and all.

“Whatever are you doing awake mellon nin?” It was like he appeared out of thin air startling you more than you wanted to admit. You spun around look up into his ever so blue eyes that shone bright in the darkness. Somehow they were striking even in the dead of the night.

“I said I could not sleep. Gimli’s snores are bothering me. I needed to be away.” You sighed in frustration.

Legolas took your hand like he had so many times before. You tried to ignore the way your heart raced at his touch. Needing to get over it, it wasn’t uncommon to have to touch or pull or shield another person or creature in the fellowship from time to time. It didn’t mean anything; it was just how things were. Legolas could never like a human like you. You’d be gone in the blink of an eye. It was probably funny for elves, little mortal crushes that they likely forgot about after some time.

“Come sit.” He pulled you down with him at the base of a large tree. Once you’d settled down beside him he continued, “What bothers you?”

You weren’t really going to tell him. That was far too embarrassing. You were supposed to be a fearless Ranger of Gondor. You’d been hand selected to travel with Boromir at request of his father, Denethor II. How could you deny such an honorable request? A female hand selected? You had a job to do, and you were going to do it well. Even if it quite literally killed you.

Instead, you shrugged, “Cannot sleep is all.”

Legolas wasn’t going to accept that as your answer, “Why not mellon nin?”

You turned your head to look at his, “I don’t know. Sleep has always been hard for me.” It was a lie even Legolas could see right on through.

He was quiet for a moment before pressing on a bit further, “You view me as your friend, no?”

You’d known him for a few months now after departing from Rivendell and naturally you’d grown close to him the quickest. Boromir was always a comfort as he reminded you so much of home, Minas Tirith. But Legolas brought out a different sort of bliss that drew you too him. He was funny, witty, sarcastic, and so different than any other elf you’d met in your almost thirty years in middle earth.

“Of course, I do Legolas. Why do you ask?” Maybe if you played dumb he wouldn’t press.

But you were wrong, “You can talk to me about what is bothering you. I have noticed you have been… off.” He paused looking over to you to see your reaction. Your eyes widened slightly at his realization of you sudden change. You should’ve known he would notice. He was far more observant than the common male you usually found yourself around in the mortal world, “I am worried for you mellon. I have not seen you smile in weeks. When was the last time you slept through the night?” He asked hoping you would open up to him for once. Legolas had found you to be particularly hard to crack. Most Rangers were but you didn’t seem like you’d ever budge. You’d been trained to be a stone wall and you were excelling at it.

You looked down feeling suddenly guilty for making him worry about you of all things. There were so many things that his attention needed to be on, not you and your emotions, “I cannot sleep. Not at night at least.” You yawned feeling the exhaustion overwhelming you, but your mind would not shut off even as you begged it.

Legolas nodded, motioning for you to continue, “I know this.” He said without judgement.

You let out a small sigh knowing you’d just have to tell him. He was never going to stop, not now, “Ever since the orc’s attacked us. I can’t seem to sleep. My head will not let me Legolas. I try, trust me I try so hard. And I am so tired. So tired I am afraid I have become a liability. What good will I be in battle if I can hardly handle my sword anymore. I am weak and tired and…” You felt the tears overwhelming your vision as you let it all out. Once the words had started it was like a waterfall had come out of your mouth.

Legolas ran a comforting hand up and down your back as you let it out. You wanted to run away from his touch as you had so many times before. You were a Ranger. Rangers had solo lives. You couldn’t get attached; it wasn’t fair to anybody let alone you. But damn, as his fingers traced up and down your back you knew you needed it. This life was lonely, and you were terribly touch starved. It felt so good. You knew his touch kept you from spiraling further into your own mind. Thankfully, the tears subsided before a full-blown anxiety attack took over your emotions.

Once your sniffles subsided he spoke up trying to continue to provide you the needed comfort, “I will let no harm befall you mellon nin.” He gave your shoulder a squeeze hoping it would provide you some additional comfort you needed. Legolas was no expert in elf emotion let alone human woman ones. But you seemed to be responding to his gentle advances positively so he concluded he must have been doing something correctly.

You sniffled knowing you probably looked awful under the tears that had slipped out. It had been so long since you cried. Not when you learned your mother had passed. Not when you’d been stabbed many times over training and being a Ranger. No, now when Legolas had finally got you to open up to him after months of trying.

“You cannot promise that Legolas.” Your voice sounded horse after letting more out than you had intended.

His eyes narrowed in on your puffy cheeks, raw from the crying, “I can, and I do, Ranger of Gondor.”

But you shook your head in response, “I do not wish to ask that of you Legolas. You need to look out for yourself and the Hobbits.”

“And you.” He only cocked his head to get a better look at you. He wasn’t shying away from the conversation like you were. It had become too difficult to look him in the eye at this point. You were too mortified by the breakdown and the now defense that was stemming from it.

He was as stubborn as you were, “Legolas you…”

But he stopped you by placing a hand on your arm, “I do not wish to offend. But you can hardly hold up your sword any longer. Do not think that has gone unnoticed by me nor Aragorn. You cannot protect yourself let alone Boromir. Not until you let yourself rest.”

You looked away once again in shame. Thinking you’d done an excellent job at hiding these exact ailments. Words were suddenly hard as you failed to come up with a sentence. What was the best way to admit how scared you were to sleep. How embarrassing for a literal Ranger. If anybody were judging, thankfully for you, they chose not to say a thing.

“As I said, I do not wish to offend you.” He said once more, this time a little softer as he dropped his hand from your arm leaving you aching for that touch that seemed to come so rarely these days.

“Hardly.” You swallowed your breath and took the moment to finally look at Legolas once again. He was studying your exhausted form before his icy blue eyes landed on yours. While you knew you couldn’t see him as well as he could see you, your eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. He was a vision even coated by the darkness of the night. You’d never been particularly fond of elves. You had always found them to be far too prim and proper for your rough lifestyle. But Legolas defied all your expectations by being exactly what you hadn’t expected him to be.

He let out a sigh knowing you weren’t going to say anything further, “Will you try to sleep?”

But you shook your head, “No. It just frustrates me. Laying there, listening to the rest of them snore away.”

The elf next to you contemplated something for a few moments before finally saying something, “Go grab your bedroll.”

“What?” That was the last thing you expected him to say.

“You will sleep here.” He spoke as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

There weren’t many excuses you could make as you just shook your head in disagreement, “I cannot do that…”

“Why not? I will help you sleep.” He stood from his spot offering a hand out for you to take. With slight hesitation you let him pull you up from your seated position on the base of the tree with a small pull.

“I do not wish to burden you with such small problems. We have much larger problems at hand is all.” You spoke out your final fear. Why should he care? All of middle earth was relying on your group to make it to Mordor to get rid of the ring. What was a little lack of sleep when orcs and evil could be ruling the world if they were unsuccessful.

His head snapped to yours with nothing but concern. An emotion he’d been wearing as he looked over you as of late, “You are not a burden. You are never a burden. It is a burden to see you not sleep. It is a burden to see you so weak when you are so strong. It is a burden that you have not come to me sooner mellon nin. Go get your bedroll and bring it here. I will help you sleep.”

Snapping your mouth shut you simply nodded to him, “I will be back momentarily.” Walking with haste you walked like a dog that had been kicked by its owner. Legolas had never been so outright with you before. You are never a burden… what had he meant of that?

When you had gotten back to him, very momentarily, he had already cleared out a space for you to sleep. Without saying much more you got into your bedroll knowing that sleep would be hard to come by, even away from the snoring of the males. Even getting all your fears out into the world you still knew sleep would never befall you.

“Close your eyes.” Legolas sat next to you being sure to keep his senses heightened as he helped you.

But before you did you needed to know one thing, “Legolas?”

“Yes?”

You turned your head towards him, “What did you mean I will never be a burden?”

He smiled a touch at your unusual vulnerability peeking through, “Exactly that mellon nin.” He began to brush through your knotted hair gently. His mother did this so many times when he was young to provide a sense of comfort. With the utmost gentleness he brushed out the knots from the long days of travel and lack of being able to wash, “I care for you very deeply, you know that. You are never a burden. You are my…” He paused wanting to say more but knowing it was not the right time. He was trying to get you to sleep not confess is true feelings, “friend. And I care for you. We care for you. We need you to care for yourself now.”

You hummed knowing he was right, “Okay. But… I am scared. Sleeping brings the terrors I cannot hide behind any longer.”

He shook his head continuing to stroke your hair, “I will fight them away. Fear not. Close your eyes. Trust me.”

You nodded closing your eyes beneath his gentle touch. Even as stubborn as you were his soft touch through your hair was already lulling you into a state you hadn’t seen in nearly three weeks. His tender touch was almost enough to lull you into a hopefully dreamless sleep. When he started softly humming a tune you’d so rarely heard you knew sleep would overcome you shortly.

“Thank you Legolas.” You mumbled unsure if the words were even coherent in your sleepy state.

“I will be here you when you wake, mellon nin.” He continued humming and brushing through your hair even after your breathes evened out letting the ellon know you were finally asleep. He continued to have his touch on you throughout the night knowing it was what your needed to feel safe.

When your eyes were hit with the sun the next morning Legolas had kept true to his word. He was sitting beside you with his eyes on your waking form. You’d have been more embarrassed by his eyes on had he not spoken up before you could.

“How did you sleep?”

Scooting to sit up next to him you gave him a quick nod, “Very well. I do not believe I woke up once. I feel… good.” Giving him a smile that he had so rarely seen form you as of late he grinned in return to yours.

“Good. We will do this again tonight.” He stood offering his hand to yours.

You took his hand once again relishing in the closeness the two of you were having so ardently over the last few hours, “You must sleep too.”

“Do not worry about me. I have had plenty. With you taking every watch as of late I have been able to rest.” He smirked knowing you wouldn’t have a good enough comeback for that one.

“If you insist…” You wanted to give him an out. He didn’t need to care for you. To watch over you. He had other, much more important, things to worry about.

“I do.”

Deciding it best to pack up you just looked to him after, “All right then. We will do this again tonight.”

He nodded with a small smile playing on his lips, “I have forgotten how agreeable you are once you have slept my lady.”

Your mouth dropped open at that backhanded compliment that came so naturally to your elven friends, “I am not that bad.”

He shook his head mindlessly placing his hand on your back guiding you back to camp as you were distracted by him, “Just less stubborn is all.” His grin only widened seeing you crinkle your nose up trying to come up with a comeback but coming up short.

“You test my patience elf.” You spoke with a hint of sarcasm coming from within. As much as he tested you, you needed him far more than you could imagine. He’d become somebody to lean and rely on. Somebody who could be there for you when it was so often the other way around. He promised you’d never be a burden to him.

He laughed that beautiful sound that made your heart race, “And you mine. But, I would have it no other way.” You shut your mouth as the two of you made your way to camp where the eight of them were sitting, waiting on the two of you. He must’ve let you sleep longer than normal because they were all awake and ready to go. But seemingly unfazed by your appearance with the elf. He must’ve done or said something. Making true to his word. You would never be a burden.

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