Hard Words, Chapter 1
Boromir/Original Female Character, Boromir Lives, a Shire wedding, culture clashes
Rating: T (alcohol, some adult language and themes)
Chapter wordcount: 5700
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Enjoy it, Aragorn had said. Just enjoy it.
So far, Boromir was following his king’s orders satisfactorily. He was enjoying himself. He’d been in the Shire for four days, and each day outdid the previous in hobbit hospitality. He’d started in Buckland, where he’d been welcomed into the warren-like extravagance of Brandy Hall by Merry’s extended family. The next day found him in Bywater, where after depositing his belongings at the Green Dragon, he’d spent most of his time at the Gamgee home, being clambered on by Samwise’s children and fussed over by a heavily-pregnant Mistress Rosie. The third day brought him to Tuckborough, where he was drawn into the fever-pitched excitement of the Took clan. Every step of the way, there was unending food, brown ale, enthusiastic introductions, warm reunions, laughter, and song.
Yes, Boromir thought, in a few days, he could write a very smug letter to his king assuring him that he did, in fact, follow his orders to have a good time. Then he could pack up his kit and head north to take care of his actual business—surveying the ruins of Annúminas on the shores of Lake Evendim. Aragorn hoped to restore the ancient city back to its former use as a northern capital, and when the invitation had come for a Shire wedding, it seemed the perfect opportunity to scout the old foundations. Aragorn himself couldn’t go, because Queen Arwen was expecting their second child in July, and Faramir couldn’t go, because he was hosting a diplomatic party from Harad in Ithilien for the summer.
“You’ll be better at the surveying bit than I would be, anyway,” Faramir had said morosely. “Seeing as you’ve spent the last twenty years mapping Osgiliath down to the ratholes.”
“You sound unhappy about it,” Boromir had observed.
“Well, of course. I’d like to see Pippin get married. And I expect a Shire wedding in June isn’t a thing to miss. You will take some time to enjoy it, won’t you?”
“Why does everyone think I’m not going to enjoy it?” Boromir had asked tersely. “I’m quite looking forward to it, thank you.”
“Yes, but you’re likely to spend the whole time standing by the ale barrels, trying not to talk to anyone,” Faramir had said.
“That is entirely untrue,” Boromir had lied.
Perhaps he would write to Faramir, too, just to convince his brother that he was being a perfectly gracious guest. He’d need to add some details to make it convincing. The wine served to him at Brandy Hall had been excellent. Samwise’s little daughter Elanor had hair of bright gold. Thain Paladin Took had a short sword wielded at the Battle of Fornost over the family mantel.
Dear Faramir, Boromir thought. First of all, fuck off, I’m having a fantastic time.
To be fair, the visit hadn’t been without its awkwardness. Boromir was existing in a world three feet above everyone else, looming over curly heads and tent awnings and porch roofs. His shoulders ached from hunching to go through doorways, and there was a tender spot on his forehead from the number of times he’d banged it on low ceilings. Folk chattered amiably with him, but half the time he missed what they said, if they happened to look away while they said it. He was constantly begging folks’ pardon and asking them to repeat themselves. People were fascinated by his boots, and he was unsure if he should take them off inside. The one time he did, he shocked everyone by having stockings on underneath. And then, of course, there was the overriding factor that he was in the Shire to attend Pippin Took’s wedding, which was a difficult concept to wrap his head around because Boromir still thought of Pippin as an actual child.
“He’s nearing forty,” Merry said for the dozenth time as he led Boromir up the road. “We have cousins who’ve gotten married a decade younger than him.”
“I know,” Boromir said, stepping carefully across a small footbridge—he wasn’t sure the structure would bear his weight. He’d already broken a chair in Brandy Hall, which Saradoc Brandybuck refused to let him pay for. “I just can’t fathom it. I still think of him as an imp throwing rocks into pits in Moria.”
“Well, he is,” Merry said. “But he’s a grown lad all the same. And he and Diamond have known each other since they were toddlers. She’ll keep him in line. Though, she has her own sense of humor, too. Nobody could commit to Pippin for life without a sense of humor.”
Boromir had gotten that impression when he’d met Pippin’s affianced the previous day in Tuckborough. She was smiley and sparkle-eyed, her acorn-colored cheeks going rosy when he bowed over her hand as he would for any new female acquaintance.
“You’d best keep the lads and lasses a good distance from him,” she blustered to Pippin as she smoothed her flowered skirt. “They’ll be as curious as spring colts.”
Boromir had assumed—had hoped—that she simply meant folk would be startled by his size, because he could not fathom any hobbit looking at him with anything more than childlike wonder.
They’re adults, he reminded himself, over and over. Grown and married with babes of their own. They have jobs and households. They elect leaders. Pay taxes.
Though, it was difficult to imagine such mundane things while tramping through the Shire in June. Everything was in a fling of hedonistic glory. There were flowers everywhere—cascading from the hedges, twined into garlands over doorways, spilling from water pitchers on windowsills, consuming front gardens, and carpeting meadows. Bees droned indolently from bloom to bloom, and birds winged over ponds bright with dancing insects. Folk leaned on front gates, laughing merrily with their neighbors, pausing to gawk and wave at Boromir as Merry led him up the road to the sprawling Bywater festival field where, the following day, Pippin Took would marry Diamond of Long Cleeve.
Like adults.
The road from Bywater split, and Boromir followed Merry down the left fork. They were going to the field to help unload the wagons of flowers, which were being overseen by Merry’s cousin. Second cousin. Or third? Or perhaps they weren’t related at all, but merely used the term cousin to denote any close friend. All he knew was that tomorrow, he would bear a Gondorian standard with the wedding party, as was the custom when any knight of Gondor got married, to honor Pippin’s service as a Guard of the Citadel. For aesthetic purposes—and, he suspected, to keep him from looking like a lone tree trunk in a clover field—he’d been paired with the wedding’s weaver.
“Tell me again what the weaver does at a Shire wedding?” Boromir asked.
“They’re usually an older friend or relative,” Merry said. “Fern used to take care of Diamond when she was little. They’re in charge of the flowers.”
Boromir pictured a wizened hobbit grandmother clipping roses in a garden. “The flowers the bride will carry?”
“Good heavens, the bride, the groom, the mothers and fathers, the lads and lasses, plus the ones they’ll wear in their hair, and the swags for the ceremony and the arrangements for the festival. Posies for the children, boutonnieres for the important folk, and a half-dozen other things I can’t recall right now. It’s nearly as big a job as the food.”
“Goodness,” Boromir said mildly. “I didn’t realize. Why is she called the weaver if her job is the flowers?”
“Because during the ceremony, she’ll take the garlands Pip and Diamond will wear and weave them together into one big one. She’ll also be in charge of drying the garland afterward, and presenting it back to them as a keepsake. You remember the garland over my parents’ mantel, and the one at Paladin and Eglantine’s? Those were their wedding garlands.”
Boromir thought back to fireplace at the Tooks’ hole the previous evening. He’d been more interested in the sword over the mantel—it had gorgeous quillons, incidentally, twisted to look like unfurling leaves—but he thought he remembered a string of dried flowers. Then again, Paladin and Eglantine Took had been practically drowning in flowers, gifts from well-wishers for their son’s wedding.
“So this weaver—” Boromir began.
“Fern. Whitfoot,” Merry supplied. “She’s a niece of Will Whitfoot, the mayor. Lives up that right-hand lane back there, where the old High Wood holes used to be.”
“Right, Miss Whitfoot—my job is to stand next to her?”
“You’ll walk in with her,” Merry said. “Hold her arm, you know, like an escort, and then you’ll stand behind the wedding party with her. Then walk out with her. Think you can handle that?”
“After keeping you out of trouble from Rivendell south to Minas Tirith?” Boromir replied. “I expect I can.”
“I’d argue you did a poor job of keeping us from trouble for a few weeks in the middle.”
“That,” Boromir said, “is extremely uncalled for.”
“At least you didn’t die,” Merry said, craning to look around a bend in the lane. “Then I’d have to feel really bad. Ah, that’s a sight!”
They turned the bend to find a lush green field spread before them, ringed on the far edge by dark oaks. It was a hive of activity—folk bustled about rolling barrels, erecting tents, hanging bunting, and pushing teetering barrows. True to hobbit fashion, there were musicians fueling everyone with a lively tune, and a long table laden with food and drink—even the wedding preparations were one big party.
“Hullo, Miss Bolger!” Merry exclaimed, offering a jaunty smile to a plump, brown-haired hobbit lass who was carrying bottles of cider toward the field. His fingers jumped to his sandy hair, flattening down the unruly tufts. “Help has arrived! Might I assist you?”
“You’re altogether too late, as usual, Mister Brandybuck,” the lass said over her shoulder. “This is my last load for the moment. But Fern needs help at the wagon.”
“Of course!” Merry replied, then cupped his hands at his mouth and called after her retreating back. “Tell me what flowers you’re wearing in your hair tomorrow, so I might match you!”
“As if I should want you to match me!” she called back. Boromir didn’t miss the breathless way she responded, nor the way Merry’s cheeks had turned a vibrant shade of pink.
“A good friend?” Boromir prompted innocently.
“Estella,” Merry said, unconsciously flattening his hair again. “Fatty Bolger’s sister. Always did have a cruel streak about her.” He nodded toward the other side of the field. “There’s Fern’s wagon. Let’s see what she needs.”
The weaver’s wagon wasn’t hard to spot—it was literally overflowing with flowers. Flowers in buckets, in barrels, in baskets, flowers coiled carefully in garlands and draped in swags. Boromir followed Merry toward it, picking their way among the crowds of folk, which was difficult because so many of them paused to stare up at him, shading their eyes. He and Merry neared the wagon, where folk were teeming around the edges to help unload.
“Ho!” one portly man exclaimed when he swiveled round with a crate of greenery on his shoulder. “You’re that big blighter they keep talking about!”
“I am,” Boromir agreed. “Do you need a hand?”
“Not at all, my good fellow, I’m off to the ale tent!” He hoisted the crate higher and began to totter off.
“Abenard, those go to the stage! The stage! Abenard! Merry, catch him, before he reaches the barrels.”
But Abenard had already hot-footed it away from the wagon, disappearing behind a stack of rickety wooden chairs. Boromir looked back to the wagon at the hobbit who had hollered ineffectually after him.
“Boromir, may I introduce my second cousin once-removed, Fern,” Merry said, and then shouted over the milling crowd. “Fern! Hey, Fern!” He waved up at Boromir. “This is Boromir! He’s the fellow I was telling you about, the big fellow!”
Boromir blinked at the weaver. She wasn’t a wizened old grandmother at all. She was a lass, apple-cheeked and fair-skinned, with wispy strawberry-blonde hair piled up in fluffy coils on her head. She wore a sky-blue dress with the sleeves rolled up over her elbows, covered by a white apron, which was smudged with soil. Standing as she was amid piles of flowers, she looked like a statue of Vána on a spring shrine.
A very small, rather hassled-looking statue. She stood with her fists on her hips, staring at Boromir.
“That’s him?” she called back.
“Yeah,” Merry said, elbowing his way through the crowd to come alongside the wagon. “Captain of Gondor and all that—taught me how to use a sword. Fought off a tentacled water beast and a couple dozen orc warriors single-handed. Can’t paddle a boat for shit.”
“Oh, heavens,” Fern said, pursing her lips, which were round and remarkably pink. “His circlet’s going to need to be bigger. I don’t know what I was thinking. Dwarf, I suppose. Hey!” She snapped her fingers in Boromir’s direction. “Come here!”
Half-amused, half-dumbfounded—he’d given officers demerits for less direct offenses—he waded forward, still trying to make sense of having the kindly old hobbit matriarch in his head replaced by one so young and so pretty.
Remarkably pretty, actually.
His brain balked. How young was she? Merry had said she used to take care of Diamond, but Fern looked no older than Éowyn, and his sister-in-law was nearly half his age. Too young. Extremely, very much too young to be thought of as remarkably, strikingly pretty by an aging, banged-up Mannish soldier.
He reached the wagon, and Fern stepped from the piles of flowers to balance on the side. With no hesitation, she reached out, put her hands on Boromir’s head, and bent it downward. He was confronted with a view of her feet—bare, of course, large, long-toed, and covered with thick strawberry-blonde curls.
He felt her set her fingers in a ring about the crown of his head.
“Another few inches,” she observed, holding her fingers up and studying them. “You’re on the big side, aren’t you? Even for a Man?”
Boromir slowly raised his head up from the obeisance she’d bent him into. With her perched on the wagon’s side, they were just at eye height with each other.
“You’re not allergic to dahlias, are you?” Fern asked. “Or asters?”
Incidentally, her eyes were brown. A sort of rich leather-brown, like when he could get his vambraces to a good shine.
Could include that in the letter to Faramir.
Fern looked at Merry. “Am I speaking the wrong language to him?”
“No, no, I expect he’s just being obtuse. Hey, you great ox.” Merry stood on tiptoe and flicked Boromir’s ear mercilessly. “Are you allergic to dahlias?”
Boromir shook himself. “Forgive me, no. I’m not.”
“Asters?”
“No.”
“Good.” Fern stepped back into the loaded wagon. “You’d have had to stand out in the field if you were, and wave your flag from there. Is he not big?” She directed this last question to Merry.
“He’s a bit big, yeah,” Merry said. “Even for a Man.”
“I thought so. What a mismatched pair we’re going to make. Here.” She hefted a crate brimming with blousy, peach-colored blossoms. “You can start by bringing these to the banquet tents. There’s a second box, Merry, so don’t think you can sneak off.”
Boromir dutifully accepted the crate and backed up carefully until he was clear of the milling hobbit folk. Merry struggled to join him, and Boromir followed him up the green toward the biggest of the many tents.
“Big job, weaving a wedding,” Merry observed as they detoured around a group attempting to pound a tent stake into the turf. “But Fern always comes through.”
“How old is she?” Boromir blurted.
Merry scrunched his face in thought. “Fifty-four, maybe? Or is it fifty-five? Yes, fifty-five! Because she’s ten years older than me.”
Ignoring the fact that Merry was only two years younger than himself, Boromir threw a glance over his shoulder, back toward the wagon, where Fern was gesticulating at someone mishandling one of her garlands.
“She’s older than me,” he said, astonished.
“Is she, now?” Merry asked cheerfully. “Your Mannish ages never did make sense, did they? Seem to skip along right quick. That’s the tent we want, up there.”
Boromir turned back to their path, feeling both unsettled and a bit relieved. At least he didn’t have to feel guilty about his first impression of Fern Whitfoot. She was pretty, and hobbit ages were baffling, and that was the end of that.
They made several more trips to and from the wagon, toting piles of flowers all over the field. Boromir knew very little about flowers, but he did notice there was a definite color theme, with the dominant shade being peach, accented by whites, blues, and greens. He could write that to Faramir, as well, just to show he was paying attention. Some arrangements had more of one color than the others, and some were simply masses of the same type of flower. He wondered if there was any rhyme or reason to it, or if they’d merely been arranged based on what was available.
The June day grew hot in the peak of afternoon. Many hobbits trickled away, searching for shady places or cool interiors to take a rest. Merry made his own escape after a particularly long trek to the far side of the field, but Boromir wasn’t so worn out that he felt ready to stretch out in the shade. There was still plenty of work to be done. Rolling up his sleeves—he’d taken his jerkin off after their third trip across the field—he headed back to the wagon.
Fern wasn’t there, however, and the bed was nearly empty save for a few buckets of mismatched blossoms. Bereft of direction, he wandered toward the nearest tent, where he’d seen hobbits hanging bunting earlier. The fluttering cloth streamers were only half tacked-up and at an easy height for him to reach, and so he piled a handful of squat nails into his pocket, scrounged an undersized hammer from a crate, and moved methodically around the perimeter, tacking the bunting to each post.
He lost himself easily in the repetitive work, pausing only to sweep his hair away from his face and into a sweaty half-tail. He didn’t have any leather ties he normally used to put his hair up, and so he made do with a fragment of bunting that frayed off in his hand. Plucking at his damp shirt, he continued around the perimeter, post to post, slowly nearing the open expanse that would serve as the dancing lawn.
He was running low on nails when he caught sight of someone else on the far side of the stage, teetering on a stool to reach the upper height of one of the posts. He spied tumbles of strawberry hair. It was Fern, with a cascade of flowers slung on one arm. He watched as she stood on tiptoe, lifted the spray to the top of the post, and hung it from a hook. She clambered down from the stool, stepped back to observe her work, and then bent to the buckets around her. She selected a few blooms, climbed back up, removed a few flowers, and tucked the new ones in their places. She climbed down again, stood back, observed, and, satisfied, gathered up the stool and additional sprays to move on to the next post.
She was coming back to fetch her buckets when Boromir approached.
“Do you need a hand?” he asked.
“Oh.” She pushed frizzing curls out of her face, which was bright pink from the heat. “I suppose. Why aren’t you off for a rest?”
“Why aren’t you?” he returned.
“Too much to do,” she said breathlessly, bending to gather the buckets. “A wedding’s weaver can plan and delegate and toil for months ahead of time, but the biggest work still ends up being the day before and the day of. I won’t sleep a wink until tomorrow night.” She slung the rope handles up her arms, where the buckets all clacked together. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”
“I don’t idle well when other folk are working,” he admitted. “Too fidgety.” He gestured to her. “How about I take the buckets?”
She slid half of them off her arms and handed them over, and they progressed to the next post. She set down her load and positioned her stool, then stooped to collect one of her sprays.
“Oof,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the spray. “These dahlias looked much less pink by lantern light last night.” She stepped onto the stool. “I knew I was making more work for myself, but they couldn’t wait until morning.” She held up the spray, again standing on her toes, and tried to lean back at the same time to see the effect. The stool wobbled.
“Careful,” Boromir said instinctively. “Why don’t I hold it for you? Then you can stand back and look.”
Reluctantly, Fern handed him the spray and stepped down from the stool. She stood back and gazed up, her fists on her hips. She shook her head.
“No. I can’t, in good conscience, leave them looking like that. Here.” She rummaged in her buckets and selected several stems. She lifted them up to him. “Pull those blush ones out and put these in.”
“The blush…?”
“The pinky ones. On the right. Not that one—there. Yes. Pull it out.”
Boromir plucked out a flower that, in all honesty, looked the same to him as the ones she was holding. She passed a new one to him and stuck the offending bloom back in the bucket.
“Try not to kink the stem,” she said as he clumsily threaded the flower in place.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to gentle his work. “I realize I’m showing my ignorance, but are the colors really so very different from each other?”
“Pass me that one below, and I’ll show you.” He pulled out the one she indicated, and she held it up alongside another she’d taken from the bucket. “See? The main color we’re aiming for is apricot. But this one has too much pink, bordering on rose, and that risks straying into mockery.”
“Mockery?”
“Because Pip and Diamond have known each other since childhood, and have been courting for well over two years,” she said.
She must have seen his bewildered expression, because she raised an eyebrow. “You know the meanings of flowers?” At his continued silence, she shook her head. “No, of course you don’t.”
“I know some are traditional for certain events,” he said with a touch of defensiveness. “Lilies for a funeral. Chrysanthemums for a birth.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude,” Fern said. “I meant merely, of course you wouldn’t know the meanings of flowers, because they’re probably a northern practice, and even if they weren’t, I can’t imagine a great lord of Gondor needing to know such things.” She held up a bloom. “These are dahlias. You know dahlias?”
“I am thoroughly aware they’re a flower,” he said, and she laughed, a bright, easy sound.
“They represent longevity,” she said. “And commitment. But the colors are important, too.” She held up the pink—blush—blossom. “Shades of rose suggest a young love—they’re something you might offer the object of your affection when you first begin courting, to express that you’re committed to a long relationship. But given after so many years of knowing another, and they tend to suggest the opposite—a lack of growth, a waning commitment, especially when paired with asters.”
He looked at the spray. “The asters are…?”
“The daisies.” She stood on tiptoe to brush the lowest examples. “They represent youthfulness, sometimes even innocence—it’s a common flower for children’s celebrations. Add in the green Bells of Tookbank, and you’re bordering on something overly saccharine and obscenely juvenile.” She grimaced at the pink—blush—dahlia and tossed it back into the bucket, handing Boromir the peach colored one.
Boromir tucked the flower into its place. “And you can avoid all that just by choosing a slightly less pink dahlia?”
“Well, I’ve been very clever, if I do say so myself,” she said, pleased. “The blue asters offset the more childish white ones by suggesting fond memories of a childhood long past. And the wormwood and the foxglove mature everything up significantly. Wormwood conveys bitterness, and foxglove suggests sensuality, but in a reliable way, sustained.” She gave a suggestive little shake of her shoulders, and Boromir couldn’t help but laugh.
“There are ferns here, too,” he said, running his fingers down one of the fronds. “What do they mean?”
Fern smiled. “Secrets.”
“Truly?”
“They grow tucked up in deep woodlands,” she said, taking one from the bucket and threading it through her hair, then offering him a purposefully mysterious smile. “Hidden away, unfurling where you least expect them. But I admit—they’re also there as a bit of a signature.” She waved to the completed spray. “So all together, we’re suggesting a youthful love that has grown into something mature, intimate, and long-lasting, that has overcome the bitterness of separation and grief.” She smiled at the display. “But overall—the overarching theme—is joy. That’s what Diamond and Pippin wanted way back last year when we were choosing their weavings.”
“Remarkable,” Boromir said, studying the spray with her. “You are truly a master.”
Fern looked sideways at him. “You’re poking fun.”
“Indeed I’m not,” he said. “When Merry was describing a weaver’s job, he told me there was more to it than just providing flower arrangements, but I had no idea it was so nuanced. And I can think of no better theme to celebrate Pippin and Diamond.”
“Well, they should serve,” Fern said modestly, pulling the fern frond from her hair. A piece of it was left behind, caught in her curls. Boromir decided not to say anything about it. A secret. He smiled and hefted the buckets.
“Next post?” he asked.
“Next post,” she agreed.
They made their way around the dancing green, with Boromir setting the swags in place and then replacing or adjusting the flowers as Fern directed. Once they reached the end, Fern led him to the ceremony lawn, where there were great sprays to secure over a willow archway. The peak of the arch was tall even for him, and he had to stretch to tie in the uppermost stems. Partway through, with his hands buried in greenery, the cloth fragment holding his hair frayed apart, and his hair flopped down into his sweaty face. He puffed to sweep the strands out of his eyes, but he only succeeded in sticking them to his cheeks.
Fern laughed as he tied the last stem and wobbled backward, flinging his head to throw the hair out of his face. She reached into her own curls and pulled out a ribbon, made of tatted lace, fixing the loose locks in place under a pin.
“Crouch down,” she said. “I’ll put it up for you.”
He shook his head. “I’m wretchedly sweaty.”
She shrugged. “I am, too. Besides.” She dangled the lace ribbon. “It’ll look ever so pretty.” She jerked her chin. “Down, I say. On your knees. Unless you prefer to look like a blown haystack.”
Grudgingly, he lowered to the ground, his knees cracking in protest. Fern moved around behind him and raked his hair back from his eyes.
“You know,” he said mildly, “I have whole brigades of men who are required to stand, salute, and call me sir when I approach. In case you were thinking folk can typically order me to my knees and scorn my appearance.”
“Is that a fact?” she said, her voice muffled because she was pinching the lace ribbon in her mouth as she swept his hair back, though it didn’t hide her wry tone.
“Whole divisions, actually,” he said. “My own brother is expected to call me sir during parade. Even Pippin, as a Knight of Gondor, should technically call me sir.”
“And does he?”
“Not once,” Boromir said, and she laughed again. He smiled at the sound. Her fingers carded his scalp, and his eyelids fluttered involuntarily.
“All those subordinates,” she said, “standing and saluting and bobbing and bowing, and yet, has one ever given you a ribbon and offered to tie up your hair?”
“Never,” he admitted, still smiling. Both Legolas and Gimli had had opinions about the best way to put his hair up as it grew out over the journey south, but Boromir suspected it was more of a power struggle between them rather than any real concern for his comfort. Their approaches had involved braiding—small, pinching, patience-testing braids from Legolas and great yanking handfuls from Gimli. Fern wasn’t braiding—she seemed to be twirling, looping each strand around her finger before securing it in a loose bun.
“You’ll need to brush it before tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll not be seen processing in with some unkempt, boot-shod tower of a foreigner for sweet Di and Pip’s wedding.”
“For you, Lady Weaver, I shall suffer for beauty,” he said. “Though I regret the best garments I brought are the formal dress blacks and full ceremonial kit of the Citadel Captaincy. I hope it shall suffice for you.”
“Black?” Her shocked face popped around his shoulder. She leveled a piercing gaze at him. “Black, for a Bywater wedding in June?”
He crooked a grin at her. “There’s some white and silver, too.”
She cast her eyes skyward, as if searching for patience, and then she disappeared around his back again. “Oh, mercies, we really are going to make a ragged pair.”
“There are flowers embossed into the uniform belt, if that helps,” he said.
“Oh, yes?” The tail of the ribbon dropped into his face as she wound the other end around his knot of hair. A floral scent washed his nose. “What kind of flowers?”
“The kind that bloom on the White Tree of Gondor,” he said. He craned his head around to catch sight of her. “What complex meaning do those convey?”
“Skies, I don’t know. Probably excess pride and self-importance, if you are wearing them. Eyes front. Sir.”
He grinned and turned around once more. Fern finished wrapping the ribbon around his hair and then came around to his front, observing her work with pursed lips. She batted a few short wisps that defied the bun. “There. It’ll hold for a little while. I’m sorry it was so humbling for you, but you can stop your posturing now.”
“I do thank you,” he said. “Truly. I don’t mean to posture.”
She threw him a look of feigned shock. “No? How else would we simple country folk recognize you as a great commanding lord?” She swished out her blue skirts, affecting a curtsy.
“Now you are poking fun,” he said.
“I am. I admit it.” Her gaze traveled past him, where the shadows were lengthening across the wedding field and hobbits were straggling back from their afternoon rest. “Had a good nap, did you?” she called.
“Indeed I did not!” Footsteps pattered behind Boromir, and he turned to see Merry approaching with Pippin and Diamond. “I was supporting the happy couple as they decided which ales to serve before the feasting versus during.”
“Oh, Fern, it looks marvelous!” Diamond, her dark brown curls flying, threw her arms around Fern, gazing at the spills of flowers that festooned every post. She kissed the older hobbit’s rosy cheek. “It’s exactly how I imagined it!”
“I’m glad,” Fern replied, returning the bride’s kiss. “I shouldn’t want anything less.” She nodded to Pippin. “A stroke of genius, Pip, to invite your commanding officer—the work went much faster with him marching around. He says you should call him sir, by the way.”
“Ha!” Pippin exclaimed, bounding to Boromir’s side and flinging himself onto his shoulders, making Boromir collapse forward onto his hands and knees. “I shall call him sir when he gives me cause to! Where were you at the defense of the Citadel, you great troll? You were out bobbing around on a boat, weren’t you? Where were you at the Battle of Bywater? With your feet up in the White Tower! Sir, indeed—the cheek!”
“I could literally have you court-marshalled,” Boromir said, his head hanging at his elbows under Pippin’s weight.
“Not on the eve of my wedding,” Pippin said. “Think how my bride would suffer. Have you eaten, Fern? My mother brought sausage pies.”
“I’ll eat later,” she said. “I have to arrange the banquet tables. You go. Oh—and be sure everyone who needs personal flowers tomorrow knows to meet me at the wagon before the ceremony.” She looked at Boromir as he muscled Pippin off his back and straightened to his knees. “And I must remember to lengthen yours. Else you’ll look ridiculous.” She shook her head. “Black. Honestly.” She turned away, scooping up her buckets and toting them off.
Diamond twisted her hands together. “Poor Fern. She’s run herself ragged. Since I was little, I always knew I wanted her to be my weaver, but now I worry I’ve asked too much of her.”
“Nonsense.” Pippin kissed her hair. “When has Fern ever met a challenge she couldn’t handle?”
“Yes, but if anyone deserves a nice, restful celebration, it’s her,” Diamond said, chewing her lip.
“Honestly, she probably prefers to be busy,” Merry said. “Keeps her mind off things, you know.” He patted Diamond’s shoulder. “Come on. Boromir should try one of Eglantine’s pies before they’re snatched up.”
Boromir glanced at Fern’s retreating back. “It keeps her mind off what?” he asked Merry.
“Oh, you know. The crushing grief of warfare and bloodshed. Cold, dark loneliness.” Merry waved a hand. “Come on. Pie.”
Boromir relaxed. Merry was joking, then, as he usually did. Warfare and bloodshed had decimated the south, but they had barely grazed the Shire, and Boromir certainly couldn’t imagine bleak loneliness in the boisterous summertime gardens of Bywater. Tucking the loose tail of the lace ribbon behind his ear, he followed Merry to the banquet tables.
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lost township: the homegame
howdy yall :D i made a post like this a while ago that very much needed to be updated and i simply talk about and tag characters from lost township a lot so i wanted to have an easy place to reference for what in the hell im talking about and something to throw at people when i want to infodump. so!!
the game:
lost township is a d&d homegame set in a fictionalized, magical 1880s wild west. its set in the american-equivalent country the democracy of silver and includes all of the magic that we know from typical d&d games. it's based in the town of lost, in the state of undersun, sandwiched between harsh deserts and the mountains
the pcs:
cass bluebell - she/her - human drunken master monk - played by @strangetorpedos
cass is the owner of the saloon in lost and mother to adopted 6 year old davey. she's stoic, fair, and always just a little too weary for all the things on her plate. she took over the saloon about 5 years ago after the murder of her mother by the mysterious assassin the brownbird, and spent years trying to solve the murder to no avail (until recently). middle aged repressed lesbian on main, didn't sign up for this shit - art
divine shook - she/her - aasimar eloquence bard + oath of the bear paladin - played by @masculinepeacock
divine is the schoolteacher in lost and lives with her wife sarah and brother-in-law hawk. former southern belle of the rich intervention family, now barely scraping by as the breadwinner of the household. chronically babygirl coded, ultimate bambi lesbian. is the angel of the deer god of poetry but currently follows the bear god of fire and families and talks to her god like she's her mom (she is in their hearts). currently dating(?) sheriff lizzie - tag
maeve marigold - she/her - kalashtar psychopomp sorcerer - played by kaity
maeve is a former sex worker turned recently hired psychopomp of the raven queen, soon to be doing the psychopomp thing full time. she always has the most insane response possible no matter what the question was and does not know how to read. she also did not know what a psychopomp was when she agreed to be one. is currently under the tutelage of latrowe, the raven queen's current psychopomp, and has been being plagued by dreams and nightmares she knows aren't her own
morel - they/them - firbolg knowledge cleric / spores druid - played by @floralprintshark
morel is the local witch doctor and prophet of the god of fungi and decay. lived on the outskirts of lost for many years, providing free healthcare to the vulnerable townsfolk who weren't safe with the town's stuffy doctor. after pining for years, finally in a relationship with cat after the "unfortunate" murder of her former husband, and jointly raising her daughter kitten and their mysteriously delivered baby juniper. goth sad cow - tag
onion - they/he/she - fey shepherd druid / fey wanderer ranger - played by @paladinbaby
onion is a smuggler and deliverer of changelings who was introduced to the party with the task of safely transporting them from lost to the neighboring state. he's Fey Neurodivergent and a bit of a grumpy messy dyke (gender neutral) who doesn't have a ton of connections but cares about his people very deeply. chosen family with waylon squad and best friends with brandi - tag
will orville - he/him - werewolf gunslinger fighter - played by @punkbarbarian
will is an "investigator" (mercenary) who was brought to town under instructions to find and kill the brownbird and then ended up staying because he is a big old sad puppydog who needed to learn to love again and is. he is so so autism dad on main and cries at the drop of a hat (affectionate). currently dating scruggs, the first relationship he's been in since his husband was killed 13 years ago - tag
the npcs:
brandi carlile "the brownbird" - she/he - aasimar wild card rogue + arcane archer fighter + vengeance paladin
white hat assassin and angel of the jackalope god of chaos and death. her father was the singular prophet of her god who was responsible for raising the jack to godhood until he was assassinated when she was a young child. now she kills mostly bad men, mostly other followers of the jack. despite that he's both very excitable and very wet n pathetic babygirl hours and pretty much just wants to be cared for. long-time best friends with onion and in a Situationship (derogatory) with lizzie - tag
sarah shook - she/they - human wildfire druid
divine's wife and hawk's sister, golden retriever wife guy on main always. excitable, loving, intensely adhd, spends their time gardening, talking folks ears off at the market, and reading smutty books with her wife. refuses to process any of her childhood and she's so normal about it. has a bear cub made of fire named honeysuckle that she was gifted by the bear god. currently making eye emojis at morel and cat - tag
hawk shook - he/him - human wild magic artificer
sarah's brother and divine's brother in law. trying his best but unfortunately his best is not great, fiercely protective and caring but not good at the whole adulting thing. so far unsuccessful at holding down a job but is now working (hopefully long term) for cass at the saloon. slutty, gay, too autistic for his own good. was the originator of the plan for him, sarah, and divine to leave their homestate and find a new place to live after working for divine's awful parents for years - tag
cat clyde stevens - she/her - orc life cleric
former wife of bobby clyde, now partnered with morel, mother of half orc kitten and newly adoptive mother of baby juniper. married bobby and had kitten very young, and was mistreated for years before developing a relationship with morel and finally gathering the courage to call the brownbird and have her kill bobby. shy, nervous, very caring, new to the cleric thing - tag
lizzie no - she/her - coyote shifter crown paladin
former big city reporter, currently the sheriff of lost. protective, prickly, observant, and more than a little neurotic. bitchy dyke fr fr. religious trauma on main. managed to make it to lost after getting shot and got adopted and taken care of by waylon. now sister to kelsey and scruggs. has been in love with divine for Years and is not quite sure what to do now that theyre A Thing. in a Situationship (derogatory) with brandi, and is former friends, almost lovers, enemies, to somethings, queerplatonic idiots with onion (they'll figure it out,,,) - tag
earl scruggs - he/him - orc tundra storm herald barbarian
former child criminal and enemy of the state turned refugee, now waylons "bodyguard" (read: gets paid to do fuckall). big burly russian man, chronic big brother disease, gentle giant who loves to cook and be silly. tboy swag. has to keep up a reputation around town for being mean and tough but is way more emotionally intelligent and caring than most people give him credit for. currently in Some Sort Of Relationship with will (read: they uhauled and haven't talked about it) - tag
kelsey wilson - they/them - changeling inquisitive rogue
delivered to waylon at age 5 by onion after their parents died, now his secretary but actually just professional babiest sibling. so incredibly autism creature, goth lolita stan always, very anxious about interacting with anyone outside their family so simply Doesn't. does not want to grow up because of The Circumstances TM and so keeps themself young using fey magic which is unfortunately giving them chronic fatigue. kind of a bitch - tag
waylon jennings - he/him - zombie, former lore bard
former professional muse, now the benefactor of lost. bitchy old gay man, doing his best to take care of his kids even if isn't always a peaceful house. got turned into a zombie during an outbreak but somehow managed to keep his consciousness and a little of his magic. has been friends with onion for decades but as he's gotten older has come to view her more like a daughter - tag
latrowe - he/him - coyote psychopomp
used to be just a regular coyote, got chosen by morel's god to be a gift to the raven queen and become her psychopomp. showed up in maeve's dreams for a while and is now in the process of training her to be the new psychopomp cause he really misses being. just a dog. very formal and stoic when he's not eating out of your trash, fights with a cool glowing dagger
roo panes - he/him - tiefling scribes wizard
a religious researcher who was supposed to be cataloguing the pantheons of the democracy but ended up parking in lost for a while to study the jack (autism special interest alert). ultimate nerd, way too talkative, twink who's one stiff breeze away from having his bi awakening. currently has a puppy crush on kelsey and hasn't put together that's why scruggs is mean to him
the gods:
ama - she/her - bear god of fire, families, and the home - worshiped by divine and cat, divine is her paladin
ata - he/him - bison god of food, families, and the home - worshipped by sarah
dakota - he/him - deer god of poetry, beauty, and magic - divine is his aasimar
the jack - no pronouns - jackalope god of death, chaos, trickery, survival, and alcohol - worshiped by many townsfolk in lost, including cass's late mother, brandi is the jack's only aasimar
kathairein - they/them - vulture god of fungi, decay, and disease - morel is their prophet
nidaash - they/them - salmon god of sex, transformation, and journeys
the raven queen - she/her - raven god of life and death, knowledge, divination, and the moon - maeve and latrowe are her psychopomps
sidewinder - he/him - rattlesnake god of protection, safety, medicine, and the sun - lizzie is his paladin
ship tags:
divine/sarah
divine/lizzie
lizzie/brandi
lizzie/onion
will/scruggs + 2
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