#hobbitish | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nelyoslegalteam · 4 months

Note

please tell me about your dnd campaign, stranger

hi hi hi hi hi hi hi do you have any idea how happy i am to get this ask. you have activated my trap card this is going to be SO long i am sorry in advance but The People Need To Know About My D&D Campaign.

so we’re playing in Adventures in Middle Earth, which is. supposedly a Tolkienverse-specific 5e mod but frankly it’s robust enough to fully count as its own system if you ask me. like it has its own guidebooks, character sheets, premade adventures, and features mechanics that 5e just straight up doesn’t have. it’s like if 5e were actually good. anyway. may i present to you:

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ The Mirkwood Campaign ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

so what, exactly, happened in the intervening years between the events of the Hobbit and LOTR? we did, BAYBEEEEEE!!

we are:

Murdoc, a hobbitish warden (adventures in middle earth’s version of a bard), played by yours truly!! raised in the shire and eventually moved out to the middle of mirkwood by an eccentric uncle who idolizes bilbo baggins, murdoc is the heir apparent to the brandybuck family inn. unfortunately for murdoc, he has developed extremely nasty prophetic dreams and is now burdened with the ability to see the future! a skill that has definitely left him with a very normal relationship to his new day job of Being An Adventurer!! i am unhinged and have uh. Talked About Him A LOT If You Care To Read This, but he is full of murderous rage and also tea and loves his friends very much. he also, more recently, surrendered himself as bait to the great werewolf plaguing mirkwood, trusting completely that his friends would come and save him. he was right. they did. and he lost his right hand in the process. :)

Ríros, an elven warrior (aime version of a fighter), played by @jaz-the-bard. tall, buff, sunshiny, and an absolute himbo. ALSO loves his friends VERY much and this is KEY. unfortunately for ríros, he is a redhead, and that does cause problems in a world where maedhros feänorion once existed. (stranger, i am so sorry if you are not one of my silmarillion regulars and did not know what you were getting into by asking me, a silmarillion blog, to tell you about my d&d campaign, and now have no idea who or what the fuck i am talking about). ríros is notably not maedhros though! he isn't even noldorin!! maedhros is a ghost who lives in his sword (and who is also played by jaz)! and who also maybe kind of accidentally possessed him one time, if you wanna read this here for a better explanation of ríros mostly but also all of the above.

The Bearer, a human slayer (aime barbarian), played by @thymo-leonta. grumpy old man. unwilling father to all these young and stupid adventurers he’s been stuck with. are they all adults? yeah sure. they’re still Children. we are making him go grey. also full of murderous rage. looks like he's running from his perfectly normal, happy, loving family. is actually acutely aware of the fact that he has been doomed to die. killed the werewolf that took murdoc's hand. as a consequence, became the werewolf that took murdoc's hand. has two dogs, both named Dog <3

Déorwyn, a human wanderer (aime ranger), played by @shadowkat2000. resident party Horse Girl. a fellow sufferer of The Bad Prophetic Dreams^TM. because this is not quite unfortunate enough for her, déorwyn Hears Dead People. apparently our GM gives her extra secret bonus ghosts that the rest of us do not hear or know about! this being the source of her foresight makes her pretty distinct from murdoc, despite them both seemingly suffering from the same thing, in ways that i have LOTS of emotions about. her horse is named windrider and Their Bond Is Unbreakable uwu

and @potatoobsessed999, our obligatorily Extremely Ominous GM!

(we are also occasionally joined by Ioreth, a human treasure hunter (aime rogue), whose player is unfortunately not on tumblr. a founding member of the party, has earned the epithet The Feral, mostly loves to hang out in the woods by herself, look for shiny things, and cause chaos. as a beorning, she CAN astral-project herself as a bear. it rules. once got possessed by a ringwraith, probably holds the most compassion for characters who have been through similar out of any of us. is usually covered in mud.)

initially in the employ of radagast the brown, a tenure that did not last due to murdoc's insistence that saruman is evil (i mean. yeah lol.), we're a group of adventurers traveling mirkwood with the aim to defend it as sauron slowly gathers power. we are

very

successful at the Fighting And Killing Things part of this

we specialize in:

lugging unconscious bodies through the woods!

lugging DEAD bodies through the woods!

lugging EACH OTHER'S bodies through the woods!

lugging things through the woods in general!

setting things on fire (usually murdoc's fault)!

making fun of our enemies so bad they just give up!

INCLUDING the ringwraiths (shoutout to ríros)!

serving annoying politicians subpoenas!

murdering them like the one time it was totally justified we promise!

accidentally convincing the council of mirkwood that murdoc's inn is a small fiefdom!

being generally cursed (except for ríros) (he just looks that way)!

HIRE US to take care of whatever problems are happening in YOUR local cursed forest! wights? patricidal politicians? generally awful politicians? sauron? the same fucking werewolf again? it's definitely just tuesday to us!

you can count on

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ the union of murdoc ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

anyhow, jaz is absolutely wonderful and has written several fics of our party, including (but not limited to):

Cooking Contest for the Free Peoples, based on an in-game conversation about beating sauron at competitive cooking,

In Which There Are More Ghosts, which is not canon to game but is in fact Extremely Representative of the exact kind of nonsense we get up to (campaign's haunted),

A Stranger With a Friend's Face, a canon to game horror story of how ríros got slightly possessed, the party acquired maedhros, and neither murdoc nor déorwyn managed to explain the presence of the vengeful ghost residing in murdoc's scepter and bullying him in his dreams to any of the rest of the party right up until this very moment,

and this wonderful drabble from the horror arc in which we were isolated inside of a haunted longhouse. complete with party memes here.

there's more, and i am going to a.) pick on jaz to add them if they can find them, and b.) pick on my beloved friends in general to Please Help Me Infodump About our Game!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Top to Bottom, Left to Right: Murdoc, the Bearer, Déorwyn, Ríros, Ioreth]

#so sorry to this random stranger. the op of the post about d&d games being five-person fandoms. who was kind enough to Ask Me This.#this is way more than you bargained for #even if you care about none of this I Love You Now. Just For Asking.#you must understand. i am compiling a sales pitch for my campaign. i need to get tumblr Invested.#also i truly have NO art of one-handed murdoc and this i MUST correct #my boy! does not have that second hand!!#his design has changed so much from even the point when this art was commissioned but that's a post of its own lmao #begging my friends to Descend upon this post because there *are* Things I Have Missed and i want them to infodump too .w.#mirkwood campaign #<= is my tag for everything from this game!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! go check it out pls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#nelyo askbox #hoping that this doesn't have a million typos before i finally post this lmao

29 notes · View notes

ass-deep-in-demons · 11 months

Text

✦ Healing Touch ✦

Fandom: Lord of the Rings Pairing: Boromir x OC Tropes: awkward bedsharing, hurt/comfort Length: 4352 words Rating: T+ Warnings: blood, injury, canon-typical violence, Legolas being a little shit

This story takes place in the Wandering Birds AU (main fic currently in the making). It was originally posted as a WIP, in response to scyllas-revenge's wonderful Bed Shortage series. I've since developed it a little. Last edit: 12 Dec 2023.

[AO3] [MASTERPOST] [MORE WANDERING BIRDS]

The Wold, Rhovanion, Middle Earth, 28th of Nénimë 3019 TE

Boromir could feel little save the sizzling rage pulsing through his veins, as he hacked at one of the last two remaining orcs, shearing the creature’s head. The other one charged at him with a spear, but Boromir managed to grasp the weapon just under the sharpened tip, deflect it and use it to pull the monster forward, effectively skewering it on his sword. At once the creature screeched and punched its shield right into the man’s face.

Boromir cursed, as he went deaf and tasted blood. He staggered, but managed to stay upright. It was no easy thing, to fell an Uruk, as the beasts remained kicking even stuffed with iron. They feel no pain, fear no foe , Boromir thought with horror. He envied the vile lowlife, then, even if just for a fleeting moment. The orc raised its shield to slam it again, and Boromir realised belatedly he had nowhere to hide from the blow, not without giving ground and losing his sword, so he braced for the impact.

But suddenly the orc stumbled, and Meriadoc’s curly head peeked from behind the orc’s shoulder. The brave halfling jumped on the Uruk’s back and was trying to slit the creature’s throat. Orcish skin was hardened and almost impossible to pierce without strength and momentum backing the blade, so the hobbit’s dagger slid awkwardly and drew no blood. Boromir was going to have a good long talk with the young Brandybuck after this adventure, a talk concerning proper bladework techniques and also how unwise it was to climb up an enemy thrice one’s height. However, at the moment Merry’s antics worked in their favour.

Profiting from the Uruk’s distraction, Boromir pulled with his body weight to wring his sword from the Uruk’s bowels and… THUD! He slipped and landed on his back in a puddle of ichor. The orc landed on top of him, suddenly limp and very dead, driving the hilt of Boromir’s sword straight into the man’s solar plexus. Boromir’s eyes watered from the impact but he wasted no time pushing the monster aside and rolling onto his hands and knees. He promptly retched. There went his breakfast. Ouch . He hoped his padded gambeson protected his ribs this time, but he wasn’t so sure.

“Boromir!” shouted Merry, who had rolled down the orc’s back during their fall, landed on his arse, and now was the first back up on his feet. “Are you alright?” The hobbit knelt beside the Gondorian and winced at the sight of his battered face.

“I’ll live,” Boromir grunted, breathless and not entirely convinced of his words. Still heaving, but slowly regaining his senses, he spotted an arrow with white feather fletching sprouting from the Uruk’s eye. So that’s what killed the ugly bastard, he thought. Normally Boromir would be annoyed at Prince Legolas for once again showing off and stealing his kill, but this time the archer had likely saved his sorry mortal life, so Boromir decided he would not complain.

He sat up and brushed back his sticky hair, unwittingly smearing orc blood over his forehead in the process. His surcoat, breeches and to some extent his gambeson, were also soaked with ichor. Maimed Uruk-Hai bodies surrounded them, all of them felled by Boromir with the occasional well timed assistance from Merry - hobbitish mischief aside, after weeks of practice they made a good team. Pippin was nearby, trying to free his dagger from under a fallen foe. A few yards to the right he noticed a mightily angry Gimli. Fuming and grumbling, the dwarf was stomping around the battlefield to retrieve his various blades and hatchets from orc corpses. Boromir could very well guess the reason for the dwarf’s grumpiness: the elf stood in the centre of the battlefield, carefully cleaning a bunch of retrieved arrows, tall and smug and without a spot on him. Blasted Edhel , he thought, not a hair out of place. He did not dwell on the comedic potential of Legolas’s blonde mane actually getting ruined in a fight. (If he had learned anything about elves during his time in Imladris, it was that they could be indeed very vain and prone to dramatics). No, he turned his head to scan the perimeter further, searching for someone, some thing in particular.

Where is it, he thought, as he scanned the battlegrounds for signs of Frodo. Immediately he felt a wave of guilt wash over his noisy mind. His first thoughts should be not for the wretched Ring, but for the safety of his companions: of Lady Joanna, and of Frodo, who were the most vulnerable of their party. Alas, he could not help it. Thoughts of the Ring occupied his mind these days more often than not. So long as the Ring is with us, there is yet hope for Gondor, he thought frantically.

But Boromir could not spot the rest of their company on the battleground, and was growing more and more anxious with every heartbeat that passed. When the Orcs had rushed at their party, Boromir had bid Joanna to take refuge between the trees with Frodo and Sam. She was a brave and sensible one, his Lady, and so he knew she would lead the hobbits to safety and defend them if need be. Since when is she my Lady , he chided himself, but he did not get to finish that thought.

“Oh, no!” whined Merriadoc, “look there!” He pointed to the farther end of the clearing that served as their battleground, where Aragorn was crouched between the trees, in a spot somewhat hidden from sight.

Boromir felt bile rise to his throat once again. Aragorn was kneeling, flanked by ashen-faced Frodo and panicking Sam. He was bent over a collapsed figure, pressing cloth to torn flesh.

Joanna.

No, nonononono, please, no! Boromir was not prepared for how deeply the sight of her in peril affected him. He jumped to his feet a little too abruptly and felt his head spin, but he still hurried to where she lay. She had to be alive, she had to ! When he reached the spot, he dropped to his knees beside Samwise, and took in the sight of her, words failed him.

Joanna lay pale in the grass, unconscious, hair and limbs in disarray. Were it not for the belaboured breathing, she would be the very picture of death, and Boromir shuddered as he beheld her. Aragorn had cut open part of her bloodied tunic, exposing a nasty gash just above her hip. It was seeping steadily, and Aragorn was trying to quench the bleeding. Boromir could not take this sight in for long and quickly averted his eyes. He spotted a fallen Uruk-Hai to the side, its body full of slashes that were the telltale mark of Aragorn’s neat bladework.

“What happened?” exclaimed Gimli, who was the last one to rejoin the group, after Legolas and Pippin. All were now surrounding Aragorn, willing to know what had befallen their Lady companion and to be of help. But the ranger did not respond immediately and instead gritted his teeth in quiet frustration.

“One of them spotted our hiding place,” Samwise stammered. “We called out to you lot, but you were engaged in the fight and the clamour was so loud…” The young hobbit trembled. “Lady Joanna wanted to give Mister Frodo a chance to run, she did!”

“… and I got here too late,” finished Aragorn. “Blast it, she’s losing blood!”

Everybody in the party held their breath, as it became apparent that the ranger was about to give his prognosis. Boromir would pray to the Valar in that moment, but for his recent crisis of faith. He no longer believed the so-called Powers of Arda could be of help in this, or in any other matter close to his heart. That, of they simply did not care for the fate of mere mortals. He briefly wondered if the Ring’s magic could somehow heal her, but he dared not ask this out loud. No! He shook his head as if to get rid of that thought. Aragorn would tell us if the Ring could be of help in this, he reassured himself. Alas, they could only rely on the mundane skills of the quiet ranger and Boromir supposed he had to be grateful for even that much.

“I will bind her wound for now, so we can move, but I will have to stitch it properly, and soon, if she is to have a chance,” said Aragorn finally. Boromir released a breath and saw others relax as well. So, she had a chance. He would take what hope he could have from that. Aragorn got down to work promptly, putting pressure to her wound and binding it with bandages, with the aid of fumbling Samwise. Boromir understood that his job at that moment was to make sure the ranger could work in peace. He was startled when he realised that he had forgotten to retrieve his sword from the battlefield, so he went back to the site of the fight to rectify that without delay. Gimli and Meriadoc joined him on the watch, as he cleaned his weapon and monitored the perimeter, glancing over in Aragorn’s direction from time to time. Legolas, however, remained by Aragorn’s side, watchful, growing seemingly more and more tense. That boded ill, Boromir knew.

“We truly cannot remain here, Aragorn,” said Legolas after a while. “It is not safe. I can hear more of them crawling around in the woods, tracking us even now as we linger.”

“Good thing I am done, then,” said the ranger, as he tied the last loose end of the bandage. “This should hold for some time.” He stood and waved the party over. “Legolas, you run ahead and scout for a spot where we could set up camp,” Aragorn commanded with ease. “Boromir, will you carry Joanna, so I can mind the trail? Try not to jostle her too much. Gimli, you guard the rear and make sure no one sneaks up on us.” By that point in their journey it came naturally for them to follow the ranger’s lead, so the party promptly assumed order.

Boromir picked Joanna up the gentlest way he managed and propped her head on his shoulder. He supposed he could pretend she was just asleep if he really tried, but even then the ghastly pallor and her laboured breathing would give away her grave condition. If he could kick himself without tripping, he would. And then kick again, and maybe punch himself, for good measure. Just how could I let that happen? He had thought she and the Ringbearer would be safer in the forest, away from the skirmish, and apparently so had Aragorn. Well, they had thought wrong.

If only it weren’t for the accursed Ring and the foolish plan to bring it to Mordor! he thought bitterly. Once again, he vowed to himself that he would bring the Ring to Minas Tirith and end this madness once an opportunity arose. He chose not to dwell on the fact that doing so would antagonise his comrades, whom he had come to regard with warm feelings and great respect. Maybe he could convince them, sway Aragorn’s judgement… But he had tried that already, and failed. His guts twisted unpleasantly with guilt. Enough about the Ring! There were more pressing problems at the moment. He looked at Joanna’s pale, dewy face and his heart trembled. And what if she doesn’t… Boromir couldn’t bring himself to finish that thought. He focused on following the ranger’s footsteps through the forest and minding the path under his feet, to make Joanna’s journey less uncomfortable.

The march in search of a safe camping spot was passing slowly and every moment was torture. The skin on Boromir’s back crawled, as he fought off the grim thoughts threatening to overwhelm his mind. No one was talking for fear of attracting unwanted attention. Even the ever cheerful hobbits were in gloomy moods, exhausted after the fight and worrying over the party’s safety. Gimli marched beside Boromir and took to touching Boromir’s elbow from time to time in silent reassurance, likely seeing his distress. He would not be so friendly if he knew my heart, Boromir thought, but he was grateful for the gesture all the same, because it helped him resist despair for a little while longer. She will survive this, he would repeat to himself time and time again. Finally they saw Legolas approaching from the path ahead.

“Come quickly, my friends!” the elf signalled them, “I’ve found a sheltered place that will serve us well.” Boromir’s shoulders sagged with relief, but he saw Joanna grimace in her sleep at the movement, so he promptly adjusted his position again.

They followed Legolas, and before long arrived at a small ravine between bulky rocks. The entrance to it was partially concealed by low hanging spruce branches. Boromir carried Joanna into the ravine, careful to avoid the trees’ needles, and set her on the ground. Aragorn was upon her again in an instant, and Sam kneeled down to assist him.

“Boromir, Legolas, could you fetch water?” the ranger ordered absentmindedly and started recovering some obscure herbs from the pouches in his backpack.

Boromir would rather stay at Joanna’s side, and not to lose sight of the Ringbearer if he could help it, but the elf tugged at his arm, and he dared tarry no longer. He and Legolas gathered the canteens from everyone and left the camp in search of water. Their trek was silent initially. Boromir had no idea where the elf was leading them, but he was likely following the murmur of a stream from afar, because his steps were sure.

“Aragorn will mend her,” said Legolas after some time, unprompted. “No need to brood so much.”

Boromir gritted his teeth. “I am not brooding,” he said, and immediately felt embarrassed at how silly he sounded.

“You are consumed with worry, my friend, and you look dreadful” said Legolas to that, in a cheerful tone that somewhat belied the bite of his words. “At this rate, when she wakes, she will faint again from terror when she sees the state you are in.”

“Oh, go fuck a tree,” Boromir snapped. Legolas chuckled at first, clearly glad that his prodding got a reaction, but then grew serious.

“I might just do that,” the elf said and nodded solemnly, then continued walking on the path ahead, leaving the Gondorian flabbergasted. Damned elves and their weird ways and their stupid word games. Most of the time Boromir couldn’t tell if Legolas was being serious or pulling his leg, and he certainly was not going to start seriously pondering whether the Edhil could indeed couple with trees.

When they finally arrived at the stream, Boromir had to admit that, all in all, Legolas’s tomfoolery managed to wrangle him from his bad mood somewhat. He felt the fog gradually lift from his mind. They quenched their thirst first, then Boromir washed away the grime of battle from his head and his hands, while Legolas stepped into the stream with his bare feet and splashed for a little in childlike glee. They both immediately felt better, and the tension dissipated somewhat. They returned to the campsite in companionable silence amidst the creeping dusk that brought the night’s chill with it.

Back at the ravine it became apparent that while they had been gone, the hobbits had been busying themselves with chores. While Aragorn had worked on Joanna’s wound and Gimli had stood watch, the halflings had worked to remove debris from the ravine’s floor and prepared a space for the Fellowship to set down their bedrolls. Boromir and Legolas unburdened themselves and reported to Aragorn. He was just finishing binding Joanna’s midriff with a broad bandage. Boromir resolved to look away to preserve her modesty.

“I have stitched her wound,” said the ranger, “and she bleeds no more. But she has lost a substantial amount of blood. Still, I am almost positive she can make it through the night with our help.”

Hearing that, Boromir was ready to cry with relief. The ranger reached out his hand and Boromir passed him one of the full canteens. Aragorn carefully poured a few drops of water into Joanna’s mouth and massaged her throat to make her swallow. He repeated this a few times, and then stopped and covered her with blankets.

Then he addressed Legolas. “What’s the situation in the woods?”

“Orcs are still about. I could hear them from afar on our way from the stream,” said Legolas. “They are not too close, but they could be drawn here if we are not careful.”

“We cannot risk fire, then,” said Aragorn, as he sank deep in thoughts, frowning. Boromir observed the man keenly, and, to his surprise, Aragorn looked right back at him, with a strange expression. For a second he saw something like a smirk chase through Aragorn’s face and disappear momentarily. Boromir’s trying to deduce the ranger’s thoughts was cut short, as Aragorn announced the evening meal. “We’ll have to make do with dry rations tonight,” he said. Immediately he and Boromir had to shush and appease four whining hobbits, who were decidedly not happy about having to forgo a warm meal.

Samwise compiled a meagre supper - bread, cheese and some vegetables. Each of the Fellowship took their share and they munched together in silence. It was getting chillier as the night swiftly approached, and the party started preparing for bed. The hobbits huddled together in a small hollow at the back of the ravine, a bit secluded from its entrance chamber. The big folk set out their bedrolls in the main space, where Aragorn had earlier organised the healing station for Joanna. Boromir decided to finally ditch his bloodied surcoat as he prepared for sleep, and donned a woollen tunic that he had been carrying in his backpack for the colder weather. He sat down to sort through his things, hoping to find a brooch to clasp it with…

“Boromir,” said Aragorn quietly, as he sat beside, “you and Joanna must share a bedroll tonight,” he announced without much ceremony.

Boromir felt as if someone dumped a bucket of hot water under his collar.

“Pardon?” he said, and his voice sounded pathetically squeaky. He felt his face grow warm and he was suddenly thankful for the darkness. He hoped that Aragorn would drop the issue hearing his indignation, but the ranger persisted.

“She has lost blood, her circulation is weak at the moment. Without a fire she will certainly lose too much warmth during the night, especially come dawn, and run a fever,” he explained patiently. “One of us must sleep near her to fend off the cold.” Aragorn paused and then added, “It should be you, because out of us four I figured she would object to your closeness the least.”

That she would prefer him, and that Aragorn acknowledged it, made Boromir feel warm inside. At the same time it did little to reduce his mortification.

“That makes it more inappropriate, not less,” he groaned.

“Oh?” said Aragorn, this time not even hiding his smirk. “And which one of us would you rather took your place?”

Legolas chuckled. Boromir wished the elf would stop doing that. Joanna was a Lady, it was unfair and improper to laugh at their predicament. Then again, properly, we shouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place, he thought angrily. At the same time, Boromir had to admit, a distinctly unpleasant sensation uncoiled in his stomach at the thought of either of his companions cuddling with Lady Joanna throughout the night. It wouldn’t be right. He could not let that happen, he decided.

“Very well, I will do it,” Boromir drawled.

“I thought as much,” said Aragorn dryly and patted his shoulder. “You take the first watch and let her rest in the meantime. When the time comes, wake me and I’ll help you arrange her on your bedroll.” Aragorn paused and looked Boromir in the eyes. “Do not worry. This is for healing purposes. You are a gentleman, all of us will be here, and one will be on the watch at all times, and so it will be right proper,” the ranger declared with finality.

Is he reassuring me, or lecturing me? … Or was that a threat? Boromir decided he was better off not knowing. He was very much tempted to respond with something snarky, but instead opted to just nod. Suddenly bone-tired, cold, alone and at the mercy of his anxieties, desires and regrets, Boromir sat at the entrance to the ravine and commenced his watch.

✦✦✦

When the time came, Boromir quietly woke Aragorn up. He lay down next to Joanna, and then Aragorn turned her onto her good side, and propped her head on Boromir’s chest, so that she was snuggled to his side and held in place by his arm. Aragorn nodded, satisfied, and covered them both with a blanket.

“Remain like so, and try to get some sleep,” he ordered. Then the ranger took his place by the entrance to the ravine and began his vigil.

Boromir could feel more than hear Joanna’s unsteady breathing, as her soft body was pressed to his side.

Think of unappealing things, Boromir commanded himself. Like… orcs. He thought of how orcs walked. How their blood would splash when he would cut them down with his sword. Wait, that was actually not a little satisfying. Orcs eating the flesh of their victims, then. Oh, that was indeed mighty unappealing. Like Gollum. Boromir thought about the creature’s loony eyes in the dark, about its slimy skin wrinkling over measly bones. He was determined for his thoughts to stay as pure as could be, so he would be able to look Joanna in the eyes when she would come to her senses.

When have I started to think of her like that , Boromir wondered. What did it? Was it the way her flaxen hair would dance in the wind? The healthy glow, the softness of her skin? Was it her sharp wits? How she would often challenge him in unexpected ways… Or was it her kindness? Her capacity for understanding, which had been his saving grace during this journey many a time?

Not for the first time, his mind betrayed him. Unbidden, thoughts and images flooded his consciousness. What if instead of this orc-infested, Valar-forsaken forest, they were in Minas Tirith? In Boromir’s quarters in the Citadel… In his bed… They would be safe from peril, washed, fed and well rested. The Ring would be tucked safely inside Boromir’s shift, and Joanna fast in his arms. Perhaps it wouldn’t be their first night spent like this. He felt his blood warming. Perhaps it could be one of many such nights. It would all come true, if I could but secure the Ring, end this mad quest and this senseless war…

But no! She would not stand for it… Boromir’s throat clenched. Joanna believed in the Fellowship’s quest, she’d been vocal in its support. Would she hate him, if she knew his mind? Would Aragorn? Would Frodo? Such thoughts were almost too painful to bear. Why must Valar test me so? Boromir asked silently. Alas, no answer came.

At least I have this moment, he thought, feeling a bit pathetic, but he could not help it. He let himself savour her warmth and listened to her quiet breathing, which had turned calm and regular. Even if she was unconscious, and even when he was valiantly trying to ignore the images that were coming to him unbidden, prompted by the prolonged physical contact with the woman who held his heart, there was something about Joanna’s quiet presence that soothed Boromir’s nerves. Gradually, he abandoned the thoughts of the Ring, of his conflicting loyalties, and of the loss and drama that likely awaited him. Being near her, having her like this, it turned for Boromir into a silent, meditative moment of respite, one for which he was infinitely grateful. He didn’t even notice when sleep overtook him after the day’s exertions and adventures.

✦✦✦

Boromir awoke startled when Joanna stirred in his arms, her breathing turned erratic, and he could feel her tense and jerk. Is she plagued by bad dreams? he wondered. He hoped she wasn’t re-living the attack from yesterday in her nightmare.

“Shhhhhh,” he tried to calm her, and instinctively squeezed her lightly with his arm to hold her down. It made her hiss in pain and he quickly relaxed his hold again. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

“Boromir?” she asked weakly, “what is happening?”

For a heartbeat Boromir wanted to sing. She was awake! He could kiss Aragorn right then and there for stitching her up yesterday and applying his weird weed to her wounds. Or, better yet, he could kiss her, for coming back to him. Then he regained awareness of his exact current position and the delicate task of breaking the news to her, which he was now facing.

“Joanna, you were wounded and we set camp for the night… and I… and Strider…” he forced himself to halt his panicked blabbing.

She paused her stirring. Her head was on his chest and he realised that she could likely hear how fast his heart was beating. Was she confused? Afraid? Appalled? Or… was their closeness welcome to her? The uncertainty of her feelings fuelled his anxiety.

“Boromir, why are we…?” she asked slowly, very deliberately leaving the question open ended. Her small hand tightened around a fistful of his woollen tunic.

Boromir was no stranger to women, and there had been a time in his life when he had even considered himself well-versed in their ways. Alas, perhaps due to all the recent pressure he was subject to, in that moment his wits failed him. He blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

“Aragorn made me do it.”

Legolas’ irreverent snort of laughter coming from the next bedroll was his only immediate response.

#lotr fanfic #boromir #boromir x oc #lotr fanfiction #boromir fanfiction #ass deep in demons #tolkien fanfiction #[arda]#[wandering birds]#joanna the emlinn

86 notes · View notes