#boromir lives au

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

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

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

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

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

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

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

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

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

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

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

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

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

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

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

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

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

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

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

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

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

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

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

“Boromir!”

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

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

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

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

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

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

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

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

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

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

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

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

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

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

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

Boromir wanted to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

His palm was smeared with oil.

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

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

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you lost, little one?”

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

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where has he been?”

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

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

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

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

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

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

“Does he know what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

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

“I know,” said Boromir.

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

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think so.”

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

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

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

[emilybeemartin]

Boromir Lives AU: it's a BABY

Activate Stiflingly Protective Big Brother Turbo Boost

Labor Day

The Gondor Chronicle's headline reads Brilliant Military Strategist and War Hero Absolutely Loses His Goddamn Mind During Sister-in-Law's Routine Labor

Beregond didn't anticipate this under the Extra Duties as Assigned clause in his job description

Somebody say uncle, quick

NEW LIFE NEW LIFE NEW LIFE IN A WORLD HE THOUGHT WAS ENDING, YOU GUYS

------

Boromir Lives: Helm's Deep

Boromir Lives: Whump-Time After Pelennor

Boromir Lives: GO TO SLEEP

Boromir Lives: Aragorn's Coronation

Boromir Lives: Faramir and Eowyn's Wedding

Boromir Lives: The Haircuts

#boromir lives au #boromir #faramir #eowyn #aragorn #beregond #elboron #pregnancy

[general-illyrin]

Crack fic idea inspired by this post:

At his death, Boromir gets transported to First Age Beleriand, and upon finding out Sauron -what do you mean, "Mairon"? why does everyone have so many names?!- is around, he promptly joins the Feanorians in attacking Morgoth. His reasons?

No one, especially not some god who doesn't even have the courage to show his face is going to stop him from killing Sauron himself and saving his friends. He'll march in there alone if he has to.

The Feanorians have an eight-pointed star just like Gondor, so they are definitely trustworthy (also to him it seems like they're the only ones doing anything)

Someone responsible needs to take care of this disaster of a family, and he will adopt them if that's what it takes (what do you mean, of course it is absolutely not because he's missing his brother)

#boromir #sauron #mairon #morgoth #feanorians #silm fic #crack fic #boromir lives au

[asssdirector]

shake off all of your shame

#im sorry merry isnt in this but its 2 am i love him too #lotr #boromir #pippin #peregrin took #boromir son of denethor #pippin took #lord of the rings #boromir lives au #lotr fanart #lord of the rings fanart #i want a boromir hug :(

[beentobeetle]

Proud member of the “Boromir Deserved Better” club ✊😔

#this was the one and only time Legolas ever screamed #Gimli and Aragorn come around the corner like WTF HAPPENED #And Legolas just asks #DO HUMANS USUALLY DO THIS??? #meanwhile Boromir looks confused as hell #while being in terrible agony #art #my art #fanart #lotr fanart #boromir lives au #boromir #aragorn #legolas #lotr shitpost

[estel-of-the-eyrie]

Actually planning out a LOTR fic where Boromir Lives and trying to come up with shenanigans as to explain why the horn of Gondor still falls in the river of he survives.

"OH uh.... it grew legs and wanted a swim" "Pippin tried to use it to skip stones" "It's not The Vibe anymore"

#lotr #boromir #fanfic #boromir lives au

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls (Complete)

Summary: You gather healing supplies below the Falls of Rauros when a boat with a dying man drops at your feet. As you take the stranger home, you resolve to achieve the impossible: to heal him, find out who he is, and figure out why he is so determined to die.

For @scyllas-revenge

※※※

Pairing: Boromir x Reader (no specified gender)

Tumblr Links: [ 1. The Stranger ] [ 2. Lord Främling ] [ 3. Healing ] [ 4. Convalescence ] [ 5. Boromir ] [ 6. Defense ] [ 7. Free ] [ Bonus: Love (E-rated) ]

AO3 Link: Stranger of the Falls

Rating: T (apart from the bonus chapter)

Complete Word Count: 18 400

Tags: Hurt/comfort, Injury Recovery, Healing, Boromir Lives, Only One Bed, Falling in Love, Orc Attack, Kissing, Wholesome, Sex (bonus chapter).

Warnings: Injuries, Blood, Suicidal Character

#boromir #boromir x reader #boromir x oc #lotr #boromir fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr x reader #hurt/comfort #boromir lives au #lord of the rings #boromir x you #boromir lives #only one bed #bed sharing #Stranger of the Falls #mimi lind

[sylveongender]

boromir definitely cried more than faramir and eowyn when elboron was born

#he is THE uncle #all the presents in the world #boromir #faramir #eowyn #elboron #lotr #lord of the rings #boromir lives au

[blanketed-in-stars]

riding home in the morning • a boromir-lives!AU, a little to the left: the soundtrack

Boromir wakes to the sound of the water, and above the strange silvery echo, birdsong. Was he sleeping?

listen on spotify • read on AO3

image credit / fonts are 2010 vergilius and cormorant

#lord of the rings #lotr #boromir #boromir lives au #lotrweek #she speaks #my writing #my playlists #lotr20

[clumsyhatter]

Are there any good boromir lives au fics y'all would recommend?

#lotr #boromir #fanfic #boromir lives au #fic recs #please i just want a happy ending for once #he deserves it

[janeeyreofmanderley]

Helpless Waiting

Aragorn was shocked. He had never seen Boromir look so awful. Even when he removed the numerous arrows from his friend‘s body and watched his blood seep into the ground there had been fire and life in the eyes of the Steward‘s eldest son. Shame and guilt, despair and determination, love and anger had burned in his eyes, even as he struggled to keep them open.

But the eyes that now only spared him a quick glance we’re empty. Empty and dead. Not a single tear shimmered in their depths. No anger rebelling against fate, no mind searching for a way to avert this crisis, no hope to keep despair away. Just a blank dark emptiness that went deeper than grief.

He did not lift his face again. Instead he continued staring fixedly at his brother‘s gaunt and corpselike features .

An overwhelming silence filled the room, seemingly drowning out all the lively activity in the Houses of healing around them, engulfing them all.

Then a hoarse and thin voice broke the silence. „Save him. If you can, please do save him.

I beg you. My King.“

#Sorry needed to get this out of my system #boromir lives au #boromir #aragorn #faramir

[emilybeemartin]

Boromir Lives AU: High Uncle of the White Tower

A follow-up to It's a BABY

First, as so many folks have pointed out, the baby's name, with the boron root, meaning "steadfast, trusty, enduring;" ergo Boromir: "steadfast jewel" and Elboron: "steadfast/enduring star." I love this as a memorial in canon, but we ain't in canon here and I get to make it an honorarium instead because I am drunk with power.

Good luck getting that baby back, Faramir.

"I'll have him wear nonskid waders, I swear."

While this is obviously a nod to Sharpe, I was actually inspired by Sean talking about how he used to play with toy soldiers when he was young ("you know, about twenty") on History Hack.

Later, at the all-units Pass in Review:

Boromir Lives: Helm's Deep

Boromir Lives: Whump-Time After Pelennor

Boromir Lives: GO TO SLEEP

Boromir Lives: Aragorn's Coronation

Boromir Lives: Faramir and Eowyn's Wedding

Boromir Lives: It's a BABY

Boromir Lives: The Haircuts

#boromir lives au #boromir #faramir #eowyn #elboron #aragorn #arwen #lotr #lord of the rings #sean bean

[softboiledwonderland]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Gandalf | Mithrandir Characters: Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel, Gandalf | Mithrandir, Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin), Éowyn (Tolkien), Other Character Tags to Be Added Additional Tags: Drama, Angst, Friendship, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Boromir Lives, Sort Of, Modern Character in Middle Earth, a very extended redemption arc for Boromir, not that I think he needs it, but he’s getting one anyway Summary: Boromir fell beneath Amon Hen and was given to the River – and the River gave him back. What price will he and those who love him have to pay for his return? And who set it for them? Or: Boromir Lives, with a twist.

#lord of the rings #boromir #boromir fanfiction #boromir lives AU #aragorn #lotr #in case your monday wasn't dark and cold enough #there's some warmth in there too though #at least I think so <3

[babe-bombadil]

Don't Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

(Part 1)

Summary: What happens when Éomer gifts some flying horses to Fellowship?

Written for the 2023 @fall-for-tolkien event! Inspired by Fly, You Fools! by @scyllas-revenge

Rating: G

Word Count: 527

Read on AO3 or below

It was said that every race had a gift. The elves had immortality. The dwarves had their expertise in stone working. The hobbits had a love for the simple things in life. The Rohirrim had flying horses. 

To them, a horse wasn’t just a means of transportation, it was something that should be revered. Horses were treated with great respect and given meticulous care. The Rohirrim believed horses were central to a person’s wellbeing the same way sleep and time in the sunshine are.

Because of their reverence for the horses, they would not trade a single one, not even to their allies in Gondor. This often made the people of Rohan seem haughty to their neighbors, but they would not change.

This was why it was such a momentous occasion when Éomer gifted horses to the four hunters when seeing their need in the outskirts of Fangorn.

“Absolutely not!” Gimli roared. Aragorn sighed and dragged a hand over his face.

“Gimli, this is an extremely generous gift. We need to use it. I have experience with the winged horses of Rohan and I promise they are not as hazardous as they look.”

Gimli crossed his arms and hardened his glare. “We dwarves were made to live underground! We like to keep our feet on the earth, thank you very much! Regular foul horses are bad enough but you will never get me on one of those-”

“You can ride with me, Gimli!” Legolas offered, cutting in before the dwarf could insult Rohan’s pride. The Riders of Rohan had stiffed as Gimli had been talking and the elf wished to avoid a fight. Gimli, unaware of the disaster nearly avoided, looked up with annoyance to where Legolas sat bareback on his horse. The elves didn’t use such things as saddles, so Legolas had taken it off before he jumped nimbly onto the horse’s back.

“I do not wish for an early death, so I shall have to refuse,” Gimli huffed.

“My friend, we need to take these horses to find Pippin and Merry,” Boromir pleaded. “You can join me and we shall discover how to ride these curious horses together.”

The dwarf sucked in a long breath through his nostrils before releasing it with a sigh. “Very well, Boromir. I shall bear this so that we might rescue the halflings.”

Boromir smiled in return. However, as it had since Amon Hen, the smile did not reach his eyes. Gimli and Legolas believed it was simply worry for the hobbits that was weighing their friend down and if Aragorn suspected there was more on Boromir’s mind, he kept it to himself.

Boromir knelt on one knee and offered his clasped hands as a step. Gimli placed his foot in the handhold and was lifted up to the horse. Boromir swung on after him rather clumsily, unused to the large wings of the creature. Once they were all settled, Aragorn placed a hand on his chest and bowed his head to Éomer.

“We are in your debt. I hope our paths shall soon cross again.”

Éomer copied the action. “I wish you success on your errand. Fly swiftly, Wingfoot!”

Part 2 coming soon!

Comments and reblogs are what I survive on so let me know your thoughts and/or personal headcanons!

#boromir lives au #lord of the rings #boromir #lotr #tolkien #legolas #aragorn #gimli son of gloin #eomer of rohan #rohirrim #flying horses #aragorn is a horse girl #scribbles & drabbles 2023 #aragorn elessar #boromir son of denethor #legolas greenleaf

[frodo-with-glasses]

Been thinking about a particular LOTR what-if scenario (because my D&D campaign took a turn into collaborative LOTR fanfiction), and I'm interested in your perspective on it if you have time . . .

Supposing Boromir somehow survived protecting Merry and Pippin, what effect would that have on Denethor?

Denethor's being fed despair by Sauron either way. But I have always read him as the news of Boromir's death being the thing that breaks him and makes him start to believe it. His grief is certainly a large part of what's informing his treatment of Faramir (though certainly not the only thing, as I think there's textual evidence that Denethor favored Boromir all along).

If Boromir didn't die . . . would Denethor still give into despair? Would he still send Faramir on a suicide mission — and if he did, and Faramir still suffered the same wounds, would Denethor still end up in his whole "all is lost; better to die on our own terms" spiral? Or would he have the presence of mind to see to the defense of the city?

How would he react to Aragorn, a man who has all the qualities Denethor disdains in Faramir but even more so, and who people are now saying is the rightful king (who even his own sons, even favored Boromir, are saying is Gondor's king returned)?

(He almost certainly wouldn't be a fan of Aragorn's plan to draw Sauron's eye away from Frodo. He probably would be greatly displeased that the Ring had been allowed to go across the River to Mordor at all, and even Boromir would have trouble convincing him otherwise.)

Thank you for letting me ramble in your askbox, haha. Don't feel pressured to answer if you don't want to or don't find the question as much as I do. (But if you do answer, I will be delighted.)

As much as the Gondor Dudes aren’t my personal hyperfixation in LotR, I am nonetheless a big fan of overthinking hypothetical situations, so this is right up my alley. :-D (Also, it’s really cool that you’re running an LotR-themed D&D campaign!! Sounds like a blast.)

To be honest, you hit pretty much every point I was going to touch on; Denethor’s despair and consequent insanity were certainly motivated, at least in part, by grief, so if you take the grief out of the equation then naturally the results are going to be at least slightly different. But we still have lots of other factors at play here: fighting a hopeless war, the looming specter of deposition, knowing that your allies just sent a nuke into the territory of the Enemy in the hands of a garden gnome so small you could punt him, and Prolonged Exposure to Cursed Artifact are still going to take their toll on Denethor’s mind. He will doubtless be more motivated to hold on to life while his favorite son is still alive, but even if he doesn't turn paranoid and filicidal, he’s still going to be Deeply Messed Up regardless.

So since I'm not getting any new ideas by looking at things from a Watsonian (in-universe) perspective, I'm gonna steer this in a Doylist (meta) direction and talk about implementation instead. The question I always ask myself with these sorts of "canon but a bit to the left" fanfictions is this:

What do you want out of the story? Do you want to:

A) Return to canon as quickly as possible? B) Change just one thing and see how far it butterfly-effects out? C) Find something somewhere in the middle?

Because the thing with "canon but a bit to the left" AUs that you can make pretty much anything work. It's a hypothetical situation. The question is how far away from canon you're willing to deviate. If I'm writing a "Boromir Lives" AU, I might go a couple of different directions, and the one I ultimately choose depends on personal preference and what I want out of the story.

Putting this under a read-more 'cause it's about to get long.

Option A: Canon, but like .5 degrees to the left

Ever since the battle at the Falls, Boromir has been following Aragorn and doing everything the Three Hunters (well, Four Hunters) do. When Pippin looks into the Palantir, Gandalf decides to take him to Minas Tirith right away, and Boromir, who's eager to get home and feels some responsibility for Pippin, volunteers to go with them.

(Yes I know that Shadowfax travels at ungodly fast speeds to get from Rohan to Gondor, but it's implied that lesser horses can keep up with their lord when they need to, so even if Boromir took a different horse they might still have been able to make it to Minas Tirith in a similar time.)

Denethor gives an enthusiastic welcome to Boromir and a far less enthusiastic welcome to Gandalf and Pippin. That welcome becomes less enthusiastic still in the ensuing conversation/interrogation, when he learns that they totally had the Ring but they sent it into Mordor instead of bringing it here. Boromir tries to reason with his father. Denethor is very disappointed with him. He blames Gandalf for corrupting his other son with all this foolishness, and treats Pippin with suspicion because of the whole prophecy with the Halfling, and the convo ends with hurt feelings all around.

I might need the War Nerds on this blog to correct me if I'm wrong, but as I understand it, the attempt to take back Osgiliath wasn't a completely useless suicide mission, at least in concept. It is a major river crossing, and controlling transportation routes is like War 101. If you make it hard for your enemy to cross the River, you make it hard for your enemy to get to your stronghold, and that's good. Not a bad idea on paper. The only problem was that Minas Tirith didn't have the manpower to pull it off.

(And also there were Nazgul.)

Anyway, the point is, it's almost logical enough that you might be able to get away with Denethor ordering the Osgiliath offensive even without the grief-induced paranoia. Besides, there's still other paranoia in play: so far as Denethor is concerned, the Ring is walking into enemy hands, his son and most trusted captain has turned against him, and Gandalf is already planning a coup.

So here's what I'm thinking. Keep the Osgiliath battle, but send Boromir out there as well. Boromir and brother bravely bear the baleful battle, before their butts are badly beat and they get bit by the Black Breath. Dad feels bad, his boasts bashed as his boys' bodies burn with fever. Battle bears down on the beleaguered bourgeoisie, but their bereaved bigwig is barely bothered, too busy building bier bonfires.

…Sorry, I don't know where that came from.

Anyway, the point is, this puts us squarely back where we'd be at this point in canon: Denethor thinks he’s about to lose his family, his city, and his kingdom, and consumed by despair he decides that it's better to die on his own terms than in the hands of the Enemy. You can pretty much just follow canon from here and copy-paste Boromir with whatever is happening to Faramir.

(Except, of course, for the whole "falling in love with Eowyn" thing. But hey! Boromir was in Rohan! He and Eowyn probably know each other already! So they might have some fun conversations in the Houses of Healing.)

This is the route I would take if you want to stick as close to canon as possible and still keep Boromir alive. If adherence to the narrative is not your biggest concern, however:

Option B: Go stupid, go crazy

Boromir doesn't die. What does that change?

Well, everything, if you let it.

Let's say Boromir does return to Minas Tirith with Gandalf and Pippin like I suggested above. Let's say he's able to talk his father into begrudgingly going along with their unorthodox plan to save the world. Let's say Denethor doesn't call for the almost-but-not-quite-entirely-completely-a-suicide-mission to Osgiliath and instead puts Boromir and Faramir to work strengthening the defenses of the Minas Tirith. By time the Battle of Pelennor Fields rolls around, Denethor—now no longer occupied by the family barbecue—is available to direct defense of the city, with both sons acting as his captains.

Awesome! All this is great stuff, right?

Well, yes. So far.

The problem is that we lose so many great moments with other characters in the process. Pippin's pell mell run to find Gandalf. Beregond abandoning his post to protect Faramir. Eowyn and Merry, who slayed the Witch King together because Gandalf was too busy putting out fires (literally!) to get down there and do it himself. Aragorn, proving that "the hands of a king are the hands of a healer"! And if Faramir and Eowyn hadn't both suffered the Black Breath, they wouldn't both have been forced to stay behind as everyone else went to fight at the Black Gate, and they wouldn't have fallen in love in the same way.

This is not a statement meant to push your decision one way or another, but it's just a fact of the decision: If you dispense with Denethor's paranoia, and the insanity, and the murder arson, then you dispense with a lot of the other cool moments in this book. The question you've got to ask yourself is if that's a price you're willing to pay, and if not, how you can work around it.

Anyway, back to Pelennor Fields. I want you to imagine that Denethor is standing at the wall, watching the battle raging below him. It's not going well. The reinforcements from Rohan arrived, but they're barely hanging on. And to his dismay, he sees a fleet of black dots which could only be Corsair ships sailing up the river.

The foremost ship unfurls a banner, with the Tree of Gondor glittering on it.

And the army that pours out of them absolutely wrecks shop with Sauron's forces.

Is Denethor feeling relief? Yes. But is he feeling dread and apprehension and anger too? Also yes. He knows what this is. It's a challenge to his power waiting to happen. All his suspicions about Gandalf's ulterior motives are coming true: he has found someone to supplant him, and whether or not this kid is the true Heir of Isildur, the darn upstart's already gone all dramatic and made a war hero out of himself. Whoop-de-frickin'-do.

And then, he sees Aragorn's face.

And he's livid.

Fun fact: Appendix A tells us that Aragorn actually worked for Denethor’s dad, Ecthelion, for a long time. Aragorn went by a different name, of course, but he was so competent and so well-liked that he became Ecthelion's most trusted and honored captain, to the point that the Steward liked Aragorn more than he liked Denethor. We don't just have history here. We have beef. It's a little bit of a Tony Stark, Howard Stark, Steve Rogers situation where it’s like “Dad liked you more than he liked me and I’m his own son”.

You’d better bet your bottom dollar that when Denethor’s childhood rival rocks up to Minas Tirith, flying a banner made by an elven princess and carrying the Sword that Was Broken on his belt like he's somebody important, it doesn’t matter if Boromir and Faramir and Imrahil and everybody else in Minas Tirith likes him and happily falls in line behind him; Denethor is still gonna take one look at his face and go, “oh. it’s YOU. I freakin' HATE you.”

Whether this colors their ongoing relationship "coolly polite" or "passive-aggressive" or "outright hostile" depends on how vindictive you want to write Denethor. Because let's be honest, bro could totally order Aragorn to leave Minas Tirith and he would; Aragorn knows he's not the king yet, and he's humble enough to accept orders while the Steward is still in charge (as bass-ackwards as that is). But the thing is that Aragorn has the support of the people, and banishing him isn't gonna change that; if anything, it will probably garner sympathy for him, cause the people of Minas Tirith to distrust their leader, and maybe result in fracturing the loyalties of the populous.

So here's what you've got, okay.

You now have a David and Saul situation.

Think about it. Charismatic, upright war hero, beloved by everyone he meets, serving under the suspicious and deeply disturbed incumbent ruler who knows the newcomer is gonna boot him off the throne. You can't live with him: 'cause he's gonna boot you off the throne. But you can't live without him: 'cause you're in desperate need of his particular set of skills, and you'd be incredibly unwise to do away with him and earn the ire of the public. So you put up with him. And put on a show of liking him. And maybe chuck a spear at his head while he's playing the harp to calm down your possibly demonic fits.

But that's just Saul, so let's get back to Denethor.

The next step, in the book, is obviously the Battle of the Black Gate. And, obviously, Denethor is gonna think this military equivalent of knocking on the door of an axe murderer and threatening him with a pea shooter is a terrible idea, because it is. But the whole point—Aragorn and Gandalf and Boromir and Faramir and Imrahil and everyone else insists—is to distract Sauron long enough that the Ring-bearer can succeed in his mission. The plan isn't to win, it's to be bait.

Now you have a few options.

Denethor can, once again, begrudgingly go along with it, showing that he's slowly changing in heart. Perhaps Aragorn's humility is winning him over. Perhaps Boromir's impassioned pleas are getting through. In any case, you have a pretty good set-up for a redemption arc here, which could be interesting if you want to go down that road.

Alternatively, this could be the moment that Denethor entirely gives in to despair and basically says "fine, if you guys wanna go kill yourselves, I'll just be over here doing the exact same thing", and he tries to make Steward a la flambé. (Whether or not he succeeds is up to you, but I will say that this would be a pretty easy way to settle the succession crisis.)

Alternatively still, Denethor could publicly denounce the whole idea as stupid and order the people of Minas Tirith to stay put and defend the city, at the same time that Aragorn and the rest are urging those same people to come with them for one last stand. Now every eligible fighter in the city has to make a choice. Who will they follow? Lord Denethor, or Lord Elfstone? The people are divided. Factions are made. (This might be the moment that a certain member of the Guard sees Faramir standing with Lord Elfstone and decides, for the first time in his life, to break the rules.) In any case, the force that travels to the Black Gate is far smaller than it would have been if not for Denethor's interference.

If you go with the first option, it's a quicker road to a happy ending. Aragorn returns victorious, he and Denethor reconcile, and Aragorn honors the Steward and puts him in a place of high esteem. Everyone in Minas Tirith likes this, including Boromir and Faramir, and everyone lives happily ever after.

If you go with the second option, Denethor has either successfully or unsuccessfully attempted sudoku, which should probably disqualify him from public leadership either way. If he succeeded in barbecuing himself, it's the tragedy of a man who never got to see the upcoming victory; if he failed, it's the tragedy of a man whose mind was so utterly broken by the Enemy that he couldn't enjoy it.

If you go with the third option, congratulations; after Aragorn gets back, you still have to deal with the succession crisis. But I've waffled on for long enough and have basically no ideas how you'd handle this post-story, so I'm not gonna go down that road any further.

Option C: Pitch straight down the middle

Now what I've just presented are the two most extreme possibilities of a "Boromir Lives" AU that exist in my brain, but they're far from the only options. This thing is a spectrum. There are a potentially infinite number of possible storylines, some closer to canon, some further away.

If you like parts of one but not the other, you can mix and match. Take an exit ramp from the AU and get back on canon wherever you want, or just don't and see where it takes you. All I've done is present the furthest extremes I could think of to help shake up the ol' creative juices.

(I would have explored the possibility of Boromir arriving on the corsair ships with Aragorn instead of a few days earlier with Gandalf and Pippin, but that didn't change much except for Boromir having less opportunities to talk his dad down from bad decisions. So do with that what you will.)

Conclusion

I have no idea if this was the kind of answer you were looking for, but I guess I'm just returning rambling for rambling, LOL! In any case, I hope this helped, and if not, I hope it was a fun read.

But there is one more thing I can do for you, before I wish you good luck in your D&D endeavors, and that's turn it over to everyone else who reads this blog and see what they think!

HEY YOU GUYS! If Boromir lived, how would that effect Denethor's psyche?? Reblog with your thoughts!

#asked and answered #faramir #denethor #boromir lives au #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #in which i ramble about probable story trajectories for WAY too long

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls - Part 6

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 2400

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

6. Defense

You twirled a smooth horn between your hands. Boromir had made it from a curved ram’s horn, drilling a hole in it and turning it into a sort of trumpet. Should the enemy approach you would blow it and alert everybody. 

You were on the lookout that evening; Boromir had divided the nights into watches and now it was your turn. You sat on a rooftop and observed the deserted plains in the growing darkness.

A few days had passed since the village prepared for war, and the dreary darkness from Mordor had finally disappeared, blown away by a fresh south-west breeze. Nothing had happened yet, and you were hoping it never would. Without the strange darkness to hide them, the orcs probably wouldn’t dare venture this far.

Even if Boromir had a plan, no plan was foolproof.

You wished you knew how the war went, but no news had reached you since you learned about the attack of Cair Andros. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something – be it good or bad. 

It made you restless and nervous.

You heard steps from below and turned to see Maja approaching you. “My mama needs you. It is time!”

You were about to climb down and fetch a replacement lookout when something else caught your attention: a group of people coming running across the southwestern plains. They were far away still, but heading to the village. 

No… not people. Orcs! You noticed their crooked swords and axes now.

The sight filled you with cool tendrils of fear. This was it. War. War was upon you!

You remembered the horn and blew it, producing a dull hoot. As you climbed down from your post, you blew and blew and blew, and from all doors around you people came out.

Boromir was among the first to reach you. He looked alert and strangely excited.

“The enemy army is here,” you told him. It came out like a terrified squeak. 

He observed the orcs briefly. “No, just a minor band, thirty or so at the most. Raiders perhaps, or deserters. With our precautions we should take them easily.” He turned to Vidar. “Take a lantern and wait for my signal over by the trench. Be sure not to drop it until every orc has crossed.”

You tried to swallow but your throat felt too narrow and too dry. Was this the last time you saw these men? Vidar… and Boromir.

You wanted to tell him to be careful but no longer trusted your voice.

“What about Mama?” Maja asked, pulling at your sleeve. “The child is coming.”

Boromir looked at her, then you. A fierce, crooked grin broke out in his face and he pressed your trembling shoulder encouragingly. “Then you deliver the child and I deal with the orcs. I will be seeing you!” 

You nodded. Deliver the baby. That you could do.

As soon as you entered Sigrid’s house you became completely calm. There was a patient needing your help and until she and the baby were safe you had no time to worry about orc attacks.

※

You could not say how much time had passed when you finally laid the wailing infant on her mother’s chest. It had not been an easy birth.

“Thank you,” Sigrid said tiredly. “Damn Torsten for putting this little monster in me and then riding off to war.” She stroked the baby’s damp head. “He thought it was a boy but I knew it would be a girl. When he returns I shall gloat at him that I won.”

Something about the way she said ‘when he returns’ made you want to cry. She did not think he would. 

But then you remembered about the orcs and your heartbeat increased. Had Boromir made it? 

You ran out. Guttural yells and clangs of steel reached you from beyond the palisade and you ran to the gate, expecting the worst. 

You were met by a spectacular sight. A burning ring surrounded the village, sending sparks and bright tongues of fire high into the air. Within the ring lay a litter of dark corpses in the grass, and others hung skewered on the sharp lances along the palisade. Some were still writhing in death throes; Vidar walked among them, grimly beheading anyone moving.

Boromir was chasing two last orcs on Svarten. He sat tall and formidable, driving them before him like Béma the Hunter himself. His face was streaked with soot and his hands covered in black blood.

This was his right element, here in the midst of battle, bravely protecting people.

You had never admired him more.

Desperate to evade the menacing pursuer, the orcs leaped through the fire, but the burning tar stuck on their boots and turned them into living torches.

Svarten easily jumped over the trench and followed them. Two neat sword slashes later and the orcs fell to the ground in reeking piles.

It was over.

※

Other villagers had joined you at the gate, now a loud cheer broke out. He had made it! The village had withstood the attack!

Boromir dismounted. Standing there tall, proud, victorious. Beautiful.

“After tonight, I will no longer call you ‘Främling’,” said Vidar. “You are no stranger to us anymore. Hence, since you still do not remember your name, I say we name you ‘Hjälte’! For, you are a true hero, and we are blessed to have you among us.”

His words were met by an even louder cheer and Boromir graciously bowed. “It was the least I could do after you took me in so generously.”

Everyone then helped put out the fire with buckets of sand and refill the trench with tar in case of new attacks. Like Boromir had said, this had only been a small band. They could be forerunners or scouts from a larger army.

Afterwards, you walked home beside Boromir almost shyly. For the first time, you had seen warrior-him in action. You wanted to hug him and tell him how glad you were that he had survived, but felt too intimidated.

“Thank you for saving us,” you said instead. “The ring of flames was fantastic.”

“It worked better than I had dared hope,” he said proudly. “I got the idea from a place called Moria where I once saw orcs hesitate before a burning chasm. Not one of my best memories, but this time it was helpful.” 

Back in the house, you noticed red blood in the water when he cleaned his hands. 

“You are hurt,” you said worriedly.

“A mere nick.”

“Let me treat it. There could be poison on their weapons this time also.”

Like the other day, your concern seemed to amuse him, but he obediently sat at the table and held out his hand.

You sat next to him, putting a generous amount of ointment on the cut and binding it neatly.

Still with his hand in yours, you looked at his beautiful face. You could not express your gratitude with words. He saved you; all of you. Maja and her mother, the newborn baby, Vidar, little Kalle, everyone had him to thank for their life.

This handsome, kind, generous man was truly a gift to your people. To you. You had never met anyone like him.

You admired him so much. Held him in such high regard… no. More than that.

You loved him.

Part of what you felt must have shown in your eyes, for Boromir gently eased his hand from yours and rose. “We must get some rest.” But instead of stretching out on the bed, he leaned back in your comfortable chair. 

At your surprised look, he explained: “Long have I been imposing on your hospitality. You should have your bed to yourself.“

“I do not mind sharing,” you said earnestly, feeling a lump in your throat. He was pushing you away. Creating a distance.

“You already did so much for me,” he said seriously. “I never even thanked you for saving my life. Twice. First you healed me, and then your faith in me and stubbornness hindered me from taking the cowardly way out. This way is better; I can do some good now. And for that, you shall always have my heartfelt gratitude.”

His words shook you to the core. This way is better. 

Did he mean to die in battle?

Now you saw the scene earlier in a new light. Boromir’s excitement before the fight; his heroic charge against over thirty orcs. It was not courage. It was the fearlessness of one who had nothing to lose. 

Was he still choosing the cowardly way out, but disguising it as bravery?

You did not say anything of what you were thinking. Instead you tried to hide your dismay and make your voice steady. “I am a healer; it is what I do. Think nothing of it.” 

You went to bed, ignoring how large and empty it felt, and exhausted after the long night’s events you fell asleep almost immediately.

※

The next morning, Boromir, Vidar and you went out to gather the orc carcasses, piling them up and setting them on fire. While you were working, a group of riders approached from the same direction the orcs had come. They were Rohirrim!

As they came closer, you felt your heart soar with relief. It was people from your village, as well as the neighboring ones. Jan, Ragnar, Karl, Torsten, all the rest of them. They had survived! Did that mean the war was over?

“Welcome back!” Vidar waved excitedly. 

The men looked weary, but relieved when they saw your pyre. “Béma be blessed. We were worried we would find naught but smoking embers like in so many other villages. We have been tracking these orcs for days and found only ruins and homeless refugees in their wake – until now. How did you defeat them?”

You proudly indicated Boromir. “We had help.”

Torsten cut in: “Why, if it is not Lord Främling! You look well. I am glad you made it.”

“He is Lord Hjälte now,” said Vidar.

"Congratulations on becoming a father again, Torsten,” you said.

“The child is born? And everything went well?” He leaped off the horse in a smooth jump. “I have to go see them at once. Was it a son? No, say nothing, I know it was. I have a talent for guessing these things.”

You smiled smugly as he hurried off.

Meanwhile the other riders filled you in with news from the war, at long last. A lot had happened. Théoden King and his riders found their way to Gondor blocked by the orcs at Cair Andros just as Boromir had feared, but got unexpected aid by a people who dwelled in the mountains and took them on a shortcut to Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor, just in time to save the day and help defeating Sauron’s enormous host. 

They then described the battle in detail, encouraged by a barrage of questions from Boromir. 

There had been many losses and injuries. Théoden King was dead, and his niece Éowyn, who unexpectedly joined the army, was badly hurt. Her brother Éomer would become the new King of Rohan. 

Another man who died was Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. Boromir’s father. 

“Poor old fellow; they say he lost his mind and burned himself alive, broken with grief after what happened to his sons,” said Ragnar, unaware that one of them was standing right in front of him. “The eldest was killed in battle in the north prior to the war, you see.”

Boromir did not betray any emotions at the news, but you saw his fists clench and his whole stance become rigid. 

You wished you could hug him. What a gruesome way for a man to die!

“And the youngest?” His gaze was intent.

“Hurt in battle, but Lord Aragorn healed him. He is greatly improved; they say he will survive.”

Boromir grew visibly less tense. “And what now? You said this mysterious heir to the throne has appeared, this Lord Aragorn. What are his plans? The Dark Lord lives, and although he lost a battle, he will return with renewed force soon enough.”

Ragnar shifted uneasily. “Lord Aragorn is on his way to Mordor. It is a ruse, and he does not expect to survive, but…” He lowered his voice. “There is a secret, powerful item, you see… a ring, they say, a ring of power. It was forged by Sauron a long time ago and if he can get it back he will use it to usurp the entire world. But a brave young halfling is on a secret mission to cast the ring into the fires where it was once wrought. A halfling is–”

“I know what a halfling is.” Boromir had grown very pale.

“Oh. Well, so Lord Aragorn has decided to make this decoy attack to distract the enemy, hence increasing the chances for the halfling to succeed. I know, it sounds impossible, but Aragorn believes it might work, and nearly everyone is following him there.”

“But not you?”

He blushed hotly. “He sent us to free Cair Andros. Us and some others…”

“We were afraid and did not want to die,” Karl cut in. “We have families waiting for us. He saw that and released us. A good man, he is. And a great king, if he survives.”

“We bested the army at Cair Andros,” said Ragnar. “This group we were tracing were the last survivors.”

After exchanging a few more words the men left you, eager to go see their families now that their task was finally over. 

Boromir left too, with a curt “I shall take a walk” that made it clear he did not want company.

You looked long after him.

※

That night Boromir moved out of your house. He said he was no longer a patient, and did not want to impose on your hospitality. Therefore he had arranged with Vidar to sleep in his spare room.

Your stomach grew tight; you knew what this was about. He wanted to keep a distance from you, and you were fairly sure it was because he suspected you had feelings for him.

“I am happy for Vidar’s sake,” you said, smiling forcedly. “He has been lonely since his wife passed away.”

“Goodnight then.” He bowed and left.

”Goodnight.”

You went to lie in your empty bed. And then you cried.

※※※

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

#boromir #boromir x reader #boromir fanfiction #boromir x oc #boromir x you #boromir lives au #lotr #lotr fanfiction #lord of the rings #hurt/comfort #healing #heroism #Stranger of the Falls