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snow-dragon-rider · 2 days

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This is beautiful and funny and heart wrenching and just so spot on! I absolutely love it!!!

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

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

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

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

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

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

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

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

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

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

He reached the top of the stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

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

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

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

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

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

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

“Boromir!”

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

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

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

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

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

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

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

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

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

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

Boromir dropped to his knees.

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

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

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

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

Boromir wanted to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

His palm was smeared with oil.

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

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

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you lost, little one?”

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

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where has he been?”

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

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

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

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

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

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

“Does he know what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

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

“I know,” said Boromir.

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

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think so.”

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

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

#boromir lives au #lotr fic

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snow-dragon-rider · 27 days

Text

So glad you’re back and all is well with the little one!

Also this is definitely one of my favorite chapters now! Love it!!

Ode to Artists Pt 3

Part (3) of Ode to Artists, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Heya! I've finally given up being able to type on an actual computer, so I'm mostly writing on my phone now (formatting this post was a pain 😆), but at least that means I get to sneak a couple minutes of writing here and there! I should be sleeping, but instead I'm going to waste way too much time on here because there's over 400 reblogs in my draft folder I've been meaning to get to... also, Tumblr is still unfollowing people for me, so that's fun... gonna try to fix that now. Love y'all!!

Warnings: sexual tension, mild pstd

WC: 3,095

The streets of Alderaan weren’t made for soldiers. They were made for scholars and artists and children rife with an eagerness to spend their lives in the pursuit of joy rather than victory. I kept waiting for harsh looks and rude gestures, for shop keepers to close their doors and what few guards monitored the streets to follow us with rifles ready, but we were met with none of the prejudice so often harbored toward the clone army. Our armor instilled neither fear nor anger in those around us despite how it marked us as everything their peaceful ways preached against, and part of me fell in love with them for that.

“Wrecker…” Hunter called once more, impatience drawing his brother’s name out in a weary groan, and I felt my lips pull into a wide grin upon turning to find the towering man wandering toward a stall doting dozens of various treasures from delicate pastries to wooden puzzles, helmet perched atop his forehead. His lips bunched in something just shy of a pout, limbs dragging in clear reluctance as he forced himself back to his position.

“We’ll have time to check everything out after.” The Sergeant reminded him in a sighed apology.

“Yeah, yeah; I know.” Wrecker responded morosely, and my breath caught in a quiet chuckle.

“Given the average size of this event, it would likely take several days to see it in its entirety.” Tech corrected.

“Days?” I asked, turning to him in shock. He glanced toward me only briefly before letting his attention return to the growing crowds around us.

“Correct. While only locals are granted authority to sell goods here, the festival has become so renowned that most every artisan on the planet participates.” I glanced around once more, marveling anew at all I saw. It was easy to imagine that the majority of the venders stretching out atop roads dusted in the first crystalline veneer of fresh snow had flocked from distant systems eager to monopolize on a heritage that meant nothing more to them than a chance to earn credits, but to learn that only those born and raised to truly appreciate the meaning behind the event could sell wears created from passion in the stead of capitalism again left me stunned at the innate beauty that shown through this world and its people.

That beauty wasn’t limited to their customs and architecture. I’d barely noticed the city in our initial approach. Each massive structure was designed to mimic the striking breadth of sharp peaks surrounding them, allowing the manmade buildings to nearly vanish among the landscape lest they tarnish the natural splendor of mountains coated in snow so pure the shadows looked nearly sapphire in the dimming light of the evening sun. Even from orbit, there had been no spiderwebs of light marring the pristine dance of blues and greens beneath the delicate lacework of opal clouds swirling about the atmosphere, and the want to cherish that beauty, the willingness of these peoples to trade military prowess for art no longer felt quite so foolish.

“This is the place. Fix your helmet, Wrecker.” Hunter stated as he veered away from the main path toward arched doors of elaborately etched transparisteel leading into one of the impossibly tall buildings. The room within was no less elegant. Ceilings decorated in sprawling images and symbols stretched several meters overhead supported by grandiose marble columns lining the central walkway.

“Tech, what are” Before I could ask for some history of the overhead designs, a warm voice filled the lobby.

“Ah! You must be the renowned Clone Force 99!” Even from afar, I could see the kindness in his eyes. There was a pride about him. It showed in the gliding movements of unrushed strides carrying him across the gleaming tile floors, in the lightness of his welcoming gesture as his arms flared out in greeting, but that pride carried none of the haughty superiority that had nearly become synonymous with those of his standing. It was the softness in the set of his shoulders, the absence of that need to keep his chin raised that he might never see the ground he trod upon; it was from the unfaltering gentleness of his smile that I found myself so willingly robbed of what reservations I’d held toward those with such a pompous title.

“Senator Organa.” It was easy to forget the endless roles Hunter had to fill, but to watch him slip so effortlessly from older brother to Sergeant left me standing just a bit taller beside him. “Sounds like Commander Cody warned you about us.” Organa’s face lit with a friendly laughter, unashamed of the lines it drew atop sepia skin that was clearly no stranger to such joy as his hands fell to rest atop his stomach, fingers twining loosely together.

“He certainly did!” He replied, again letting his words carry boldly through the near empty room. “I trust there’ll be no need to worry about your reputation during your stay?” He teased.

“Our mission success rate is unparalleled among the GAR.” Tech objected, and I had to steel myself to keep silent in the face of his offence.

“As is the tendency for your missions to become… complicated.” Hunter let out an amused huff at the Senator’s prodding.

“Given the kind of missions we usually take, I think that only proves just how well we handle ourselves when circumstances… change.” The subtle boast in his response wasn’t lost on the man before him, and Organa let out a hearty chuckle. “I’m not anticipating any excitement tonight, though.” He added, head dipping slightly.

“On the contrary!” The Senator boomed, “I expect tonight to offer plenty of excitement! Though not, I hope, the variety you all seem used to.” Wrecker’s attention seemed to pique.

“You mean there’s somethin’ more goin’ on than people sellin’ stuff and makin’ speeches?” He asked.

“Oh, I won’t ruin the surprise.” Organa’s nearly black eyes twinkled with glee before drawing a quick breath and leaning back slightly. “Now then, Sergeant, I believe you and I have business. Meanwhile, I’ve had rooms prepared for you all. I understand you’ve had a particularly challenging few weeks, and, while a comfortable bed and good food don’t fix all of life’s woes, they certainly don’t hurt.” His gaze landed pointedly on me as he spoke, and I felt my chest tighten at the uncertainty of just how much he knew.

“That’s… unnecessary, but greatly appreciated. Thank you, Senator.” Hunter replied after a beat too long of silence, and I belatedly nodded. Organa merely offered a soft smile before turning to lead Hunter away.

“I could get used to this!” Even Wrecker’s voice barely carried into the hallway as he eagerly vanished through one of several doors lining walls adorned in shimmering tapestry and flowing architecture.

“Think you’ll be able to fall asleep on a real bed?” I asked Echo, immediately earning a scoff.

“I’m more worried I won’t be able to go back to sleeping in the hammock.” He retorted, gaze wandering around the entrance to his room a moment before treading in.

“Given Crosshair’s new sleeping arrangements, it would be logical for you to simply take his bunk.” Tech replied absent a moment’s hesitation or hint of scandal, but I instantly had to trap my lips between my teeth in a vain attempt to stifle the heat creeping up my neck.

Turning purposefully away from the grin I knew would toy with those lips upon noting my undeniable blush, I quickly approached my own room, unsurprised at the sound of footsteps following just behind me.

“Not worried that they might have hidden cameras?” I asked, glancing back to watch Crosshair set his bucket atop the half-wall separating the entryway from what appeared to be a kitchenette. The suite was small but no less extravagant for it. The foyer led to a room containing nothing more than a bed and a wall concealed entirely in pale blue curtains, beyond which I could only assume lay massive windows to grant a clear view of the surrounding mountains. It was the bed, however, that trapped my attention.

“They don’t.” Cross replied, stepping forward just enough to enter my line of sight, and I could offer no objection to the knowing look he shot me.

Ivory linens lay atop the mattress without hint of wrinkle or stain, and likely cost more than I could ever justify. I didn’t doubt how lush they’d feel against my skin, nor how soft the pillows surely were, but those thoughts meant nothing beneath the temptation of finally being granted the chance for a rare moment of true privacy with the man before me. I couldn’t chase the image of him lying bare against those lustrous sheets from my mind, nor did I want to, and as that smirk grew on lips I’d never bore for the taste of, I held no doubt that he could guess exactly what wants left me quiet for just a moment too long.

“Cross.” The warning in my voice when I finally managed to grasp enough self-restraint to speak only left his shoulders dancing beneath silent laughter.

“I didn’t say anything.” He replied, words dripping with every unspoken pleasure the night promised, and the way he turned toward me, the way his body coiled in those few steps he stole across the foyer, that undeniable sensation of prey staring down the very thing hunting me with an eager anticipation that thickened the air around us and left me breathing that much harder only proved just how helpless I was when he looked at me like that, like I was the answer to his every unsatiated desire, amber eyes lit with an intoxicating hunger. When he reached for me, when his finger slid along the tender flesh of my neck, my jaw, touch gently guiding my chin up to meet him, what could I do if not let myself melt into the heat so effortlessly stoked by that featherlight caress?

Three sharp bangs wrenched us from that haze with an unapologetic abruptness.

“You lot can test the bed later! Hunter says to meet ‘im in the lobby!” Wrecker shouted from just outside the room. Crosshair let out something torn between a groan and a growl, jaw tensing about lips hinting at a scowl as narrowed eyes glared toward the still closed door, and I couldn’t stifle a resigned huff of laughter. With a quiet sigh, I pushed myself up to taste his lips if only for a moment.

Those golden eyes held none of the frustration I’d expected to find as I reluctantly pulled away, and I readily welcomed the giddy weightlessness at the sight of the soft smirk easing all but the faintest traces of tension from his face.

“One of these days,” I started, words hushed but no less rich with affection for it, “No missions, no cramped quarters, no worrying about being overheard or seen…” I let my hands drag delicately up his arms as I spoke, thrilling in the thought.

“Sounds like wishful thinking.” He retorted, but there was no malice in it; no sense of belittlement for such a far-off dream.

“Mhm.” I hummed absently, stealing one final kiss before stepping back to retrieve my helmet.

Wrecker’d just raised his fist toward the door again when it slid open, and the sly grin dancing beneath beaming eyes left me biting back laughter as a subtle heat threatened to color my cheeks.

The sun was just beginning to caress the western peaks, sending the city into a premature dusk rich with soft pastels that danced through now gentle wisps of clouds in soft pinks and purples. The fresh snow coating the surrounding mountains reflected the stunning display of colors until the entirety of the range seemed more painting than reality.

“As much as we want?!” Hunter had just finished explaining that Senator Organa granted us a generous stipend to ‘enjoy the festivities properly,’ and I could feel the excitement bursting from Wrecker as we started down a side street.

“I feel the need to remind you of the limited cargo space of the Marauder.” Tech commented in something just shy of resignation before his brother could rush off.

“Maybe avoid bankrupting him.” Echo added.

“Ey, I’m not the one who was droolin’ over them places by the hanger.” He retorted.

“I hardly see how one could compare extravagant spending on food with potentially life-saving upgrades to the Marauder.” The sideways glare Tech sent his brother left me stifling a cough of laughter. I half expected Hunter to step in, but a brief glance revealed the easy grin just softening his lips, and I didn’t have to wonder over the cause. It felt like ages since we’d had a moment together absent clenched jaws and averted eyes.

“Not our fault he gave them his credit stick.” Crosshair said with a conspiratory smirk. I bumped my shoulder against his at the obvious bate, pleased that Echo merely shot his brother an unamused look.

“We can debate how much of the Senator’s credits to spend later – we’re almost to the spot he suggested.” Hunter said dismissively, voice lightened with an almost foreign ease as he led us toward an empty field. I looked around expectantly but saw only the deep blues of shadowed snow blanketing the stretch of empty land, noting a handful of families nestling down atop thick blankets with eager eyes watching the darkening sky.

“Did he give you some clue about what we’re looking for?” I asked, attention wandering briefly toward the first hints of stars above us before returning to watch more people begin filling the once empty park to claim just enough space for a moment’s rest.

“Just said it would be worth the trip out here.” He replied with a shrug. My brow hitched, but he offered no further insight.

The violent burst of crimson filled the sky without hint of preamble, the rich color soaking into the snow around us like fresh blood. I didn't see the whimsical shape it drew in the darkness, nor the looks of wonder and glee in the citizens around me. As the thunderous boom shook the very air, I saw only the flames burning decimated chunks of wall and flesh alike in the Separatist ballroom, the tower of rumble that had pinned me to the ground, the ruined shell of my ship after Wolffe shot us down, and my body shrank back with a sharp gasp. I didn't realize I’d all but thrown myself toward Crosshair until long after his arms locked around me and his quiet “easy” faded into the broken stillness.

Chest bucking in short, frantic breaths, I belatedly took in the faint visage of a rose fading to nothing as the smoldering remnants of the firework burned out, leaving only awestruck faces and the faint scent of sulfur in its wake. A firework. No encroaching enemies. No threat of injury or death. Still, when sapphire bloomed into a writhing dragon, I couldn't suppress the way my body flinched at the wave of pressure that followed even as my cheeks burned upon finding looks of concern on those around me.

“I’m fine.” I loathed the tension cloying even those short words and pointedly pushed myself away from Crosshair as though it might validate my claim, “just startled me.” None voiced the doubt that so clearly tugged at the edges of their lips and darkened their eyes. I wasn’t sure if I preferred their silence or longed for them to speak if only to grant me excuse to justify my feigned indifference.

Swallowing back claims I knew to be void of truth, I turned my gaze back to the display above in hopes of forcing some earnest appreciation for the increasingly complex orchestra of flame and thunder. There was no denying how violently my heart raced in echo of each booming explosion, but neither could I deny the very real splender of it. Plumes of tufted hair appeared to bristle aback the shoulders of a vern tiger, and I could nearly see the gleam of water undulating along the smooth skin of a thranta. I couldn't fathom how the artists managed to paint such elaborate images in the fleeting bursts of flame, but their beauty and detail slowly eased from me those cursed remnant of panic.

I wondered if Wrecker was calculating how precisely the explosives would need to be packed to create the intricate shapes or if Tech was itemizing which chemicals might have been used to make such brilliant colors; if Hunter could smell the salts before they burst into flames, and if Echo was fighting back a reaction as violent as mine had been. When I looked at Crosshair, however; when I sought him out with thoughts of how wonderous the displays above us must be for him, I was surprised to find him forsaking the stunning display above us. He didn’t falter when I saw him staring at me, expression almost soft in a way that sent ripples of warmth dancing beneath my skin.

“Not interested in watching the fireworks?” I asked quietly, expecting some teasing insult or dismissive remark, but still, he didn’t falter.

“I am.” For just a moment, confusion drew the beginnings of a frown from me, but then another burst of light erupted from the darkness, and my breath caught as wisps of emerald shimmered atop the gold of his eyes. Without a word, his lips twitched into a tiny smirk.

In an instant, I forgot about the beauty outshining the very stars above us, mesmerized instead by the heat coiling within my chest as he leaned subtly closer to me, by the way his hair shone in the ever-changing hues and the fresh memory of his tall form crowding me mere feet from that tantalizing bed. I watched his eyes darkened as though he'd read my thoughts, pupils dilating with the same want leaving my skin flushed.

“It’s… been a long day. I think I'm going to call it an early night.” I barely wasted thought for some excuse, body lingering a moment longer, frozen beneath the intensity of those sharp eyes if only to savor the thrill it sent dancing across my skin before forcing myself to turn away, “I'll check out the market tomorrow.” Crosshair didn't bother making an excuse of his own as he moved to follow me, and Wrecker's low chuckle left me certain there was no doubt toward my true intent.

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