Lou | she/her | 19 | Writer | | I do some arty stuff, but I wouldn’t call myself an artist | | Proud Boromir defender | The most boring person you'll ever meet. I'm writing a LOTR fanfic too atm, Maybe check it out??ttps://archiveofourown.org/works/45198496?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#main
Hello, I’m Lou, or Cardboard Guitar. Sometimes I write stuff. I will add to this as it grows, but, i have to write more first.
LORD OF THE RINGS
~•~
The Language of Flowers
My first attempt at a multichapter fic, a typical Boromir/original female character, tenth walker ship. Gledswith is Rohirrim, and a bit of an outlaw, so there’s that. Chances are it’s going to grow into a massive abomination, but I do have a love for it. Gledswith is dear to me, she’s my first OC. I have no strict plan for each chapter, I just follow the plot and they end themselves.
I have plans to write a couple of one-shots regarding Language of Flowers, but that could be a while down the road. If ever, I'm inconsistent.
MARAUDERS
~•~
the Great Prankster and the Terrific Yule Ball Ruse
A new fic I started, simply because I was getting FLOODED by Marauders stuff. Sirius Black & OFC pairing, with fake relationship stuff going on. I don't envision it going far, probably not much more than a few one shots here and there. at least then I might be inclined to finish something for once!!!! Mostly I just use it as a palate cleanser, and motivation to start writing again.
ORIGINAL WORKS
~•~
For Sale; Baby Shoes, Never worn
A really terrible attempt at horror. I don’t like it, but I’m keeping it on my page due to the fact that we all have to start somewhere, and it serves as a reminder that I am improving.
~•~
Getting Notions
Its a band au set in the 1970s, and I’m really enjoying writing it. Istg it writes itself. The character of Sandie Stevens came to me in a dream, and I’m fairly sure that she’s some sort of entity, influencing the story. Cross-posted on Wattpad, sort of.
~•~
Une lettre pour mon frère.
A simple little one shot about a Colonel in exile with Napoleon on st. Helena, writing a letter to his brother back in France. It's not much, but it's honest work.
~•~
Shoot At Me All You Bloody Well Want!
Could you tell I was on a 19th century kick?
A short about a Redcoat Officer who leaves the army because he's sick of winning all the time, and his ship ride home to Plymouth.
CHAPTER 16 OF LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS IS OUT NOW!!!!!!!!!
give it a read, it might stop me melting in this heat.
pray for all gingers in this heatwave while youre at it. manifest aftersun and cooling breezes.
The Language of Flowers (46979 words) by Cardboard_Guitar
Chapters: 16/?
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s), Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Characters: The Fellowship of the Ring, Original Characters, Original Rohirrim Character(s), Éowyn (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig, Gríma Wormtongue, Legolas Greenleaf, Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel, Gandalf | Mithrandir, Gimli (Son of Glóin), Elrond Peredhel, Arwen Undómiel, Frodo Baggins, Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took, Sam Gamgee, Denethor II, Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Beregond (Guard of the Citadel), Galadriel | Artanis, Elrohir (Tolkien), Elladan (Tolkien)
Additional Tags: First ever fic, Slow Burn, Tenth Walker, bear with me please, Gledswiths a Mary sue, im sorry, but Boromirs there so if that’s a plus, Denethors a plus parenting, No beta we die like orcs, Boromir Lives, irregular updates, I’m trying my best, Oh and theyres Victorian flower language mentioned a few times, And flowers cuz I want to show off my gardening knowledge, Slow Build, Eventual Romance, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, flora symbolica, Flowers, Language of Flowers, Flower Symbolism, Mary Sue, Not Beta Read, Horses, Rohan (Tolkien)
Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s)
Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
The Fellowship of the Ring
Original Rohirrim Character(s)
Denethor II
Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Slow Burn
Tenth Walker
Boromir Lives
Slow Build
Eventual Romance
Mild Gore
Mild Language
Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Canon-Typical Violence
Flower Symbolism
Rohan (Tolkien)
Gledswith, daughter of Gálmód’s whole world was rear-ended over the span of two weeks. One minute, she’s content scraping a living with the other creatives on the streets on Edoras, while simultaneously trying to overthrow her tyrant of a brother, Gríma Wormtongue.
The next, she’s on the run from the law, injured and without a sword or horse in the wilds west of the Gap of Rohan.
Upon meeting the future steward of Gondor in less-than-desirable circumstances, she finds herself roped into a plot to save the world through the destruction of an evil piece of jewellery, with an Elf, a wizard, a dwarf, four hobbits, and the heirs of what appears to be the two most prestigious houses in all the kingdoms of men.
Gledswith has to grapple with all the terrible things she's done, fighting to make herself worthy of this new world the Fellowship seek to create. Will the ends justify her means?
Meanwhile, the world of men crumbles beneath Saurons' shadow, and beneath their faltering leaders.
Gledswith, daughter of Gálmód’s whole world was rear-ended over the span of two weeks. One minute, she’s content scraping a living with the other creatives on the streets on Edoras, while simultaneously trying to overthrow her tyrant of a brother, Gríma Wormtongue.
The next, she’s on the run from the law, injured and without a sword or horse in the wilds west of the Gap of Rohan.
Upon meeting the future steward of Gondor in less-than-desirable circumstances, she finds herself roped into a plot to save the world through the destruction of an evil piece of jewellery, with an Elf, a wizard, a dwarf, four hobbits, and the heirs of what appears to be the two most prestigious houses in all the kingdoms of men. She has to grapple with the things she's done, for the sake of what she must do, but will the ends justify her means? Meanwhile, the world is crumbling, no matter where one looks.
The Language of Flowers - Boromir/OFC
Chapters: 15/?
Excerpt:
Gledswith, daughter of Gálmód had passed out under a bush. Due to the throbbing pain above her left hip, she reasoned that she was likely not dead.
She vaguely remembered staggering feverishly through the forest east of the Greyflood, and upon stealing a glance at her stab wound, noticed that the worst of the infection had worked its way through, and her fever had lessened.
Gledswith thanked Béma for her upbringing among the healers of Edoras, and Olfete’s constant insistence that one must carry essential healing herbs on them at all times.
Gingerly, Gledswith brought herself to her feet. She couldn’t have been too far from the river, as its angry roar could be heard on the other side of the row of pine trees to her right. Or were they larch? Gledswith couldn’t tell.
Anyways, she thought, there are much more pressing matters than identifying the local flora and fauna.
She had gathered her pack and shield now, and fastened the leather strap of the shield over her shoulder. It was designed from ash, round and painted as in the custom of the Rohirrim, depicting a white horse rearing over a wall of flames, set on a green field.
Most riders bore the sigil of their house on their shields, but when Gledswith had arrived in the small village of the Snowbourne, newly orphaned and sent to live with her cousins at the age of ten, she had designed her own.
She wondered about her cousin, Gamgar, and how he was faring in Gondor’s army. When things had settled down, and Gledswith’s name and portrait was not nailed to every surface in Edoras, she should write to him.
Scarcely four-hundred paces from where she stood, just out of sight, the agonised scream of a dying horse rang out from the far side of the trees. The gut-wrenching screech was accompanied by a cacophony of swords clashing broke the early morning peace that the forest had held previously.
“Gondor!”
The vicious battle cry threw Gledswith abruptly from her musings, and caused her to surge forward, her hand flying to her scabbard at her hip.
Abrupt panic filled her when the sword that should be at her side was not there, but left when she remembered she had sold it for an alibi two days earlier. Instead, she drew the dagger from her boot, unslung her shield, and charged forward once more.
-o0o-
Gledswith’s logical line of thinking vanished as a surge of adrenaline took over, and she jumped straight into the fighting throng.
The Gondorian, as Gledswith’s subconscious had named him, was a towering individual, with auburn hair that was shorn roughly about his shoulders.
He appeared to have been ambushed by at least a dozen orcs, and despite being severely outnumbered, was holding them back quite well, with five already on the ground, clutching at various wounds, black blood pumping and splashing everywhere.
The man was currently parrying the crudely fashioned blade of an orc, while at the same time trying to block the strikes of another two with his shield.
Gledswith, with deathly precision, drew the shorter throwing knives that rested in the holster on her thigh, and launched them at the three orcs. The Gondorian turned just enough to see two blades strike the first orc in the throat, and the second in the eye. The third missed completely, landing uselessly in the pine needles that coated the ground. The remaining orcs, upon seeing the new victim that had entered the clearing, surged forward.
But Gledswith was waiting. She held her stance until the last second, and ducked sharply, ramming the shield up as she did so, and slashing mercilessly, dodging the cruelly honed edges of their blades. Her own dagger held much less range against the orcish sabres, so her only option was to fight up close.
She spun, knocking the flat of a blade aside as she forced her dagger through layers of thick leather armour, and equally thick flesh.
With a sickening squelch, Gledswith wrenched the blade out, kicked the orc downward, and blocked the next blade with rim of her shield.
She was surprised to find herself back to back with the Gondorian, but was thankful overall, as they were able to attack on both fronts.
The Gondorian’s strength and skill with his sword was formidable, and something to behold, he cut through layers of leather and flesh with no more difficulty than if it were made of wool. He was obviously a soldier, trained to kill efficiently and quickly. This man had no use for flourishing twirls of a blade. He was, in all possible definitions, a killer.
Then, with a swing of his mighty bastard sword, the Gondorian ended the skirmish.
The final orc slumped, and fell face first of his polished leather riding boots. With a look of disgust that betrayed his standing as a high nobleman, he kicked the twitching corpse away from him, and turned to Gledswith.
His sword still drawn, he manoeuvred into low guard. To an inexperienced eye, the lowered blade held little threat. But Gledswith knew different. It was a guard designed to give ones opponent a false sense of safety, favoured among the warriors of Dol Amroth.
Chest heaving as the adrenaline from the battle fled as swiftly as it came, Gledswith wiped the worst of the gore off her dagger before sheathing it.
She hissed slightly as she straightened to look the Gondorian in the eye. The wound at her hip had reopened, and blood was running freely down her side, staining the lighter shades of wool on her cloak.
The Gondorian noticed, damn him, and gave her a look. Gledswith took this moment to study the man she had just risked her neck to help. He was tall, well over six feet, and well built. He had auburn hair, that fell in waves just above his shoulders, and grey eyes.
He wore a fine fur cloak, and the tunic he wore over his mail coat was finely embroidered with the white tree of Gondor. And hanging freely from his belt, of exquisite carved horn, bound in leather was an heirloom that disclosed the Gondorian’s identity.
Gledswith recalled pouring over a history of the noble houses of Gondor many years ago, and recognised immediately that this was the horn of Gondor, the most prestigious of heirlooms existing since the second age, and reserved only for the Steward’s heir.
Gledswith was squaring off with Boromir, eldest son of Denethor Ecthelion, and heir to what was essentially the strongest house in all of Gondor.
Lovely.
CHAPTER 15 OF THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS IS OUT NOW!!!!!!!
Isn't it wonderful when I get my arse in gear? I'm spoiling you with regular (ish) updates!
CHAPTER 15: ELROND'S STUDY
Boromir was a man of action. A Captain, a soldier. There was little that irked him more than waiting for other men to decide what was to be done.
Faramir seemed to endure it much easier, he wouldn't pace, wouldn't flit from one menial task to another, in a desperate attempt to distract himself.
As he stood before Elrond now, he felt that familiar sense of urgency beat against his chest. The waiting around in Imladris this past month had made it worse. He was not designed for standing still. This Fellowship was not his first duty. If he was selected, he would go, and go willingly, aiding the halfling as best he could. But if he was not selected, he would return home.
The Ranger had proffered his sword, but one man -even a supposed king- would not be enough.
What sort of man could he call himself, if he were to return empty handed?
He was the heir. He was Gondor's Captain-General. He could not fail. Too many lives depended on his every decision. He could not justify it to himself if no aid came of this quest.
Could he follow this ring to Mordor, ensure its destruction?
Elrond urged him to sit.
"I believe you know why you were summoned here."
"Yes. I saw Gimli departing," Looking upon Elrond's face, he was reminded of his father. "You have decided who shall accompany the halfling."
"I have, though you will find they much prefer to call themselves hobbits. I shall ask you firstly if you are up to the task. No blame shall be placed on you if you feel obligated elsewhere, or that you cannot join this company. No oath shall bind you, unless you choose to swear one. No obligation shall force you to continue if you feel that you are called to another path. You will not be asked to forsake your loyalty for another. If you feel you must return to Gondor without delay, you will not be stopped."
Elrond had more in common with Denethor than his calculating gaze.
Boromir had sat through enough conversations with the Steward to see this for what it was. The art of half-truths and the sly concealment of dire realities was not a skill Boromir possessed, unlike his father and brother. Yet living with both, Boromir was adept at spotting them.
Elrond was trying to portray this as a small ask. That no man would be forced to give up any more than he was willing, but Boromir knew that to be false. He had seen Mordor's shadow. He had seen men slain in battle, and he had seen what Sauron's armies did to innocents. He had heard the Nazgül shatter the wills of men, breaking ranks apart with fear alone.
He had seen Sauron's wrath in Osgiliath, when the bridge had been lost. Two full companies, men Boromir had known for years. His best soldiers, his chosen men. All of them killed, save himself, Faramir, Thorolf and Yngvarr. It had not been valiant, choosing the Anduin's icy current over slaughter.
This quest would subject its members to horrors equal to all of that.
"You downplay the gravity of what you are asking."
Elrond didn't falter. Boromir knew he wouldn't, not visibly.
"Yet you are no fool, Boromir. You understand it without my saying it."
"What is my place, in this company?" He doubted he would be asked to lead it. Elrond had been clear that he thought the Blood of Númenor was diminished in the stewards.
"The Fellowship shall number nine, to match the Ringwraiths who hunt you. You shall be equals, all status of birth or rank put aside. Mithrandir shall be your guide, for he knows of roads which many have forgotten."
That was to be expected, he imagined. It would solve any internal struggle over station, similar to how when Swan Knights and Mithlond archers were stationed together, neither were certain of which ranked the higher. Boromir hated when he had both in his company, for he spent most of his time breaking up brawls.
"Your Fellowship would benefit much of Gondor's backing, but the risk of this quest may in turn place Gondor in a worse position than she is currently. I would sooner face Mordor on my own terms, and put Gondor above the schemes of elves and wizards."
Valar, I sound like my father.
Elrond seemed to sense it too, for the atmosphere in the room altered. Outwardly, the Elf-Lord was still calm, and with a sense of wisdom and warmth expected of him. Yet his features had hardened ever so slightly.
"If that is your wish, you will not be stopped. However, I would ask you to consider that perhaps, this quest is helping Gondor. If the Ring was to be destroyed, Sauron will fall."
"But his armies will not turn to sand. It is not Sauron alone who burns my homeland, who slaughters my people."
"Where do slave armies go, when their master is no more? Without the whip to keep them in line, Sauron's forces will scatter."
"Even scattered, orcs pillage. You have lived a long time, Elrond. I'm sure I don't have to describe what happens to poorest of us when orcs come raiding."
"Will you risk the eradication of all your people, all of Middle Earth, for the sake of a few farmers? How many must be lost, and how many lost, before the balance is fair?"
Despite the harshness of the sentiment, Elrond didn't deliver it as Denethor would have. There was sympathy in his tone, a grief in his eyes, as though his heart bled for all those who suffered for the benefit of the masses.
The elf had a point, as much as Boromir didn't like to admit it.
He stayed silent for a while, mulling it all over in his head. He could refuse, and leave for Gondor in the morning. But Rohan would have closed her borders, after Gledswith. He would be questioned, at the least. If Gríma had thought little of him dying as collateral at Tharbad, arresting him outright would be no great leap.
It would do Gondor no good if he was slain in some cell.
What of Aragorn's help? The Ranger would be part of this quest, he had been the one to get the four halflings this far. Boromir couldn't expect the man to honour his promise if he died in Mordor.
If Boromir was to join this fellowship, he could impress upon him the true depth of Gondor's plight.
"I shall join this company. Whilst I am among them, they will have use of my strength and skill. But my oath to Gondor remains. I will accompany the Ringbearer that far, then make my own way to my homeland."
Elrond smiled, which unnerved Boromir. A part of him felt as though he had played into the Elf Lord's hands.
"The Fellowship will be glad to have you among them, for however long you remain with them."
The Captain of Gondor took that as a dismissal, rising to his feet, and departing with a respectful nod.
It was only when he was down the hall, did he allow himself to consider the gravity of what he had done, what he had just agreed to.
Was there truly any sense in it? To risk death for strangers who were not his people? To protect halflings scarcely able to wield swords?
Would he return to his homeland? Would there even be a home to return to? Were his parting words with Faramir the last he'd ever speak to his brother?
He'd reached the gardens, now. He sank onto a bench, ran a hand down his face. It was beneath him, to succumb to such despair. It was a discredit to Gondor, to Faramir. They would not have fallen whilst he was gone. They would be there when he returned.
“Raw milk is better for you as long as you boil it” so true bestie now imagine if we could like. Super boil it. To really get all the bacteria out. And if we could do that quickly and efficiently. Imagine that.
Pasteurization is a lower temperature even than boiling. It's just "heat it up to a high enough temperature that the bacteria are dead but the flavor of the food is not severely affected, then let it cool down."
It's got to the point where when I do something slightly difficult I have to imagine Boromir coaching me through it. Like come on we have to check emails. For Gondor.
Chapters: 14/?
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s), Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Characters: The Fellowship of the Ring, Original Characters, Original Rohirrim Character(s), Éowyn (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig, Gríma Wormtongue, Legolas Greenleaf, Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel, Gandalf | Mithrandir, Gimli (Son of Glóin), Elrond Peredhel, Arwen Undómiel, Frodo Baggins, Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took, Sam Gamgee, Denethor II, Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Beregond (Guard of the Citadel), Galadriel | Artanis, Elrohir (Tolkien), Elladan (Tolkien)
Additional Tags: First ever fic, Slow Burn, Tenth Walker, bear with me please, Gledswiths a Mary sue, im sorry, but Boromirs there so if that’s a plus, Denethors a plus parenting, No beta we die like orcs, Boromir Lives, irregular updates, I’m trying my best, Oh and theyres Victorian flower language mentioned a few times, And flowers cuz I want to show off my gardening knowledge, Slow Build, Eventual Romance, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, flora symbolica, Flowers, Language of Flowers, Flower Symbolism, Mary Sue, Not Beta Read, Horses, Rohan (Tolkien)
Summary:
Gledswith, daughter of Gálmód’s whole world was rear-ended over the span of two weeks. One minute, she’s content scraping a living with the other creatives on the streets on Edoras, while simultaneously trying to overthrow her tyrant of a brother, Gríma Wormtongue.
The next, she’s on the run from the law, injured and without a sword or horse in the wilds west of the Gap of Rohan.
Upon meeting the future steward of Gondor in less-than-desirable circumstances, she finds herself roped into a plot to save the world through the destruction of an evil piece of jewellery, with an Elf, a wizard, a dwarf, four hobbits, and the heirs of what appears to be the two most prestigious houses in all the kingdoms of men!
And if that’s not bad enough, she has FEELINGS?!
A generic tenth walker fic, but a Boromir ship is always a plus
broke: Boromir was corrupted by the ring because he was weak of heart
woke: Boromir was corrupted because his heart was full. full of love for his brother, for Gondor, for Minas Tirith. Does that make his heart weak? Does a heart motivated by passions and the desire to help others make it weak? Is it wrong and evil to be weak? friendly reminder, the way Sauron deceived Boromir was not by promising him wealth, nor power, nor his own safety- he thought he would be strong enough to defend a whole city and defeat Sauron. Boromir had a heart that was neither weak nor strong, but both at the same time- his heart was full.
