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sotwk · 2 months

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Taken (Eomer x Reader) - Part 3 of 3

Part 1 / Part 2

Summary: After having his proposals and professions rejected by the woman he loves, Éomer still refuses to be dissuaded. He vows to continue fighting for a future with her--even if that means having to let go for the time being.

Word count: 6.7k

Dedicated to anyone who has ever known the pain of loving someone you could not have. <3

Content: Boromir lives (!), angsty romance, declarations of love, jealousy, mutual pining, class division, shield-maiden, Éomer King, Rohirrim OCs, post-RotK, non-canon pairing

Rating: T (Teens and up)

Warnings: Sensuality gets steamy, but nothing explicit. Mentions of old battle injuries.

To Read on AO3: Link

Taken

PART THREE

Third Age 3019 May 6

Minas Tirith, Gondor

“If you would allow me to propose something your Grace, I--”

“Éomer.” The King of Rohan growled the ungentle correction with an irritated shake of his head. “If I have leave from your king to continue calling him Elessar, then I will not abide frivolous formalities from you…Captain. And speak freely! It is your candor that I came here for, as much as your counsel."

Boromir chuckled faintly. “Very well.” He downed the last of the wine in his goblet before picking up the jug to refill it, then reaching across the table to serve his guest as well.

While Éomer took a hearty swig, Boromir used the extra seconds of silence to weigh his next words. The noble horse-lord had done most of the talking since his arrival at the house not an hour ago, rambling on with barely contained agitation that would have frightened or offended anyone unfamiliar with his character. But Boromir had known Théodred’s cousin since he was a child, and while he was not nearly as close to Éomer as he had been with the late Prince of Rohan, their friendship had deepened enough--especially over the past few months--to familiarize Boromir with the trigger points of his temper.

And Boromir had never before seen him more sensitive about a topic than the matter they had at hand.

Love certainly wields such terrible power over a man, the Captain-General of Gondor mused, before clearing his throat.

“I will gladly fulfill your request of watching over her in your absence, making sure she is well-treated and wants for nothing,” he began. “But a soldier can quickly grow restless without sufficient martial exercise.”

“I agree.” Éomer leaned forward to fold his arms across the table. “Has she not been here long enough for your men to grow accustomed to seeing her at the training grounds? None of them need spar against her or even alongside her if they do not wish to. She would be content to practice drills on her own. In fact, she may even prefer it.”

“My men will tolerate her presence just fine. The valor she showed on Pelennor was well-witnessed, and stories of it have circulated around our garrison,” Boromir said. “I admit she may inevitably overhear crass remarks from some passing boor among the citizenry. A woman warrior still remains an oddity in these parts. But I am sure she did not come to her status without learning how to weather such criticisms.”

“Yes.” Éomer stared at the empty goblet he rotated slowly between his hands. “She has had to bear with a lot of ignorant talk over the years.”

“Which is why I propose taking her as a member of my company while you are away. Just temporarily,” Boromir added quickly, noting the immediate change in the horse-lord's demeanor. “It will help her feel more at ease while here, separated from you and her countrymen, if she had a group to belong to.”

“She has already taken a strong liking to your Aerdis. Which, I must confess, took me by surprise.”

Boromir smiled at this, his fool heart ready to burst with joy at every casual mention of his betrothed. “My lady is an easy one to love,” he said simply. “And indeed, the two seem to enjoy each other's company. I am certain Aerdis would be happy to continue acquainting her with all of her treasured haunts within the city and even beyond its walls. But…”

He rubbed his jaw slowly, ever the unconscious tell of his discomfort with the situation at hand. But it was no use dancing around the real counsel he wished to present to Éomer King. “When it comes to daily labors, a shield-maiden will likely be happier with work better suited to her talents.”

Éomer cocked an eyebrow, clearly undeceived by Boromir’s attempts at off-handedness. “What sort of work? I sense you have something specific in mind.”

“I do,” Boromir admitted. “And I shall explain it to you plainly, although I will first say that it is both a suggestion and a request for a favor.” At this point he considered offering Éomer another refill of his drink, but the deepening scowl on the man’s face made him think better of it. “As you may have heard, I have been charged by King Elessar to lead the delegation that will treat with the Southrons. Sadhar has already come forward with an offer to parley, as soon as next month.”

Éomer’s eyes widened; he caught on even faster than Boromir had expected him to. “And you wish to include her in your delegation?”

“With your approval, yes.”

“You do not have it!” Éomer exclaimed. “And how could you propose such a thing?! Have you forgotten how she was so nearly dragged off by those animals to be taken who knows where for purposes I dare not even think of?”

“Are you really asking that of the man who came to her aid?”

It was a risky move to prod at that wound, but Éomer looked properly chastised by it. “You rescued her,” he conceded. “And for that I shall eternally be in your debt. But I cannot pretend to understand why you wish to involve her in any dealings with Harad.”

“You must see why I thought of her,” Boromir insisted. “You, who can personally attest to what she is capable of.” But Éomer continued to look too distraught to think, so he laid the rest out. “I can count on the fingers of one hand every person I know who can speak a Haradric dialect with reliable accuracy. Half of them died in the war.”

Éomer rose abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair in his state. Muttering indistinctly, he turned his back to Boromir to glare out the nearest window and brood at the rain lashing against the glass panes.

“When Théodred used to boast to me about her, I dismissed it as a mentor's pride in his fanciful protégé,” Boromir continued. “I suppose I too allowed myself to be distracted by her sex. But she really is a hidden gem in your Éored, is she not? Your cousin invested in her training with great thoughtfulness, and it has borne fruit marvelously. He really believed--”

Éomer slammed the heel of his hand on the window frame. “Théodred was not the one hopelessly in love with her for so many years! There lies the difference!” he snapped. “So when you ask for my consent to take her to meet with our enemies, consider that you are asking me to risk the life of the woman I absolutely refuse to live my own life without!”

And while Boromir reacted with silence, he stood there, breathing hard, one fist on his hip and the other hand pressed over his forehead. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. “The wine, I…and I have scarcely slept since--”

Boromir waved off the apology. “I understand your agony well. It was not long ago that I lived through the same, and just mercifully survived to a happy end. I am on your side, Éomer. I know politics and duty might make the lines difficult to discern, but I hope you can believe that.”

“I believe it.” Éomer made another weary swipe of his hand across his face. “At least I think I do. Too many things are changing too quickly, and I fear a failure to keep in step shall result in my simply being dragged along behind everyone else like an unhorsed sot.”

“Then maybe there is wisdom in her request to stay behind and out of your way. The time apart may provide you the focus you need to regain your footing.”

The tired lines on Éomer’s face tightened again. “And why must time apart involve setting her on a perilous road?”

“The mission carries little chance of peril. Peace talks, even with Harad, are nothing compared to everything she has survived to get this far. You know this.” Éomer brushed past Boromir to return to the table, but the captain’s frank reproach pursued him. “Separation from her is what you dread, not the Southrons.”

So furiously did Éomer scowl at the table surface that for a moment Boromir thought he might turn the heavy shelf over in a fit of rage. Instead he seized the wine jug, poured himself a gobletful, and drank it in two forceful gulps.

“I had hoped you could give me counsel on how I might change her mind, and convince her to simply come home,” he finally said. “Perhaps even quell her doubts in the future she can have with me.”

Underneath the anger and frustration, Éomer’s raw misery lay bare to Boromir, and suddenly he felt a swell of compassion for the young king. Would that he could offer a swift resolution to his predicament, instead of mere commiseration for the challenges that still lay ahead.

“However hard it is to hear, separation is the soundest advice I can give you today,” Boromir said. “Time and distance are most effective at calming the storm in one's mind, so that the heart may have its chance to be properly heard. Many have learned this from experience, myself included. I believe it shall be the same for your lady.”

Éomer's shoulders heaved in a ponderous sigh. “If only it did not feel like such a gamble.”

Boromir could not help a chuckle. “Then I regret I must tell his majesty, that you cast your first of many dice the moment you let her take your heart. But in the end, you shall be the one to decide how much you are willing to risk, and you alone decide when you are done.”

The anguish that resurged on Éomer's face was almost a relief to Boromir. The King of Rohan was wise enough to already know the graver half of the truth: that his new throne was in many ways a cage, and there was very little a good ruler could afford to risk in pursuit of his own desires.

* * *

“Take the names of any fools who might give you trouble,” Léodor said, unhooking the reins of his horse to start leading it across the muddy yard. “I can sort them all out on our return.”

You laughed as you followed him to the edge of the farmland property, marked by the scorched ruins of what had once been a granary. “Do you really think I could wait that long without sorting such fools out myself?”

“Anyone with the gall to harass a rider of the king’s Éored deserves a second dose of thrashing, or a third or fourth.” Your friend turned to grasp your forearm and give it a firm squeeze. “Although I sincerely hope these men of Gondor would know better, for their own sakes.”

“They are our allies, now more than ever before,” you reminded him. “And I have every confidence in their courtesy and hospitality.”

“Perhaps if you were less of a recluse and better at making friends, I would not worry so.”

Your knuckles barely grazed his sleeve as he darted away and promptly swung up to the safety of his saddle, chortling and calling, “You are only proving my point, sister!”

“Waste not a thought or care on me, and focus them all on your family!” you retorted, and stepped back as he spurred his horse forward. “Westu Léodor hál!”

You watched him gallop off across the plains of Pelennor, back to the distant towers of the White City. Tomorrow, he and the rest of the Éored would finalize preparations for the greatly anticipated journey home. But as soon as he heard that you had been tasked with staying behind, to remain with the body of Théoden King, Léodor alone took the time to come looking for you.

Whatever his suspicions regarding Éomer's selection of you as the one to leave in Gondor, Léodor spoke nothing of them. He was content to spend his entire visit sharing the cask of ale he brought, and talking your ears off about all the things he planned to do with his wife and son and infant daughter upon their reunion.

How far your relationship had come, you mused, as you watched the shrinking speck finally melt into the shadows of the deepening twilight. With him and with the rest of the men in your company, when you had once sworn, in tears hidden, that they would never accept you. Now their departure would sting as though you had been orphaned for the third time.

It is only for several weeks, you told yourself, to ease the weight of doubt that sat upon your chest. As you turned to walk back toward the cottage, a fierce wind rose and ripped off the cloak that was loosely draped over your shoulders. With a startled cry you grabbed for it, but not quickly enough to save it from landing in a large puddle.

You retrieved the soaked fabric from the mud with a sigh. A fat raindrop landed squarely on the top of your uncovered head, and was immediately followed by another and another. Spontaneous rain had been pouring on and off over Gondor since the King’s coronation, and you heard the locals welcome and praise this tumultuous weather as a blessing, a sign of war’s filth being washed away to cleanse the lands for rebirth.

Shielding your eyes from the sudden deluge, you looked up at the roiling clouds overhead, further entranced by the sight of jagged lightning flashing over the White Mountains. But when your gaze dropped back down to the horizon, you were alarmed to notice a horsed figure crossing the fields through the storm, approaching fast, in your direction.

It was him. Without proof of his face or voice, or even the support of logic, you just knew. It was him.

The very thought of that froze you, mind and body, in place. Pale and immobile and increasingly drenched, you stood like a deeply rooted tree while the rider drew closer and closer, on a horse powerful enough to sustain its determined gait over the sodden ground and lashing winds. Dumbfounded and dazed, you remained, until at last he came to a stop just several yards away. He dismounted Firefoot, his heavy boots squelching in the muck, and that sound snapped you to your senses.

“My lord,” you rushed forward with the soiled cloak twisted uselessly between your hands. “The stables are around the back. Let me take Firefoot there while you get out of this rain.”

“I shall stable him,” Éomer said sternly, but not unkindly, to warn you against arguing. “Go and wait for me inside the house.”

Without speaking another word or sparing a backward glance, you obeyed your king. You shut the cottage door behind you to keep out the ill weather, hung your wet cloak on a peg, and crouched by the warmth of the fireplace to dry off as best as you could. You kept your jittery hands busy feeding the flames with more wood, but your mind refused to be calmed as easily.

What is he doing here?! The agreement had been for you to report to him the following day, to receive in full detail your last set of orders before the entire Rohan contingent departed. Éomer had granted your request to stay behind quickly enough, and with so little argument that you had hoped perhaps the issue between you was settled, at least for the time being.

If he was not prepared to completely abandon his fatuous notion of asking you to marry him, then time apart would surely set his mind back to good sense. The Éomer you knew could always be trusted to do the right thing. You clung firmly to this thought while you waited the agonizing minutes for him to return from the stables.

As soon as he entered, you offered him the last clean towel you could find to dry himself with. He raised his eyebrows at your attempt to give him royal treatment, but graciously swiped the cloth several times over his face, neck, and hair, before tossing it over the back of a chair.

“So this is the place.” He peeled off his riding cloak to reveal clothing underneath that was just as soaked as yours; he may as well not have bothered with the outer garment at all. “You said it belonged to Lady Aerdis’s late…uncle?”

“A relative of sorts,” you said. When you confided in your new friend your wistful desire to be housed outside the city, where you could have more quiet and solitude, she had been quick to offer the empty cottage in near Pelennor that was recently willed to her by deceased relations. “There are things I can work on to help restore it while I am here. Even my meager skills will serve a farm better than sitting on my hands in the city barracks watching everyone else in their labors. I wish to remain useful, and do my part in the rebuilding.”

“I understand. You have explained all that, and well,” Éomer said slowly. “But regretfully, I must rescind the permission I granted for you to live outside Minas Tirith. You can stay here for the remainder of this week, to rest and do as you please. But afterward, I would like for you to go back to the city and remain there until my return.”

You bit back a protest, determined, now more than ever, to reaffirm your position as his servant. “May I ask what I am to do there, then?”

“Lord Boromir petitioned me to loan you to his company, and I granted it. He shall assign your duties, and you will take your orders from him while I am gone.”

Although it surprised you to hear this, it was a welcome prospect. Of all the men in Gondor you liked and trusted Lord Boromir the most, having known him since you were just a girl, albeit not intimately. This would provide an opportunity to improve on the connection. “Lord Boromir honors me with his request. And as always, it shall please me to do as my king commands.”

Éomer responded to your formal pledge with a weary sigh. He braced his hands on the back of the chair in front of him, and the way his knuckles whitened in the tightness of his grip, while he searched for his next words, did not escape your notice.

“Make no mistake, this command does not align with what I desire,” he said thickly. “Leaving without you violates every instinct in my body, but if that is what must be done to make you see reason, then I shall bear it.”

“Reason?” you repeated stiffly. “What conclusion are you hoping I might come to?”

Éomer raised his eyes from the floor to meet yours across the room. “I know you believe that putting distance between us may somehow alter how I feel about you. But I in turn believe the time apart will help you accept how deeply in love you are with me.”

The heat that flooded your face burned through your mask of composure. “I am not--”

“Enough.” The sadness that bled into that single word made it a plea instead of an order. “I did not come to reopen discussions on the matter. Especially not if denials are all you have left to say to me.”

“Then pray tell, what has my lord come for?” you challenged him behind your icy courtesy. “How else may I serve you, Éomer King?”

The hurt that crossed his face came on so suddenly, looked so profound and real, it was as though you had physically struck him. He stared at you in a dead silence, and you forced yourself to hold his gaze while you held your breath, guilt sinking into your gut from the knowledge that you were the wretch who had gone too far.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. “Clearly there is nothing more to say, other than farewell.”

He picked up his cloak, turned, and left, leaving you utterly dumbfounded, staring at the door that slammed shut behind him.

The longest seconds of your life passed before your shock and indecision were overcome by a wild hysteria that made your entire body grow cold.

You leapt for the door and wrenched it open, and stepped into the downpour in time to see him vanish around the corner of the house, heading back to the stables.

The loss of him from your sight smashed through your bravado, and you cried out into the storm.

“Éomer!!”

Before you could grasp your reasoning for why you did it, or what you planned to do next, he reappeared, every footstep leaving puddles as his approach backed you up into the cottage. His eyes bore down at you, his expression now guarded and inscrutable and expectant. Gusting wind drove in sprinkles of rain through the door left open and ignored.

I am sorry. The whisper sitting on the tip of your tongue was smothered by a hostile inner voice.

Let him go. It is your duty. It is what’s right.

But your stolid face collapsed under the weight of your anguish. A grimace squeezed out the tears that blinded your eyes, finally betraying your shameful truth. I do love you, Éomer.

Gentle fingers settled lightly over your lips, stilling their feeble quivering. A voice even warmer and more tender than this touch eased your struggle.

“I do not need words. This is enough.”

As the hardened pads of those fingers brushed across the plane of your cheek, you closed your eyes and at once forgot all else that existed. Such was the power of his touch that for years you so vigilantly avoided, until that fateful moment of weakness after the coronation exposed your secret. That moment could never be undone, no matter how hard you tried to bury the truth now.

Éomer murmured your name, his breath warm on your temple, and then his hands stilled where they lightly cupped your face. In that pause lay a question, and the last time you answered it, you had hurt him. Foolish liar that you were.

“Yes.” The whisper passed from your lips to his as his mouth wasted no time seeking yours. You clasped your hands around the back of his neck, urging him closer as your own hunger surged. You felt the tremor that ran through his shoulders when you slipped your tongue against his. How could you have ever chosen to cause him pain, when you could have given him this instead?

He broke the kiss to let you catch your breath, but nuzzled your chin upward to gain access to your neck, so his lips could continue their quest to the hollow of your throat. You gasped at the scrape of his teeth on your collarbone, then moaned when he remedied his offense with reverent strokes of his tongue. His arms wrapped fully around your waist, pulling you greedily against him, fingers threading and tugging at your hair as he moved his worship to your shoulders.

But it was your touch, the scrabble of your hands over his hips and stomach as you held on to him for balance, that elicited a low growl. In just a few hurried steps, he backed you to the furthest corner of the cottage, until the side of the bed hit the back of your legs.

Your name was still the only thing he could utter, muffled in between the kisses he could not stop lavishing on every bit of your skin he could reach. Your hands found their way to his hips again, this time sneaking underneath the wet fabric that clung to his torso, then brazenly gliding upward, past his belly to the taut muscles of his chest, high enough for your thumb to circle his nipple.

An ungentlemanly word suddenly rumbled from Éomer King's throat, so startled was he by the sensual touch. Within moments his shirt lay discarded on the floor, your back made contact with the mattress, and there he was, leaning over you, bare from the waist up to your hungry eyes. You gave yourself an extra second to appreciate the sight before hooking a hand over his nape to yank him back into a kiss. The fervor in his response left you writhing and whimpering and completely vulnerable in your weakness.

A deep haze settled over you as you began to lose yourself to the pleasure of his ministrations. With every inch of you, you wanted this, and the way your body reacted to his every action, shaking in desperation for more, would surely tell him that. And yet… yet as you felt his fingers grope for the fastenings of your dress, felt his palm brush the back of your knee to your thigh, felt his hardness press against your hip… something inside of you jerked in reawakened panic.

“Éomer. W-wait.”

So soft was the protest, you were not even sure you had said the words aloud. But almost immediately, Éomer stopped and pulled back. He took one look at you, your disheveled state, and whatever expression lay on your face, and he sat up fully, turning away, dragging your heart out of your chest with him.

“Éomer, please. I am… I just…”

“No, I understand and I agree. To carry on would be unwise.”

He rubbed both hands roughly over his face, shaking away the stupor induced by his desire.

“All these years I have ordered the men to give you the respect you are due. I cannot risk your virtue or reputation now, however long I have wanted this. Wanted you.”

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. “You are my King, and it is my duty to protect you and your reputation. We must behave prudently.”

He nodded, but still looked so pained you could not help but lift your hand to try to soothe the scowl from his face. He angled his head to kiss the inside of your wrist.

“I will have you,” he muttered, his diverted gaze making it seem more a promise to himself than to you. But when he turned his eyes back on you, the wanton lust pooling in them stirred the heat in your belly. “I will wait for the right circumstances, however long it may take, but I will have you.”

He rose and walked a few steps across the room, perhaps in need of distance from you. As he stood closer to the fireplace, the light illuminated a view so rarely seen by anyone, many people in Rohan had come to believe that Éomer was simply hale and hard of body beyond the limits of mortal men.

The numerous scars that decorated his body testified to both his fragility and his strength. Many of his wounds had been tended to by you on the battlefield, carrying terrible memories that were now also moments of pride and achievement that you shared with him.

Éomer seemed to feel your intent gaze upon him, and he stretched out a hand to you, beckoning you to rejoin him. As soon as you were within reach, he wrapped his arms around you again, drawing you against him, sighing contently as your touch drifted over the bare skin of his chest and shoulders.

Your hand moved with intention, skimming down to his lower abdomen, probing carefully for the large scar you knew sat just below his ribcage. That injury was less than two years old. It still amazed you how it had managed to heal with little issue, under the constant strain of the many violent battles Éomer fought in since.

So close. A chill ran through you as the memory rose unbidden: you pressing down hard to staunch the bleeding, screaming for someone to help carry the barely conscious Marshal to the nearest shelter, where you could safely attempt to clean and suture the wound. If the orc blade had sunk in only a fraction of an inch deeper, it would have been beyond anyone's power to save him. You came too close to losing him that day.

Eomer's lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he interrupted your reminiscence with a whisper. “How can you still doubt that we belong together, when already you are part of me?”

Your fingers passed over several other scars from injuries you had tended to over the years, and came to rest over the tattoo on his upper right arm. The black dragon curled around the edge of his shoulder was identical in design and location to the mark borne by every rider in your Éored. Your possession of that dragon mark bound you to Éomer intimately, but also defined your role in his life. Sharing his bed, or even being with him just once, was not your place.

“None of these give me any right to claim you,” you said softly. “You must still marry. And it is your duty to marry well.”

He caught your elbow as you started to move your hand away, and guided it back to slide over his waist, to rest over the scar once more, willing you to hold fast to the memory it carried, and hold fast to him.

“What does it mean to marry? Is it not just the giving of one's entire self--mind and body, heart and soul--to another?”

He hooked a finger underneath your chin, urging your downcast gaze to rise and meet his.

“How am I to dispose of things that are no longer in my possession? I have long been taken, solely and utterly, by you.”

And with that gaze he set upon you, you wondered: how many glances must have he given you in secret all these years, with eyes that burned with something more than the devotion of one comrade-in-arms to another? What willful blindness had you clung to for years, for you not to have noticed it?

“I must fulfill my duties to Rohan, this is true. But not even a king can be asked to do the impossible.”

“But to wed a great king to a lowly servant--” You shook your head. “Many would argue that is the real impossibility.”

A new expression akin to anger flashed across Éomer’s face. Before you could wonder what you might have done wrong, he dropped to his knees before you, both knees, his hands wrapped tightly around yours.

“My lord!” you cried, aghast that he would debase himself, even in private. You tried to force him back up, but he would not budge.

“Never speak of yourself as lowly again,” he admonished. “King or peasant, there is nothing more lowly or humbled than a man so wretchedly in love, as I am with you.”

“Éomer…” You sank to the floor with him. “If only things were so simple. I wish it could all happen as you say, but I just do not see how. I do not know what can be done.”

“Let me hold your love for a while longer, and wait for me,” he said gently. “That is all I ask. The rest is mine to accomplish. As long as your heart is mine, and I know you have given it to me freely, I will fight for my right to keep it.”

You felt his grip around your fingers grow tense in the long seconds of silence that followed. At last, you brought his knuckles to your lips, kissing the hands you adored with such devotion.

“When you leave, you shall take my heart with you,” you whispered into his palm. “But I fear it will be a greater challenge than you believe, to keep others from wresting such an unsuitable offering from your hands.”

“They may certainly try, if they wish to test me.” The ice in his tone unsettled you, even though that veiled threat was certainly not for you, while the warm caress on your cheek was. “Not for a moment will I appear unclear or undecided when it comes to my intentions towards you. I will never make that mistake again.”

“B-but the Council of Eorl. The lords…”

“They answer to the King,” Éomer interrupted. “Do not privileges, as well as duties, come with this crown? Trust me. Please.” He bowed to rest his forehead against yours. “While we are parted, I will prove to you that it can be done, that I will do whatever I must to marry you, and to honor and protect you thereafter.”

“Marry?” you murmured. The idea still seemed no more than a ludicrous fantasy. But then Éomer kissed you again, deeply, as though determined to memorize the taste of your lips, urging you to focus on the present moment.

Because he was yours, even if just for that night. Even if by dawn, it could all crumble under the pressures of the world outside these walls. Éomer loved you, and held you in such high regard to want you as his wife and queen. You would swear to anyone that this knowledge alone was already a dream fulfilled.

And yet. If you were brave enough to hope, maybe…just maybe, this would not be the last impossibility to come true for you.

* * *

They do not know. Hundreds of Gondor’s citizens bearing streamers and flowers lined the streets of Minas Tirith that morning to join King Elessar in sending off the departing Eorlingas. But it occurred to Éomer how strange it felt that none of them had any awareness of a matter that was not only monumental for him personally, but carried significant consequences for all of Rohan.

Soon that will change, the young king vowed to himself. Soon his Council will hear the truth, and afterward all of Rohan, and then the rest of their allies. But for the moment, discretion--no matter how bitter the pretense tasted.

No one except for Lord Boromir and his betrothed, the lovely Lady Aerdis, who both stood next to her, understood what truly lay underneath the courteous gestures exchanged between the King of Rohan and his shield-maiden. A simple bow, an exchange of a few words, and a locking of gazes that was all too brief. Had they not spent that one evening together, Éomer would have remained trapped in the false belief of her indifference towards him. The memory of her kisses would have to suffice for a while, and he could only hope he had given her enough to remember him by, as well.

He brushed the edge of his hand over his lips just as he turned away, and forced his feet to carry him down the line of assembled well-wishers.

A noticeable hush descended on the crowd of onlookers as Éomer came to the end of the road where, closest to the ruins of the Great Gate, the King of Gondor himself met him, flanked by none other than Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and his only daughter.

“Lady Lothíriel.” As Éomer took the hand she courteously offered him and brushed a kiss on her fingers, he became aware of the wan smiles that surrounded them, and the unsubtle tittering of a few ladies watching. “Your presence this morning is an unexpected and most delightful gift.”

Lothíriel was astonishingly beautiful indeed, with such radiant grace and sweet smiles, that it would not have surprised Éomer if many citizens of the White City came out just to catch a glimpse of her. “I wish you, Lady Éowyn, and all your men a safe journey, your Grace,” she said. “And may you have great success in your labors, so that we can soon celebrate your speedy return.”

“You are kind, my lady. I certainly hope for the same,” replied Éomer. “We leave behind treasure beyond price here and shall be eager to return for our own.”

Two Rohan lords had already swooped in to engage Imrahil in quiet conversation, and only stepped aside when Éomer himself approached to exchange farewells. Éomer’s admiration for the Prince only grew the more he learned about him and spent time with him, but the unabashed thirst of his counselors for Dol Amroth’s friendship irritated him. Yet another issue he intended to settle in the ordering of his House’s affairs.

Finally, Éomer came before Elessar, who embraced him tightly and honored him with a bow, from one king to another. “Worry not, my brother,” the man once called Aragorn said quietly to him. “I shall see to it that they are cared for, these ones whom you so dearly love.”

He smiled at the look of mixed wonder and apprehension on Éomer’s face, and dipped his head in another show of reassurance and of farewell.

With that, the Rohirrim set off on the North-way in a procession over a mile long, accompanied by the fanfare from the people that continued to line the road stretching across Pelennor. Countless flags in a multitude of colors and sigils from the different regions of Gondor fluttered in the air, and from every direction, enthusiastic cheering and waving followed the Riders across the fields.

At the head of the procession, behind his standard bearer and with Éowyn at his side, Éomer quickly fell into a brooding silence that did not escape his sister’s notice.

“I truly did not think I would ever see the day when the two of you would be willingly separated,” she said lightly. When Éomer looked at her with raised eyebrows, she shrugged. “I am sure you have good reasons for choosing her to stay behind with our uncle.”

“Many reasons,” Éomer grunted.

Éowyn regarded him thoughtfully. “Has the time finally come when you would allow yourself to be open with me about these reasons? And the other concerns weighing on your mind and heart? It is just you and I now, Éomer,” she said softly, stretching out her hand to him. “I may not have uncle’s experience or Théodred’s cunning, but I love you beyond words, and would do anything to see you happy. Let me help you.”

Éomer smiled at this, and reached over to take her hand and squeeze it. “Perhaps I can aspire to the happiness you have found with Lord Faramir.”

“Having my affections stolen by a High Man was not what I aspired to,” said Éowyn, trying to look annoyed but unable to hide the blush on her cheeks. “But love, it seems, is the wildest beast of all. It will not be tamed, or bridled, or even reasoned with. It goes where it wills. Éomer…” Éowyn’s sweet face turned stern. “You have suffered enough, and have been forced to carry so many burdens, not least of all our uncle’s crown, which I know you never wanted.”

“It is my honor to take the throne in Uncle and Théodred’s stead,” Éomer said firmly. “And why do you make assumptions about the things I want?”

“I know who it is you have wanted, for a long time now,” Éowyn said with a stout confidence that took Éomer aback. “You are discreet, brother. But I have watched you and looked out for you, more closely than you realize.”

Éomer shook his head. “I am still learning the many ways I have been underestimating you, Éowyn. Soon I shall believe myself unworthy of your care or help.”

“Someone has to care for you, during the frequent times you would not.” Éowyn glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still out of hearing range of the rest of his Éored. “Especially now that you have left her behind.”

Éomer pressed his lips in a tight line and returned his gaze to the road ahead. “I will be back,” he said. “There is much to do in Rohan before then, but with Uncle waiting in the Hallows, I can hardly afford to dawdle or delay.”

And she is waiting. Éomer caught a glimpse of his sister’s suppressed smile that told him she had already thought the same thing. Another person with strong opinions to contend with.

Éomer spurred Firefoot forward to signal the standard bearer, who promptly blew one quick blast on his horn. As the King took off in a steady gallop, the thunder of hooves rose behind him as nearly a thousand other Rohirrim picked up their pace to match his, drowning out the excited shouts of the Gondorians that started them off at last to their journey home.

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#sotwk fanfiction #eomer #eomer x reader #eomer fanfiction #rohan #lotr #eomer x you #eomer eadig #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #sotwk fic: taken #boromir

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aspenrockymountainhigh · 4 months

Text

Celeborn was one of the noblest of the Sindar— who wedded the Lady Galadriel of the House of Finarfin and with her, he remained in Middle-earth after the end of the First Age.

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Celeborn was a Sindarin prince of Doriath,being the grandson of Elmo the brother of Thingol; thus, he was the grand-nephew of the King of Doriath.

In the early First Age, Finrod and Galadriel came to Doriath as guests of Thingol. There, Celeborn and Galadriel met, fell in love, and were soon wedded. Galadriel remained in Doriath with Celeborn after Finrod went to the Caverns of Narog to establish the stronghold of Nargothrond.

For the rest of the First Age, Celeborn and Galadriel are not mentioned to have played any significant role in the general course of events of the Age, while their relatives, both Sindar and Noldor, did. By the Fall of Nargothrond in F.A. 495, Galadriel passed over the Blue Mountains so it seems likely that Celeborn followed her although this is not known for certain.

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After the fall of Beleriand, Celeborn and Galadriel lived in Lindon for some time. Celeborn ruled the fief of Harlindon, which was composed mostly of Sindar, under High King Gil-galad.

Galadriel and Celeborn crossed into Eriador with many Noldor, Sindar, and Green-elves in their following. For a while, they dwelt in the country about Lake Nenuial, ruling the Eldar in Eriador, including the wandering companies of the native Nandor. Probably around S.A. 300, a daughter was born to Galadriel and Celeborn, named Celebrían.They departed for Eregion and arrived there by S.A. 750.It was ruled by Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor and the distant half-cousin of Galadriel.

It was only sometime between S.A. 1350 and 1400 that Galadriel crossed the Hithaeglir through Khazad-dûm and relocated there with their daughter Celebrían, becoming great among the Wood-elves.Celeborn decided to stay in Eregion due to his enmity towards the Dwarves.It is said that Celeborn fought in the Sack of Eregion leading the remnants of Eregion out of the battle. He and Elrond narrowly escaped to a dell, where the latter founded Rivendell.

After the War of the Elves and Sauron, Galadriel passed again through Moria with Celebrían and came to Imladris, seeking Celeborn.[8] There she found him, and there they dwelt together for a long time.Some time later, Galadriel and Celeborn departed from Imladris and went to the little-inhabited lands between the mouth of the Gwathló and Ethir Anduin.There they dwelt in Belfalas, at the place that was afterwards called Dol Amroth; and their company was swelled by Silvan Elves from Lórinand.

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After long journeys in Rhovanion, from Gondor and the borders of Mordor to Thranduil in the north, Celeborn and Galadriel passed over the mountains to Imladris, and there dwelt for many years.It was there, in T.A. 109 that his daughter Celebrían wedded Elrond Half-elven of Rivendell.

When Amroth, the King of Lórien, perished in T.A. 1981, Celeborn and Galadriel took up the rule of Lindórinand jointly, and were called the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, the new name for Lindórinand, and together, they built Caras Galadhon.

During the War of the Ring in T.A. 3019, Lothlórien received the Fellowship of the Ring, composed of various travellers on the quest to destroy the One Ring. Celeborn and Galadriel offered advice and boats for the Anduin, sending them on their way. After the Galadhrim repelled the forces of Dol Guldur three times, Celeborn led the forces of the Galadhrim across the Anduin and took the fortress. Galadriel threw down its walls and purified the forest.

On 6 April,that was the Elven day of New Year, Thranduil met with Celeborn in the midst of Mirkwood and renamed it Eryn Lasgalen, "The Wood of the Green Leaves". With the forest now cleansed, it was divided among the Elves and Men; Celeborn took all the forest south of the Narrows and established East Lórien.

Celeborn attended the wedding of Aragorn II Elessar and his granddaughter Arwen, and on the journey to return, he bade a fond farewell to Treebeard as well. He and Galadriel escorted Gandalf and the Hobbits until the Mountains of Moria, and on 13 September they turned to return to Lothlórien.

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After Galadriel's departure, it is believed that Celeborn relocated to Rivendell to reside with Elladan, Elrohir, and some of the Noldor, having also grown weary of East Lórien.

At some unknown date, he sought the Grey Havens and sailed west aboard Last Ship with his mighty kinsman Cirdan the Shipwright, but when he did so, he took with him the last memory of the Elder Days in Middle-earth.

Art by zephyrAMerch

#celeborn #galadriel #lotr

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iamjustaholeforyousir · 10 months

Text

Walk Through Fire For You

part 11 of Look What We Became

summary: life is too unexpected, and blood is thicker than water.

warning: angst, violence, fighting, fire, slightly steamy scene.

word count: 3019

minors DNI

part1 part2 part3 part4 part5 part6 part7 part8 part9 part10 part11

You were sitting quietly at the dining table, with your father and mother, contemplating your whole life, why you thought coming back here was a good idea, you do not know, but what you do know is, calling your husband here was an even worse one, you didn't know what you would say to him, you had not planned this through properly. What do you say to someone who has lied to you, from the very beginning of your marriage? The letter was also not now filled with love. It was true, you had no reason to go back, you weren't the queen, and you had no duty towards that kingdom, yet, except the occasional visits to the town.

Your mother was worried as to why you were back after mere days of the wedding. And your father was happy to see you at first, but then got accustomed to your stay, and everything went back to how it was. The taunts began, the domination, it was all overwhelming.

Though you had never reached out for help, never told anyone outside of the family, never complained to your grandparents when they lived, never told a soul, too afraid it would break the family, too afraid your mother would blame you, too afraid of what your sisters would think. Being the youngest, isn't always what it looks like, it isn't always a joy ride, the most loved child of the family it is all said by some jealous older one, because in his eyes, you remained a young, untamed, bastard daughter, and in your eyes, he remained the object of all your fears.

Even in a crowd of a million people, you could recognize his footsteps, even in the darkest of rooms you could see his disappointment, even in the most joyous moments you could feel his agonizing gaze.

He torments your dreams, and he tortures your conscious, he kills time by pretending to be the father he could never be, the husband he could never be, always doubting your mother, when he himself had a few courtesans, your whole body shakes with fear when he comes near you, you walk out of every chamber he walks in, you do not want to be in his presence, you curse the stars, for they signed you with death when you were born to your father.

Harry was getting ready for the journey, while gemma was sitting on his bed, eversince you had left, gemma had come to stay for a bit, her husband was very understanding, if it were harry, he would let you ourt of sight even for a moment, wouldnt lwt you go anywhere just because someone called you. But since you wanted to leave, stay away from him, he respected that.

The thing he couldnt understand though was “why would she go back to that oaf?” he asked his sister, while he tried to tie his bow.

“Imagine how badly you have hurt her, that she seeks comfort in her monstrous father.” gemma sys, dramatically, and harry turns around to givr her an unammused look.

“You dont understand gemma, he is such a -ugh” harry couldnt find the words to describe a father, who torments his own child. If harry weas ever blessed with children, she would dare lay a hand on then, let alone beat them black and blue!

“Gemma, my older sister, princess, asnd soon to be queen, i make you vitness my vow, i shall protect my wife, Y/n M/N Styles, with my life, against any threat that is ever to come upon her, even her father, i shall do what i must.” he finishes and gemma just look at him, a look he cannot read.

“Do you thing she will be pleased by this oath? Do you think she will believe you care for hr bother?”

“She doesnt have to believe, i have sworn it, and i shall stand by it.”

The carriage is ready, my lord.” britward said

“You are my second most loved person britward!” he screams with joy.

Britward was an old man, who had acted as prince harry’s sitter. Harry had a sweet bond with the man, Britward was more of a confidant that Harry turned to when he needed advice, and Britward would give them in the sweetest of words as if it were merely a suggestion.

“We shall leave now, before it is too late, takes a day to reach them sir. A tedious journey you have chosen,” he says “yet a necessary one.”

“You are right as always Britward, right as always.” Harry says “See you soon, sister,” mocking discipline, and Gemma smacks him in the arm.

“King Y/l/n, a letter has arrived.” says Lucile,

“Go on, read it out then.” your father says, while cutting a piece of pork

“King Y/l/n,

I hope everything is joyous in your kingdom,

I am writing this letter to you, inorder to announce my arrival later this evening. I am to take my wife home after weeks of her staying with you. I hope you have taken good care of her,”

she read out, and your father scoffs

“if it is not much of a burden on you, I would like to stay and dine with you. I shall take my leave early morning the next day. I do not wish to impose myself upon you, but to only converse with you about the woman I am married to, I wish to learn more about her. I do hope you think of my journey as worthy of your time. I wish for your well-being.

Regards,

Prince of Holmes Chapel.”

“Oh this is lovely news! We must prepare for dinner!” your mother said, full of joy and excitement.

“Isnt in punishment enough i am entertaining this deviant that i now must entertain her husband too?”

Everybody went quiet, you father had a talent for ruining moments such as these with his sullen face, and antisocial personality. He often treated those around him with great inferiority, as if the world was beneath him.

“Dinner must be prepared regardless.” he says “That foolish boy wishes to not discuss my daughter but the estate, his father wishes to have it for himself, but I shall only give it to Prince Alexander, he seems worthy of it, and so does victoria, this one here couldn't even keep her husband happy, he sent her back to torment us,” he says

“Torment you?” you ask, and your father raises his eyebrows, that is when you knew it was your first mistake

“Dare you question me? Living as a princess has gotten to your head? Should I smack that attitude out of your body? Hm?” he asks, and you say nothing, lowering your head. If you thought calling your husband was a terrible idea, now you were sure of it. “I thought so,” he says before getting up and leaving.

You sigh, living here has not been easy for you, recently life has not been easy for you.

Getting up you make a beeline to the library, deciding to kill time till your husband arrives.

You were woken up by a splash of water slapping your face, you open your eyes in panic and see your father towering over you. You don't remember when you fell asleep, and you definitely didn't mean to fall asleep, “you are so lethargic, no wonder your husband sent you back. Go make yourself presentable, your husband is already here.”

Putting the soaked book aside, you slowly get up, still in shock, that is when you feel a kick to your back, which makes you fall down, “I SAID MOVE FAST!” you quiclky get up, and start moving forward, head low, when you bump into a hard chest and the smell of sweet-smelling dried leaves hay-like scent, filled you up, looking up in pure terror, you see your husband, staring at your father, with the most hateful look, you have ever seen him give someone.

His hands were behind his back, as if he was holding himself back from just lunging at your father, “apologise.” he says, and you wip your head to face him, but he stares straight ahead, “pardon?” your father says, eyes narrowing, as though prince harry had said something so out of the ordinary.

“I said, opologise.”

You look back at your father ,terrified, “prince harry i-”

“I believe i wasnt talking to you.” he says, but hd never once looked at you.

“You best not be giving me a command boy.” your father says.

“Oh i ought to, when you dont act like a king rather a man with no honor!” he yelled at your father. He yelled. At your father.

“Stay in your limits!” your father says, “in my limits? This my wife! That you so poorly abused! And now you opoligise to her! In fact get down on your kness and beg for her forgiveness!” he says

“Prince harry please dont-” you try,

“She is my daughter before she is your wife! If it werent for me, you wouldnt even have her!”

“I shall count ot three, andwithing thattime constraint if you do not opologise to my wife, i must do whatever i have to in order to protect her honour.” harry says, “what exact will you do! Hm?”

“Prince har-”

“One.” your father doest move,

“What are you doing!? This is ridiculuous-”

“Two.”

“Y/n! If he dares to do anything stupid, you will not be invited back!”

“Three.”

In that momnet, you see your husband walk towards your father, as you try your level best to stop him, hold ont ohis arm, but he just drags you along, his free hand reaches up to grab your father’s coat collar, while the other hand, that you were holding onto, comes down to your father’s face in a blunt punch.

You watch in horror, as your father’s nose bleeds. “Prince harry! What are you doing!?”

Then another, “stop it! Please!” and another “what are you doing please stop!” and another, “you are killing him! Please stop!”

At this point you have left his hands, and are grabbing onto his back, trying to pull him off, “HE IS MY FATHER! STOP IT!” you say, tears streaming down your face, your father’s whole face his bloody, and his body is hanging limp in your husbands hand,

“HARRY STOP IT!”

you scream, with all your might, eyes closed shut.

Then your heard a thud, opening your eyes you see that he had dropped your father’s body to the ground, heavfing, he looked at down at his master piece.

You run to your father, relieved he was still breathing, trying to make him sit up, but he only pushes you away, “you… are…no daughter…. No daughter of ….mine.” he says, but you only shake your head, trying to convince him otherwise, your face was wet with your tears, “a mistake” he says “I raised you…. And this is how…you repay me.”

“What have you done! What were you thinking!” you scream at the man standing above you. But he doesnt answer, only clenches his jaw.

“Your royal highness dinner is serve- oh! Goodness heavens!” a servasnt comes in, and sees you over your father’s body,

“Tell the queen that we will not be staying for dinner.” your husband says, and the servant scurries away.

He then proceeds to take your arm, and pull you up. “We are leaving.” he says, and you don't recognise his voice, you don't recognise this person, standing in front of you, your husband would never hurt anyone, but then again, what did you even know of your husband? He tugs your arm, and leads you out of the castle.

The carriage ride was silent, no one dared to utter a word. You couldn't even look at him, but he kept on staring at you. Your whole body was shaking with fear, this was treason. What you had witnessed was treason. You were a traitor’s wife, your father would never want o see your face again, your mother would hate you, and your sisters, how will you face your sisters after this.

Reaching back to your marital home, you still didnt feel safe, you didnt feel safe next to this man, you once thought you were in love with. He was the true monster. This time you had been in an illusion, he could have murdered your father!

He extended his hand for you to take, but hurry down the carriage, and rush to your room, shutting the doors behind you. Its wasn't a bad idea to call your husband, it was a terrible idea.

Soon enough, you husband was there with you, but you both didnt say anything. He walks closer to you, steadily, cautious, like a predator does to a prey, he lifts your chin up, so that you face him, look deep into his eyes. finding what little courage was left in you, you ask, “why?” but he just frowns in confusion.

“For you”

“For me?” you ask, “you hurt my father for me-”

“To protect you-”

“Protect me!?”

“YES!”

“What were you protecting me from!”

“Him!”

“He is my father! I do not need protection from him!”

“No father treats his daughter like that!”

“He was just frustrated ans nervous-”

“Are you truly defending him?” he asks, as if mocking you

“He will never speak to me again!”

“GOOD!”

“IT IS NOT GOOD! IT IS NOT!” you scream,

“Y/N! HE HURT YOU! HE HITS YOU!”

“HE IS STILL MY FATHER-”

“WHAT FATHER DOES THIS TO HIS OWN CHILD!” harry screams, as he slips the glove out of your hand, revealing the scars on your hand.

And you go mumm.

“Dont you see princess, breaking that bond with your father has set you free?” he says, bringing your scarred hsand up to his face, his soft skin comes into contact with the coarse one of your hand, he kisses it, he kisses over every scar, and for a moment, you get lost in his touch, you let him pull you closer, you inhale his scent, you let him kiss your neck, let his hands slide around your waist, you just let him, not out of fear, not out of love, not out of anger, not out of happiness, you just let him.

Fresh tears start slipping down you face, and he stops. Looking at you, with concern, “are you alright-” but you just shake your head rapidly.

“The king would like to see you.” abigail comes to the room, harry nods his head, rubbing your arm, and leaves you alone.

You drop to the floor, coming undone, your life wasn't supposed to go this way, you were supposed to live happily after you were married! You were so stupid! How could you not see this? Frustration fills your body, anger onwards yourself, towards Harry, towards your father, towards Deborah, you throw a candle against the mirror in your room, and fat tears of fear mixed with anger stain your face, as the candle burns your curtains.

Smoke fills your room, as the fire spreads across your bed and running towards the door, making it difficult to breath, you try to beat it, as you sprint towards the door yourself, but it catches up beforeyou could open them, trapped in the burning room, you scream frantically, for someone to come estignuish it, you ran towards the sofa, god was not on your side today.

After a bit of running around, avoiding the fire you stop, accepting your fate. After today, death seemed like the best option.

“What were you thinking!” his father asked him

“I was not!” he retorted back

“Do you understand that you were married to his daughter not only because of her qualities, not only because we needed you to start acting like a prince rather than a simpering boy, but also to have good relations with other kingdoms!?”

“We have great relations with our neighboring kingdoms! And you are ought to not have any relations with a man like that!” harry says.

“He might be a bit crude, but what even prompted you to raise your hand on the man?”

“I only protected my wife.” they both had clamed down, “if it were you, you would have done the same for mother.”

“What did he do to his own daughter that made you so violent?”

Harry doesnt look at his father, contemplating whether to tell him or not, it wasnt his secret ot share, it wasnt his problem? But again it was bdceause you were his wife and your problems were ought ot be his.

“He kicked her.”

What do you mean- “

That is when Harry hears your screams, and without caring about etiquettes or manners or anything at all he ran towards your chambers.

As soon as he reached the corridor, he could see his door on fire.

Harry froze for a second, he did not know what to say, you werent screaming anymore.

He couldnt hear your voice anymore, you were in a burong room, he might never get to hear your voice again, his fear slowly started turning into panic.

“GAURDS! WHY ARE THERE NO GAURDS!” he screamed, runnig towards the buring fire.

In that one moment, when his body cmae in contact with the fired door, harry did not care for himself, his only concern were you, only thing he was thinking about was you, oh how infatuated he was by your whole being, your existance, you just you.

He pushed the hellish doors apart, to find a brning room. But no sight of his wife.

Frantically looking around harry ran towards the bath.

And there you were, lying on the floor, as the fire fiercely surrounds you.

There you were.

A/N: fuck this, you know what, fuck it, lemme know if we want a next-life rebirth kinda shit.

@strwbrrydaydreams @remuslupinwifee @inlikea-coolway @mypolicemanharryyy @sunshinemoonsposts @stilesissaved @novalunosising @sleutherclaw @dear-mylove @kiy0hime @rafaaoli @st-ev-ie @urmomsksjdjdjsj @lomlhstyles @love-letters-to-uranus @panicattheuc @grace-vega28 @inlovewithfictionalcharacters123 @natykn @ttkttt @missmielyhoran

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brigdrawsstuff · 7 months

Text

We are dying together even as we live apart. The hitching red-tide, rides the hunching wave, like Death hidden in each life. A slinking cloud - moon, camouflaged as a barren nightsky rock, beams down satellite pulses to swell and surge the tides out in the deep below. Ever drawn to the washed-up shores of our lives at sea, rolled and rumbled until smooth as pebbles, we are scattered to die together on deserted beaches. Naïve Life, allowing Death refuge among us as we live apart, only to die together stranded upon a beach buried in the sand, alone in our togetherness.

-Goddo Faggotte

Théodred, Prince of Rohan T.A 2978- 25th Feb, 3019 Boromir, Captain of the White Tower T.A 2978 - 26th Feb, 3019

#boromir #théodred #theodred #lotr #lord of the rings #art #gondor #rohan #borodred #tw: blood #tw: death #apparently I thought this was a good idea

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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

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highdramas · 1 year

Text

don’t you hear me howling | t.m.

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

warnings: language, canon typical sadness, allusions to violence

word count: 3019

summary: you’re a wild thing, unable to be tamed by anyone, least of all tommy. but perhaps he can provide you a safe place to land, if only you would let him.

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i will absolutely be continuing this because yes i am obsessed with this vibe!

you hadn’t been a nice girl in a very, very long time.

if someone asked you if you were a bad person, you’re not quite sure what you would have to say for yourself. is anyone good in the same way that a person could be good in the before times? you, personally, don’t think so. but moral righteousness continues even in the face of an apocalypse, so you suppose that you will continue to have to answer for the crimes that you have committed. crimes that aren’t crimes at all, really– crimes to live. crimes to survive.

tommy miller was a nice man. a kind man. and you should’ve felt worse for the things that he did– the things he did for you. but you don’t.

you hear the familiar knock against the door of your cabin. you’d been on your own for a long time. you originally came from the los angeles qz, and maybe you would’ve been better off there. but time had brought you further east until you had settled in the wood outside of jackson. the winters were cold and the food was scarce, but you got by. and it was better than your alternatives. it was better than tricking and killing and tricking again and killing again, over and over, in the thick of a qz that’s overrun by corrupt fedra soldiers. this was better than any of that could ever be.

but, still. it doesn’t matter how familiar the knock is. you keep your pistol drawn as you open the door. he has a small smile on his face, hands raised. “if you shoot me, who’s gonna bring you this sweet, sweet grub?”

“i would find another sorry schmuck with a savior complex around here somewhere.”

this gets a huff of a laugh and a tiny nod of his head. “i don’t know if anyone else could survive you.”

the spread that he supplies you this week is more than you could’ve asked for. this is routine between the two of you. he brings supplies and you… what do you supply, really? you bring the knowledge that the land surrounding the jackson settlement is protected, you suppose. no one had gotten past your cabin in months. it was mutually beneficial; you’d kill anyone, didn’t matter how nice they were, and tommy never had to know about it. in return, you got their gear. and supplies.

you always wondered what tommy told them. his people, the people back in jackson who relied on him, and relied on you to keep this surrounding land safe, even if they weren’t fully aware of you. you wondered what his explanation was for why he enjoyed these woods so much.

your name had caught on the wind and ridden it; not your true name, but the name that the earth gave you. some say you’re a witch, some say you’re the devil. some say you’re the guardian over these woods. in a way, you suppose all of those are true to varying degrees. you don’t care what they say as long as you get to survive. why do you fight so hard to live? you don’t really know the answer to that question, either.

and maybe your weekly visit from your neighbor keeps you human in a world that’s begging to make you undead and unfeeling.

it was funny, you couldn’t help but think. tommy miller’s penchant for visiting a creature such as yourself. you had no idea that he liked strays so much.

but, oh, he did. he liked you much more than he was capable of putting into words, into justification. it didn’t matter when people in jackson questioned what business he had outside the border; he reminded people that they didn’t need to have all the answers. that some things were better left unsaid.

but were you better left unsaid? sometimes, he gazed upon you and an invitation to his home was on the tip of his tongue. he wanted to tell you how you could be welcomed into a fold, into a pack. you were a wolf but so was everyone else and, yes, they would be wary– but surely not as wary as you would be of them. sometimes he looked at you and it was so easy to imagine how you could sit shoulder to shoulder at a dinner table. how he might like to watch as you settle into a seat for movie night. did you have a favorite movie? might he be able to track it down for you? these are the thoughts that he falls asleep and awakes with. you have become a ghost in his mind, inhabiting every corner of his brain and knocking on his skull, your sirens song in his ear at every hour of the day.

you represented everything that he had tried to leave behind. all of the bad things that he had done with joel– you were still willing to do those bad things, even if they weren’t your first pick anymore. that was your idea of survival. and he doesn’t want to save you, he doesn’t want to rescue you from what you have chosen, even if you tease him about his savior complex.

but there is a piece of him that wants to be with you.

i don’t know if anyone else would be able to survive you. you don’t know, either. your meeting with tommy miller was pure happenstance, was purely born from the fact that you needed a refuge and he had offered it to you. you were nothing more than a feral cat– injured and scared and ready to scratch. but he had learned how to be patient with you, how to crouch and extend his hand and let you go to him. you would’ve died if tommy miller hadn’t found you in these woods. if the elements and your illness hadn’t taken you, someone with the most sinister of intentions would’ve. you lucked out, that day. stumbling upon tommy.

he had tried to get your permission to take you back to jackson, where there was a doctor who could look at you and help you. but you had refused his offer and you had hissed at him to leave you, to take you somewhere dry and sheltered from the snow storm and to leave you there. it wasn’t the way that you wanted to go, but it was better than your alternatives.

but tommy miller, for all of his strengths, is nothing if not a stubborn man. and he wasn’t going to let you go.

when he lead you to the cabin that would become the refuge you know it to be now, when he had left you, you were convinced you wouldn’t see him again. that he was an angel sent from a god that you never believed in to offer you some sort of comfort in those final moments. but when he returned, you decided that this god must enjoy playing cruel tricks on you. perhaps it was a retribution for all of the horrible things you’d done. you deserved it, didn’t you?

those days are a blur. your wound had been infected and had long made you delirious, even if you were still fighting, still trying to scrape together any amount of strength you had to stay alive. but the winter was so harsh and yet you burned so hot. you remember drifting in and out of consciousness, you remember how tommy stayed there with you. how he scarcely left your side. made you eat, made you drink, gave you medicine. all of those things that tommy had done for you.

so, yes. maybe no one else would be able to survive you. but they didn’t see you the way that tommy had seen you. weak and scared, more animal than woman in those days. some days, those instincts still took over, and you were still that feral beast from before. a horse tied to a tree too long, mean like a bad dog, a reclusive jittery cat.

some days, you’re human again, and it feels good.

“i thought you liked that no one else survives me.” you look at him over your shoulder, dunking your fresh tea bag into a mug of steaming water. “that’s why you keep me around, no? so that no one else survives?”

“one of many reasons.”

tommy steps inside and he puts the bags to your dingy table with a plunk. over the course of the past year, you and tommy had really done something with the place. still, when you look at the floors you’re reminded of yourself slumped on it, when the place stank of near-death and medical grade alcohol. but he had brought wood out here and the two of you had built your furniture. he brought things in batches– sheets and pillows and all of the things that you would need to live, to truly live. you had a small gas powered stovetop which allowed you to cook more comfortably than you would’ve otherwise.

it wasn’t ideal. it wasn’t anywhere close to ideal, and if tommy had it his way, he would whisk you away to jackson and you would leave this house behind forever. but it didn’t work that way, and that was okay, too. he’d learned quickly that trying to persuade you of anything was futile.

“well,” you prop your hand on your hip as you watch him. “nice to know that there’s more than one.”

those dark, pretty eyes settle on you. “don’t play dumb. there’s plenty of reasons.”

you scoff and roll your eyes, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture. “sure.” you sit down at the table and gesture for him to do the same. there are only two chairs in this home: yours, and his. “so. tell me the latest.”

it fascinated him, the way that you so deeply refused to live the way he does, yet you’re so intrinsically drawn to it. you know almost every name of every person who lives in jackson. you know the families, you know the couples, you know who has hooked up with who and why they won’t make it official. all of the things that make jackson a normal, real society– those are the things that you beg tommy to tell you of. and, sure, if you were brought face to face with them… you might just snarl.

but this was the thing about knowing tommy. it was so easy to pretend that it’s all just make believe, that jackson is this fictional place and tommy is still just some figment of your imagination. hell, maybe he is. maybe you’ve been in a coma this whole god damn time and god is toying with you in purgatory.

you like thinking that’s not the case. you like whatever this thing is between you and tommy. it feels good.

and so, tommy does. he gives you the latest gossip in town. he’s even found himself in the past year prying more into the business of others because he knows that you’d get a kick out of it. that you’d kick him for not offering more information, so he digs a bit deeper than he might have before he knew you.

towards the end, he says, “and…” he clears his throat and glances down at his interlocked hands. “somethin’ else happened.”

you tilt your head to the side.

“my brother.” he looks you head on. “he came to jackson. came from the east, we were on patrol. shit, if he had come from the west…” he shakes his head and he says what you’re both thinking.

if he had come from the west, you would’ve killed him, without a second thought. maybe, just maybe if he had spit out fast enough that he was looking for someone named tommy, you would’ve spared him.

“had a girl with him. a little girl. he’s trying to get her to the fireflies.” tommy shakes his head. “seein’ him…” he looses a breath. “man. i didn’t know what that was gonna be like, but…”

his eyes find yours and there’s something hidden in your eyes that he finds comforting. it’s like you don’t know how to comfort him, but he can tell that you wish to, and that’s enough. “it was good to see him,” he finally settles upon saying, glancing down at his hands. “it was real good.”

“that’s nice,” you say softly, clearing your throat, setting your mug down. your hands are rubbing at your thighs and this is where you get that familiar itch. that itch that can only be scratched by shutting tommy out, by closing the door in his face and secretly hoping that maybe next time he won’t come by. maybe he’ll get tired of you and you’ll finally have a viable excuse to move on from this cabin in these woods and you won’t have to look back. you won’t have to miss a man who you shouldn’t feel a damn thing towards. but, you resist. “i didn’t know you had a brother,” is what you settle on saying, and it makes tommy’s head snap up in an instant.”

the corner of his mouth turns up, and it’s as though he knows that he has won something, that he has made some sort of breakthrough. you look away because that near-smile is just too damn much and he says, “he’s my big brother. was with him on outbreak day.” he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “can i keep talkin’ about this, or are you gonna run for the hills?”

you scowl and meet his gaze. a million things rest in your eyes and all of them fascinate tommy. how you can be so cruel but so beautiful, so harsh and so cold but so warm and so inviting, almost intoxicating to him. there’s something forbidden about what rests between you, about this secret that he harbors. there are women in jackson who long for his attention, who attempt to grasp it with their hands. but you have his attention by the neck, your fingers putting bruises into it with how hard you grip him. how enthralled he is by you. it would be so much easier if he could fall in love with a woman in jackson. if he could fall in love with anyone who isn’t you, isn’t the witch of these woods.

“i’m not running.” you jut your head up, your jaw set in defiance. “so keep talking.”

and he does. for all of the time that you’ve spent with tommy, there’s not much that you have known about his history. but you learn. over the course of that time with tommy, you learn so much of it– joel and sarah and what their life had been like before outbreak day. what tommy liked to do. what his friends were like. so much is shared and then he’s left sitting there and you’re opening and closing your mouth, and there’s a part of you that wants to spill your own history right there at his feet, but… it’s too much.

he senses it in you. you stand up and you pace back and forth once and then turn to the meager kitchen, your hands gripping the counter. your history swirls around in your head and if you could throw it up everywhere instead of speaking it you would, it might be easier.

tommy is behind you. his hands ghost over your arms and he slowly touches you and it makes your eyes squeeze shut. “what are you afraid of?” he murmurs. “is it me you’re scared of? is that it?”

your stomach turns and you reach up to rub your forehead. “yes. no. i don’t know.” your voice is quiet and broken, and you’re more like the girl you were on that first day than you have been in a very long time.

“afraid of me knowing you?”

and that’s it, isn’t it? he hits the nail on the head because despite your best efforts, despite all of the things that you keep so close to your chest, despite all of the ways that you attempt to push tommy away, he does know you. deeply.

slowly, you nod your head. “terrified.” you look up out the small window, at the blanket of untouched snow. “because how does this end?”

“i don’t know what you mean.”

“do i come with you?” you turn slowly and his hands fall to his sides. he’s struck by this look in your face, the closest to tears he’s ever seen you. “is that it? i come and live with you in jackson? i–” you laugh. “i don’t know if i’m capable of living the way that you live.”

“try.” tommy’s hands go to your shoulders and he jostles you a bit and it almost catches you off guard. “try. for me. can’t you?”

“i don’t know,” you whisper to him. “i’m not good.”

“you think i’m good?” he’s not offended that you flinch when he reaches out and touches your face. his hold is gentle but that doesn’t matter– this is a world of violence, and he’d probably flinch, too. “i’m not good. not even close. but that place gets me closer to good every day.” his eyes bounce around your face. “you deserve to feel good.”

“i don’t know if i do,” you murmur and you shrug out of his grasp, shake him off of you, pretend like it doesn’t mean anything when you both know how much it does. your eyes shine when you stare at him. “and even if i do… i don’t know if i’m ready.”

“that’s alright.” tommy licks his lips and he nods once. “i’m gonna be waiting for when you are.”

it had never been put in such plain terms before. but now there’s a gleam of something in tommy’s eyes– determination. “i’ll wait as long as i need to.”

what is there to say to that? you lean back against the counter, grip it with cracked nails, and nod. “okay.”

#tommy miller x reader #tommy miller imagine #tommy miller fanfic #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller fic #tommy miller angst #tlou imagine #tlou fanfic #my writing

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glorf1ndel · 10 months

Text

You Remind Me of My Brother (~900 words, gen)

For Day 1 of @tolkiengenweek, inspired by the prompt "mentorship." Peregrin Took, as seen through Boromir and Faramir's eyes. Or: the time Pippin kicked Boromir's ass.

Read on Ao3 or below!

In early January of the year 3019, on an outcrop deep in the wilds, Peregrin Took and Boromir spar on the long journey to Mordor. The rest of the Fellowship is eating breakfast, but Pippin is anxious to learn the art of swordsmanship. Besides, he’s already scarfed down three helpings of rabbit. When Boromir knocks the hobbit down for the third time in a row, Pippin almost regrets eating. (Almost.) He leaps to his feet and brushes himself off, ready to try again.

Boromir lands another blow, and Pippin falls to the ground.

“This is ridiculous. I could kick Boromir’s ass,” Pippin whispers to Merry – a bit too loudly, because Boromir himself bursts out laughing and says,

“With a little more practice.”

Pippin swerves around.

“Oh, you don’t think I can do it, can you?” He asks, then bats at Boromir’s leg with his wooden sword. “Take that!”

Boromir, to his credit, collapses, still chucking. Merry rolls his eyes, but he, too, is smiling. Pippin extends a hand to Boromir in triumph, helping him to his feet.

“You have a determined heart, Pippin of the Shire,” Boromir marvels. “In fact, you remind me of my brother.”

“Really?” Pippin beams. “What’s he like?”

“His name is Faramir. He is a good warrior, but what he is best known for among the soldiers of Gondor is his desire to better himself. As a child, he constantly sought our father’s approval. I think he still does,” Boromir says with a sigh. “Our father is… Not the most reassuring man. He appreciates strength, not effort, and he has always gone out of his way to make that clear to Faramir.”

Pippin purses his lips, brow furrowed in thought.

“But what is significant about my brother,” Boromir continues, “Is that he is always striving to do more, to be more. He longs to live up to our father’s expectations, but more than that, his goal is to look in the mirror and feel proud of himself. That’s what makes him a person of quality.”

At this, Pippin nods.

“I think I understand,” he says. “Your brother never gives up.”

“That’s right. It’s why I admire him so.”

“I hope I can meet him someday,” Pippin muses. “And when I do, I’ll tell him all about the time I beat you in a fight.”

“Will you?” Boromir grins. “Then you’d better keep practicing!”

As it turns out, their practices are cut short, and neither of them makes it to Mordor.

After Amon Hen, Pippin mourns Boromir. Continuing the Fellowship’s journey feels wrong when they’ve lost a fellow. Aragorn explains that such is the nature of grief, a hole in one’s life that expands and contracts but never goes away. Pippin has never felt an emotion as big as this before –

Until he gazes into the Palantír and sees the Eye, and he understands fear. Pippin tells the enemy nothing, save for a constant plea to get out of his head. (And a few choice curse words.) Still, the disappointment in Gandalf’s eyes is evident, so when the wizard insists that Pippin travel with him to Minas Tirith, what can the hobbit do but oblige? Besides, Pippin is curious about the capital of Gondor, and it’s not the same sort of curiosity that drove him to look into the Palantír.

Minas Tirith, Pippin thinks, was Boromir’s home.

When Pippin meets Faramir, he sees the truth of Boromir’s words: his brother is determined, and their father, the Steward of Gondor, doesn’t appreciate him. Gandalf doesn’t know what possesses Pippin to pledge his allegiance to Denethor, but Pippin sees the sad look in the man’s eyes, and Aragorn’s words resound inside his head: grief never goes away.

The war goes on. Pippin continues to train. He walks beside Faramir as Guard of the Citadel, and he befriends this man whose gaze is an echo of Boromir’s: softer, but fierce at its core.

Then the siege of the city begins, and Denethor goes mad. Pippin stands in the funeral chamber, unsettled. He knows what it’s like to feel an all-consuming feeling – but when he sees Denethor climb onto the pyre and the guards drag Faramir’s body into the chamber, he realizes that something is wrong. For Pippin can see the rise and fall of Faramir’s chest, weak though his breathing is. Would Denethor take himself and his only living son to the grave?

“No,” Pippin sobs, clawing at Denethor’s robes. “Don’t do this to yourself. He’s alive – he’s alive!”

Pippin is promptly kicked out of the chamber, but he doesn’t yield. Gandalf will know what to do,he thinks. Sure enough, with the wizard’s help, Pippin rescues Faramir. They are unable to do the same for Denethor, and the sight of him on fire, running toward his own destruction, burns itself into Pippin’s mind more deeply than the image of the Eye ever could.

Days pass. Pippin does not leave Faramir’s bedside until he wakes. The hobbit has been more loyal to Faramir than anyone else in the man’s life, save for Boromir. Yet Pippin still does not expect it when Faramir opens his eyes, smiles at the sight of him, and murmurs,

“You, Peregrin Took, remind me of my brother.”

Pippin laughs – he even cries, a little – and then he says,

“Well, then. Let me tell you about the time I kicked his ass.”

****

Thank you for reading. ♡ If you'd like, leave a comment or kudos on Ao3, or like and reblog this post!

#tolkiengenweek #lotr #lord of the rings #pippin took #peregrin took #boromir #faramir #gandalf #denethor

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melpomaen · 5 months

Text

Tagging system notes so I remember to go retcon the whole blog eventually

Names

Steal AO3's system and stick them all in the same tag to get past tumblrs dumb first 5 tags rule. Characters that I write more have all their names written out. Government name characters whose names aren't specific enough to immediately be determined as Tolkien characters or share a first name. Ex:

#Maenod | Pietunto? | Melpomaen | Figwit

#Glorfindel | Laurefindil

#Rúmil of Lorien (as opposed to #Rúmil of Tirion)

#Merry | Meriadoc Brandybuck

#Samwise Gamgee

#Lindir

Ship tagging format: #ship name | name/name

Also skirts around the first 5 tags matter bs. Maybe add the name X name format too. Ex:

#RúMel | Rúmil/Melpomaen (putting their government names in the tags after for blog searching)

#Halindir | Haldir/Lindir | Haldir X Lindir (?)

#Glorestor | Glorfindel/Erestor

Tolkien categories

Broad strokes:

#Tolkien Fanfiction

#Tolkien Shitposting

#Tolkien Headcanons(?); wherever all hcs, metas, and close readings go

#LotR | The Lord of the Rings #Silm | The Silmarillion #The Hobbit

Still figuring out tagging culture & race & location specific hcs. Maybe something ridiculously long like #hcs; race | culture | subdivision(s) | location if necessary

#Noldor hcs? #Eldarin hcs?

#headcanons: The Last Homely House; Rivendell | Imladris (?)

Timeline Shit / Verses

#headcanons: Avari; Penni; North River Community | Lothlorien (?)

Format: #Annals | AA (Age) YYYY (year) Month DD (if known/applicable)

day Figwit is found: #Annals | TA 4248 June 21

Still figuring out verses. How to tag shit in line with my friend's verses? All of these tbd:

#Main!Verse | Canon

#Oracle!Verse Compliant (?)

#blogname Compliant (?)

Format: #Verse | time period/arc?

General: #v: main | The Scribe of Imladris

Elfling!Mel: #v: main | The elfling of Imladris

Hobbit: #v: main | The Hobbit?

LotR: #v: main | The Lord of the Rings?

Travels 3019 onward: #v: main | wandering east of the sea

#v: living history | here I shall remain until the breaking of Arda

#v: out of history | and so he followed his people West

#v: Third Age |

#v: Fourth Age | a new day will come

#v: Silm |

Crack: #Figwitposting | Crack

Figure out aesthetic shit.

Better tag for #About Mel / #Mel likes

The Last Homely House; Rivendell | Imladris

RP shit

#//OOC | Out of cheesecake

#//(Out of character commentary on writings)

#RP | open starters

#mailbox | writing prompts(?)

#mailbox | ask games(?)

#mailbox | answered(?)

#RP | starter calls

@melpomaenofimladris

#//ooc | out of cheesecake #blog maintenance #tag system

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theelfmaiden · 1 year

Text

"A sword rang as it was drawn. 'Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.'

'Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!'

Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. 'But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.'"

- the Battle of Pelennor Fields, March 14-15th 3019 T. A. ...

... aka "why not to celebrate Tolkien Reading Day with smth that happened ten/eleven days ago" me thinking 🤔

Anyway, Happy Tolkien Reading Day folks!!! 📖⚔️🐎

#i shall finish this once i am not confined to use a microwave oven to take photographs with 🌟 i wanted to put smth nice out 😅#tolkien #tolkien reading day #lotr #lord of the rings #rotk #the return of the king #battle of the pelennor fields #éowyn #éowyn of rohan #dernhelm #fan art #my art #joli's art #traditional art #sticky note art #sketchy doodle

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nittroy · 1 year

Text

In anticipation,, a bit about this blog

You might have seen my art and been wondering wtf is happening in it. Well, tbh sometimes I also have no idea. But most of the time it's my OCs from one of my stories!

This blog is like a larva… It's just been lying there but soon enough it will just stir and become the strange creature: a blog for both serious long posts about my story and some absolute shitposts.

I want to do this post to talk a little bit about the process behind the stories I'm planning to tell: how they were created at first, what are they called, and how I'm gonna try and organize this blog! :D

Below is a long post with me talking about my stories and what I plan to do with them!!

DOZENS OF ASPECTS

"Dozens of Aspects" (or DA) is the main story that I'm currently working on. It's a detective fantasy story set in space!! It's also got lots of fantasy science and cosmic ace lesbians.

The supposed form for it is an illustrated book. The stage I'm at — character designs & script preparation!

It takes place in the year of 3012 in the cosmoopera-like universe, and the main characters are scientists who work with anomalies. One of them, Eli makes a particularly strange acquaintance (well, tbh, they kinda randomly adopt a kid. He is called Kayleigh and he has a secret. A secret anomaly friend...)

That gets them on a trail of a pretty strange series of events…

It's a story about different societies, plants, flowers' memories, red skies, and many other strange things... There's a detective story that has a complicated plot and shows life inside some of the planets in this universe.

Funnily enough, originally it was supposed to be a prequel to the DLG (the next story this post tells about), but the plot grew so complicated this story became its own thing. I've been working on DA for like 4 or 5 years now, but I haven't done much, as a couple of years of work have been taken from me by depression and health complications… Right now I have finally started somewhat digging the vibes again and, hopefully, I'll be able to progress with it soon! :D

Main tag for this story: #da_nt

DOPPELGANGER

"Doppelganger" (or DLG) is the next in line after the DA story, it follows the life of one of the main characters - Kayleigh. In DA they were 12 yo, and DLG tells about their adulthood after the DA events.

Supposed form of the story — maybe a comic? Or also an illustrated book? Idk I need to write DA first. The stage I'm at — idk I just draw OCs from there sometimes :D

(No, the tattoo-ed person is not grown-up Kayleigh, that's Qiyong, she is just very hot so I love to draw them A LOT) The events take place at 3019, Kayleigh, now grown up, goes back to Alta-Costar, one of the cities where DA events took place, to dig up more info. He makes some new friends and meets some older frenemies… And btw also there's a revolution boiling up in Alta-Costar.

While DLG is kinda frozen at the moment, it has the coolest cast of characters and immense vibes, so I still feel like drawing it sometimes... ;w;

Main tag for this story: #dlg_nt

GREAT LIVES

"Great lives" (or GL) is a story (it is frozen for now) that happens in the other corner of the same universe as the other two stories. It's a series of cosmic road-movies following one spaceship captain and her new alien girlfriend. Just fun and gay stuff.

Supposed form - a comic? Also illustrated book? Idk!! I haven't been working on this story for a while but one day I will!!!!

Old art!!!!! Not finished art!!!!! ARRRRRrrrrrr

Fun fact: I've invented GL when I was like 12, and I felt that this story can be REALLY COOL, but I'm not cool enough to tell it yet. So yeah, about 7 years later, I'm still waiting to become cool enough. But the main characters already went from a messy triangle to an nb lesbians polycule, so I think we are getting somewhere-

Main tag for this story: #gl_nt

That's all for now, hopefully, I'll work out the tag system here and will be able to post some lore soon! Other tags I have for now: #my art / #my OCs- for art on acc, as usual #generallore_nt - info for all stories, a bit about their universe maybe #kbnq_nt - Kayleigh, Benji & Niquole, very specific part of DA and DLG + name tags for characters that will appear later!

#ocs #original character #original story #DA_nt #DLG_nt #GL_nt #my art #my OC info #generallore_nt #my OCs #kbnq_nt

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sotwk · 3 months

Note

Not to give you two asks in the one day but I always find it interesting to consider which elves stayed or went to the Undying Lands but sadly most of my 'real life' friends do not have any opinions on Thranduil staying or going. I find the idea of him leaving really interesting (how long does he stay? how easy/hard is it for him to leave? what makes him finally decide to go? how does the rest of middle earth/his people respond?). I think it really makes sense in your au for him to go (not that I know much about it) to be reunited with Maereth and his sons. For me, I've always thought that he would stay because I think he wouldn't necessarily mind living on in a different Middle Earth the way other elves might and also stubbornness. (Also I subscribe to the theory that Legolas's mother is alive and well, which very much changes things).

This is a very long and rambling way of saying that I'm glad to hear your take on Thranduil leaving/staying in Middle Earth because it's a topic that has always interested me and also would you ever write him and Maereth reuniting in the Undying Lands?

SotWK AU Headcanon: Thranduil's Fate in the Undying Lands

A Thranduil headcanon I feel very passionate about yet I feel does not get enough mention in fan writings, is the depth of his suffering and the true extent of his losses during the Third Age.

Certainly, Mirkwood gets a happy ending when it survives the fall of Dol Guldur and is reinvigorated into the new kingdom of Eryn Lasgalen. But it took Thranduil nearly everything he had to get his people there.

Putting aside the deaths of his most beloved wife (grievous enough to cause lesser elves to fade) and two of his sons, the Elvenking battled against Sauron and his minions from TA 1000 to 3019. In the SotWK AU, the death of his wife in TA 2793 meant at that point, he had already lost half of his family, and been forced into underground halls, his once proud people turned into refugees on their own lands.

Yet he always picked himself back up and continued to protect just not Mirkwood, but also their allies in Dale during The Battle of Five Armies. Then, he sent his last remaining son to The Council AND thwarted Sauron's invasions into Mirkwood during the War of the Ring.

Yes, Thranduil is perhaps the most enduring elf in Middle-earth, but centuries of holding fast against corrupting darkness and suffering would be enough to take a toll on anyone. We Thranduil stans like to point out that he did not have the advantage of a Ring of Power. So what powers did he lean on? His own!

By the time the "happy ending" is achieved, Thranduil is just as badly beaten and bruised in spirit as the ringbearer Frodo. Look at it this way: Frodo carried the One Ring for about 18 years (the last year being the Quest) and suffered unspeakable pain as a result, and was never fully-healed again.

Thranduil, whose spirit was tied to Greenwood the Great, used his inner strength and innate "magic" powers to guard it as best as his could and prevent Sauron himself from overwhelming that entire forest for 2,000 years. In my mind, Thranduil turned his very self into a shield to protect the Elves of Mirkwood against the Darkness, to prevent every last one of them from being hauled off to Dol Guldur where they would be corrupted into an orc army. (Which isn't to say this did not happen to some unfortunate Silvans throughout the Third Age.) The point is, the Elves of Mirkwood still had enough quality of life to hold merry feasts in a Valar-forsaken forest, and Thranduil had to have paid a steep price for that. He HAD to have been SO TIRED. But he carried on.

At the start of his rule, young Elvenking Thranduil might have declared he was prepared to live in and rule the Woodland Realm forever. But that was not his destiny.

As that quote we love so well goes:

“I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo. "So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

Thranduil needed to retire to the Blessed Realm to achieve healing and rest, just as much as Frodo and Bilbo did. And of course, to reunite with his beloved wife and sons. THAT is his happy ending--in my mind and AU, at least.

How long does he stay?

Thranduil sails on the Last Ship with Celeborn, Círdan and (pardon the spoiler) Gelir, the last of his sons to leave Middle-earth. The date this last ship sails is unidentified in Tolkien canon, but takes place at least after FA 171. Why?

A neat SotWK timeline event for you: In honor of his wife Maereth's love for the Durins and his family's friendship with the Dwarves of Erebor, Thranduil led an army to assist Durin VII in the Retaking of Khazad-dûm. Thranduil and Maereth shared special memories of Khazad-dûm, and Thranduil was actually moved to tears to see those halls finally cleansed of orcs once more.

How easy/hard is it for him to leave? What makes him finally decide to go?

200 or so years was more than enough time for Thranduil to ensure that Eryn Lasgalen was properly re-established under the kingship of his heir, Aranion, son of Mirion. His granddaughter, Anariel, had committed to staying with her brother in Middle-earth and helping him in his rule. The Silvan people were in excellent hands.

Thranduil's daughter-in-law, Itarildë (eager to reunite with Mirion), and his son Turhir, had already sailed to the Undying Lands in FA 61, on the same ship as Samwise Gamgee. Legolas left with Gimli in FA 120.

By the time the Last Ship sailed, Thranduil was more than ready to go and join the rest of his family in Aman.

How does the rest of Middle-earth/his people respond?

The people of Eryn Lasgalen deeply loved Thranduil, and were of course sad to see him leave. But they also knew their King had suffered long enough and missed this wife terribly, and they wished only joy and healing for him, especially after everything he had endured for their sake.

Farewell feasts were certainly held, to allow friends and allies from across Middle-earth--Gondor, Dale, Rohan, the Shire and Khazad-dûm--to pay their respects to the great Elvenking.

I have no specifics, but I know that his departure from Middle-earth was forevermore commemorated in a great annual feast in Eryn Lasgalen.

Would you ever write him and Maereth reuniting in the Undying Lands?

Well, seeing as writing just this headcanon post got me all misty-eyed and punched in the feels, I suppose I could write that reunion story once I'm able to gather the emotional strength for it. XD

Thank you as always for this superb Ask, Ace Reporter @hobbitwrangler! <3

Elves HC Tag List: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @achromaticerebus @acornsandoaktrees @aduialel @asianbutnotjapanese @auttumnsayshi @blueberryrock @conversacomsmaug @elan-ho-detto-elan-15 @entishramblings @freshalmondpandadonut @fizzyxcustard @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @glassgulls @heilith @heranintomyknife23times @ladyweaslette @laneynoir @lathalea @lemonivall @LiliDurin @quickslvxrr @spacecluster @stormchaser819 @talkdifferently6 @tamryniel @tamurilofrivendell @warriormirkwood