For some reason, I woke up thinking about the f!Aragorn verse I came up with years ago.
The idea is that all the Númenórean throwbacks in LOTR are genderbent, so it’s also f!Denethor (Steward Haleth), f!Faramir (Lady Míriel), and f!Imrahil (Lady Imraphêl). I never wrote much of it, and I don’t care for everything I did write, but I'm still fond of two pieces: 1) a prompted fic in which Aranor (f!Aragorn) has a nightmare of herself as Queen, and 2) Aranor finding Boromir’s body.
So here they are!
Aranor drummed her fingers on the arms of her throne, the rings on her hands glinting in the brightly-lit hall, bracelets jangling a little. Even that small gesture was enough to make Arwen, standing behind and to the left of her, stiffen with fear. The other nobles in the court shifted uneasily, but for Boromir and a woman who looked very much like him; both of them gazed at Aranor with pride and admiration.
Haleth herself stepped forward to stare down at the four men kneeling before the throne.
“Tar-Elessarnë will hear you,” she said, then retreated back to Aranor’s right hand, malice curling her mouth.
They were tradesmen from Esgaroth, stammering that they were no spies of Sauron, and only wished to offer treasures from the Lonely Mountain to the great Queen. Aranor turned the dwarvish trinkets over in her hands.
“We well know of the Dwarves’ craft,” she said coldly, and held up a bright stone. “What is this? Not armour or weaponry. A bauble for a child. Do your masters take us for one? Do they think we shall be placated with such treasures?”
“No, of course—we only—” said the leader.
One of the men lifted terrified eyes to her face. Another crawled back; the last and youngest sprang up and ran towards the doors.
Boromir and Míriel laughed outright, soon joined by the rest of the court.
“Send them all to be questioned,” said Aranor indifferently, while the guards seized the young merchant. “Then put them to death.”
She tossed the baubles at Arwen.
“They should be sufficient to amuse you.”
The Ring gleamed bright on her hand.
Aranor woke slowly, the starry sky blurred above her. Frodo, who had kept the last watch, was bending down to shake her awake. The Ring on its chain swung right past her eyes.
She jerked away.
Frodo, looking hurt, said, “It’s your turn, Strider—”
“Forgive me! You woke me out of a nightmare.”
“Oh! I hope it wasn’t too bad?”
Aranor swallowed. It was everything she wanted, reflected in a broken glass.
Not like that, she thought. Never like that.
It was months before Aranor and Boromir spoke privately again, once more beneath the trees. This time, they did not sit peacefully in the light of fair Lothlórien. Boromir now lay sprawled not far from Nen Hithoel, propped up against a massive tree. Aranor, after one glance, raced across the glade, crying,
She fell to her knees beside him. He lay in a dappled pool of sunlight, and she had seen everything the moment she laid eyes on him: the black arrows piercing his chest, his sword broken in his hand, the great Horn of Vorondil cloven right in half.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. She knew already that not all the healing in her hands could save him; Elrond, greatest of their kind, could not have done it.
“I … tried to take the Ring from Frodo,” he said, his voice weak and faltering: not Boromir at all. But the Boromir she knew would never have threatened Frodo. Aranor swallowed her shock and horror, and was always grateful that she had done so, for he went on, “I am sorry. I have paid.“
His gaze drifted to the two dozen orcs lying at his feet.
"They have gone. The halflings. The orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.”
His eyes drifted shut, and her last command sprang into Aranor’s mind. Whatever else had happened this day, Boromir had died a faithful soldier, following orders: her orders. It was now her duty to comfort him as she could, but all words stuck in her throat.
He managed to lift his eyelids once more. “Farewell, Aranor.” Anguish twisted his face, and his grey eyes looked directly into hers. “Go … to Minas Tirith … and save my people. I have failed.”
“No!” Aranor seized his hand and leaned down to kiss him. “You have conquered! Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall.”
Her words rang out with all the power of an oath. So be it. She owed that much to Boromir, the greatest warrior of Gondor, dying in her service and Gondor’s. Had any other fallen to the Ring and returned? It was, indeed, a great victory. He had reclaimed himself.
He smiled up at her.
“Which way did they go? Where is Frodo?” she asked. But he said nothing more: he was dead.
No longer distracted by soothing Boromir’s last moments, Aranor cried out in grief and despair. She should have seen this coming. She could have sent Legolas or Gimli with him, or gone herself; mighty a warrior as he was, how could she have done this? Why indeed had Gandalf trusted that she could? She could not have betrayed his trust more utterly. It is I who have failed!
And now Boromir was dead, her comrade and—yes—her friend. She had not known it.
Boromir’s hand lay still warm in hers. Aranor began to cry, painful wracking sobs that tore out of her throat, drawing the strength out of her until she was bent with weeping. It was there that Legolas and Gimli found her, and from her anguish thought that she must have taken a fatal wound.
Aranor just managed to regain some semblance of self-command: enough to explain some part of what had really happened. She kept Boromir’s confession to herself. He had repented; none else need know what he had done before.
Together they raided the bodies of the fallen orcs, to lay their weapons at Boromir’s feet. There was no time to bury him properly—much less as he would have been consigned in Rath Dínen—but they could send him home in honour and glory. As quickly as they could, they carried Boromir to the shore, labouring under his weight, and lifted him into the only spare boat remaining. Aranor combed his long dark hair while Legolas folded his hood and cloak under his head, for a pillow. Gimli, stern and reverent, placed the orcs’ weapons at his feet, and Boromir’s own across his lap. Then they cut his boat free, watching it float down, disappearing into the falls.
It was Aranor and Legolas who sang for him, her voice soaring high into the desolate air.
“Oh, Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze—” She remembered all of Boromir’s kin, Haleth’s fierce face softening as she swung her son up into the air, Fingon kneeling beside him, teaching him to read, Ivrinion and Imraphêl leading him by the hand, showing him paper boats. She remembered him tugging at her leggings, demanding to know but what next? And she remembered him in Lothlórien, haughty and suspicious until he began to speak of Míriel, the sister he had loved and protected through all the days of their lives. Boromir the tall, the fair, the bold, had died, and his treasured sister lived on; what was Aranor’s grief to that?
May the news of his loss come to you swiftly and kindly, jewel-maiden!
Aranor’s voice nearly broke at the thought. She forced herself to continue:
“—to Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days!”
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How will they confess their feelings to you?
You were injured in the battle of Helm’s Deep. Your injured body was laying right next to Haldir’s body, your breath was ragged, and your body curled into a ball of pain. Upon examining Aragorn realised that you were stabbed in the side and few ribs were broken. He wasted no time to take you into his arms and deliver you to the safety of what was left of the Helm’s keep, and in the hands of a healer. When the battle finished Aragorn was by your side, using skills learned from elves to soothe your pain and mend your injuries. There seeing you crying from not being able to do more, he said how much you did for him – giving him hope and strength to lead the people, as he wanted to protect the world and all its people, to create the world without fear and pain for you to live in and be happy. This is when he confessed his feelings for you, promising to do all in his power to protect you.
As he was laying on the ground, with orc arrows piercing his body, he was afraid. Afraid to leave this world without telling ever how he felt. He didn’t care that everyone else was around him, he took your hand and his and put your palm onto his chest where his heart was. As Aragorn and Legolas were working with everything, they had to stop the bleeding, you were crying as Boromir was confessing to you, wiping your tears away with his free hand. As the three members of the Fellowship decided to pursue orcs and rescue hobbits, you chose to stay by Boromir’s side in Nen Hithoel, unwilling to leave him now more than ever.
During the celebration in the Golden Hall of Meduseld Legolas defeated Gimli in their drinking game, and even though he wasn’t drunk, he appeared to himself to be lighter in both body and spirit. He was walking around the hall in this uplifted mood looking for you. As soon as he found you, swaying with the music and talking to Eowyn, he offered you his hand which you took and both of you started to sway with music in unison. As the music progressed, so did your dance develop, you didn’t even realise, but Legolas was gently moving both of you to the terrace, where you both stood silently until your eyes met and he shared how you made him feel.
Other members of the Fellowship were sleeping after the long road. It was your turn to keep the watch, bundled in your warm coat you were sitting there, trying to warm your outstretched hands with fire and being alert of the surroundings at the same time. So, you were a bit startled when you heard someone stir. It was Gimli, he woke up and silently came up to the fire, putting time worn kettle with water and herbs over the heat. Just as silently he poured the tea into a mug and passed it over to you, sitting himself by you and lighting his pipe. Your whispered words of gratitude and his hum was the only thing heard for a while. After finishing his pipe, he made you two tea again, and you quietly fished into your bag for some cooking. As he passed you the cup and took the cookies from you, his hand held yours and he didn’t let go, calling for your attention to tell of all time you made his heart skip a beat and that exact moment when he realised he wanted to take you home and to make that very same mountain berries pie that he told you about.
Frodo’s feelings for you have grown for a long time, yet he didn’t know how to confess to you. Especially after the quest to destroy the ring has finished, he felt empty for words and he didn’t know if he even deserved to be with you, after being so damaged. That was until he remembered Bilbo and his love for stories and songs, it inspired him to write a song for you. One evening, when you both were sitting outside his home, in the warmth of the summer evening, he started singing the song, it was gentle and delicate, telling of a broken heart which was held in tender hands of a woman, keeping it beating and the caressing touch bringing back the light into it. And all the while he was looking at you with affection, and as he wrapped up the song, he pronounced you to be that woman that is healing his damaged heart.
You will be telling a story to him on one of the nights when you will make camp for the night. Frodo will be resting, preoccupied with talking to Gollum on the other side of the camp, giving two of you space. It was carefully planned out so that Sam can confess to you, but they didn’t take into account that you will find this as an opportunity to re-tell Sam a story, and you chose a long one to tell. Sam was initially nervous and wanted to interrupt you to confess his feelings, but after looking at how passionate and immersed in it you were, he just sat there with a smile and listened to you. After finishing the story, you were out of breath, full of thrill, this is the moment when Sam started to recount to you his story of his feelings for you.
After injured Eowyn and Merry were delivered to Minas Tirith, you came to their sides as soon as you caught wind of it. Upon seeing you Merry stretched his arms, and without words you understood him, giving him a comforting embrace. There in your arms he was moved to tears, talking of all the death and pain and loss he has seen that day and memories of Boromir’s death resurfacing. Your arms were around him, encasing him in a protective circle, allowing him to share pain without speaking yourself. You stayed with him that night, both of you cuddling in bed in each other’s arms, the last thing you heard before falling into dreams was soft “I love you” from Merry.
Pippin would feel his love for you flow through him, something which elevates him, and the only way to stay grounded is confess and for you to share in his emotions. He would want to tell you pretty much as soon as he realises his emotions but waits for a perfect moment. The day of Aragorn’s coronation there is a big celebration, it is as if whole world is salutes the victory of good over evil and return of rightful kind into Gondor. In this merry atmosphere he will steal you away from the main event, to tell you all he feels.
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