ALWAYS I HAVE LET MY HORN CRY AT SETTING FORTH, AND THOUGH THEREAFTER WE MAY WALK IN SHADOWS, I WILL NOT GO FORTH AS A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.
independent boromir from
LORD OF THE RINGS
as written by Tish
independent boromir from lord of the rings. main blog to shotandshell (Age of Sail and historical multimuse), @gondordad (book-based Denethor), and watcherofroads (tolkien OC). mobile friendly rules and information
continued from x
[ ELM ] sender lends receiver aid in a time of urgent need.
Reeds creaked in the wind, brittle and brown with the dying of summer. Anri’s skirts clung sodden to her legs as she waded the shallows of the Anduin’s edge, the basket on her arm growing heavier with herbs slick with dew and river mist. A scent of loam and decay clung to everything – the peat of the bank, the wilted blooms of water-hemlock, the velvet heads of calendula she prized for poultices. Each footstep sank slightly, ankle-deep, leaving a dark hollow that slowly filled behind her.
The sun was a dim coin behind cloud, the light of it silver and ghastly on the river. Somewhere, a heron cried, long and thin and mournful. The smell of water grew stronger, saltless but ancient, as if a hundred bones were steeping just below the mud.
She bent low to the roots of a twisted marsh-willow, bare fingers working loose the violet-threaded bulbs of spiderwort, when she felt it – that instinctive tightening in her spine, a prey animal’s alert. She froze. Her breath turned shallow.
A boot scraped the silt.
Slowly, tremulously, Anri raised her head. Between the reeds, a man stood – not Gondorian, no soldier of the White City, but veiled in dyed silks and scale armour, the patterned red and black of the Southlands – his face sun-dark beneath the veil, his eyes sharp as broken glass.
A Haradrim.
Her throat closed. Her hand, still buried in the roots, clenched to a fist around the spiderwort. Her basket slipped sideways, trailing leaves like entrails. A sound escaped her, faint and animal, no louder than a gasp.
The scout tilted his head. He moved with balletic precision, stepping from the reeds as if from a tapestry, each motion careful, elegant, awful. He said nothing, but from his hip he drew a knife with a curve like a lion’s fang. Slowly.
Deliberately.
Anri ran.
She fled blindly, feet slapping through water and reeds, the hem of her dress snagging on roots, tearing on thorns. The rhythm of pursuit followed her, fast and certain, with none of the panic that filled her lungs. Her breath came ragged. Her vision blurred. The memory of the village returned – stone huts black with soot, meat sizzling on iron, the shrieks of the dying – memories sharp as a blade held to the throat.
She thought: No, not again.
He was faster and the sound of his steps drew near. Her boot slipped on wet rock, her basket fell. She would have fallen too, had not a great shape interposed itself – a thunder of hooves, a flash of rust, a blow struck hard enough to rattle the air.
There was no warning. Only the sudden, brutal end of the chase.
Anri collapsed to her knees, face wet with tears. She dared not look back. The river murmured behind her while her heart pounded like war-drums. Her hands were still clenched, though the herbs had turned to pulp between her fingers.
The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of laboured breath. Hers and another’s. She turned.
The Haradrim lay broken in the reeds, his lifeblood seeping into the wet earth, staining it crimson. Towering above him stood a man in a long cloak of Gondor, his broad shoulders marked with the sigil of the White Tree. He held a great sword, dark with blood. His chest rose and fell with the exertion of the blow. Pale rain streaked his brow. His eyes were fixed not on the corpse, but on her.
For a moment she could not understand him, could not place him in the dreamscape of violence and memory. He was like something out of the legends the old women told at night, their voices low – of warriors noble and ruin-bound.
There was blood on the rushes, but none of it hers.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice had no strength in it, but it was steady. Even so, she clutched her arms around herself, breath still shivering, and looked past him at the body. The Haradrim’s face had slackened in death, his veil torn. A young man. His knife lay half-buried in river silt. Anri stared for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, uncertain if she meant it for the dead man, or the living one.
The road from Cair Andros was a line etched in the captain's soul, every twist and turn a familiar memory. The city and its lands were as much a part of him as his own armor. Which made the dark shape along the bank a sharp, discordant note in the song of his journey. Worse still was the sight of a second head, emerging from the reeds like a startled bird.
Boromir spurred Cyrnil into a faster gait, the steel of his sword a cold comfort in his hand. They flew across the golden plains of the Pelennor, witnessing the grim chase. The great bay, heedless of the ground's shift from grass to marsh, held his swift pace. From behind the Haradrim came the quick flash of steel. Flesh parted and the man ran a few more paces before falling. Boromir dismounted to ensure the work was done. Only after blood had begun to bloom like a scarlet flower upon the mossy mud did he turn his gaze upon the Haradrim's quarry.
Her tears belied the steadiness in her voice. The crushed plants in her hands told a silent tale of her terror. Boromir drew near with slow, measured steps, as if approaching a shy horse. With practiced ease, his calloused fingers undid the clasp, and the cloak settled gently around her shoulders. He crouched to be at her level, heedless of the sun-warmed water that soaked into the knees of his breeches.
It's too hot for me to comfortably write or do art, so I followed an impulsive urge to plot out the regions of Gondor for my fic On Swift Wings, mainly so I can keep a track of which Lord is from where. These are fairly rough without any overlap, but it gives me a great idea of where places are, how large (and therefore how much influence) each lords area is, and means I'll be able to figure out inter-lord relationships and conflicts!
Later on I might go through the ones without marked towns and add them, so I know where folk live.
This turned out hella long (it's taken longer to write this than it took to draw on the map 😂) so I'll slap a read more on this post. These are mostly base on canon, but there's plenty of headcanons added to suit my needs as well.
Headcanons are in italics.
Andrast - Ungoverned - Sparsely inhabited, a coastal guard and beacons were maintained but have since fell into disrepair, there's potentially a scant population of Drúedain within the White Mountains.
Anfalas - Lord Golasgil - Primarily populated by hunters, herdsmen, and fishers. With a pebbled beach, they have a trade in salt with large salt pans. Also produces quicklime, which is used in construction and agriculture.
Pinnath Gelin - Lord Hiluin/Lady Falasriel - Large area but tiny population, having only brought 300 men to battle. Lord Hiluin and his three sons die at Pelannor, leaving his wife, Lady Falasriel, and their young daughter, Alphriel, to govern. Falasriel becomes a bit of a powerhouse in politics, being unwilling to let certain Lords push her out of the role she's regretfully found herself in.
Morthond - Lord Duinhir - Primarily located within the Blackroot Vale, due to the rumoured hauntings, the population is low. A mixture of hunting and mining is done in this area. Ecthelion's wife, Mírdaniel, came from Morthond (so are cousins to Boromir and Faramir), as its gem and precious metals are highly sought after, giving them more influence in politics than their status would usually claim.
Lamedon - Lord Angbor - A mostly forested land, their primary trade is in leather, meats, and fur, the men are hardy and skilled hunters. Calembel is Lord Angbor's seat, but it's a modest place as he prefers practicality over frivolity.
Ringló Vale - Lord Drauhir - A tiny region located between Lamedone and Lebennin, it's considered a but of a backwater, however it has a densely grown forest with lumber which is ideal for shipwrights and construction. He's Duinhir's brother, married to Ninneth, daughter of the prior lord, and as such the two brothers now sandwich (and pester) Lord Angbor.
Belfalas - Prince Imrahil - One of the most well known areas, it's a large and more heavily populated area, known merchants of fine goods (wine, fabric, fruit, spices), but its shipping business was forced to become a naval force due to harassment from corsairs.
Lebinnin - Lord Nendhir/Lord Lathron - Lord Nendhir married Denethor's eldest sister, Dailieth, their son Lathron is current ruler (and cousin to Boromir and Faramir). Their lands are smooth and rolling, ideal for livestock, dairy, and fibre as their primary trades, the salted meat of Linhir is widely known throughout Gondor.
Pelargir - Lord Pethrion/Lord Maegang - A smaller but powerful region, Pelargir is known for its naval force and "city of rivers" named for the fact the majority of the city lacks true roads, and instead has waterways and small boats for travel. This includes the Anduin Delta, captained by Northiligand, who answers to the lord of Pelargir.
Lossarnach - Lord Forlong/Lord Geldrong - The vale of flowers is primarily known for providing much of Gondor with fruits, but its lesser known exports are in flowers (specifically dyes, herbs, spices, and medicines) along with bees (honey, beeswax, candles, polish and wax). They're often seen a frivolous, but also command a highly trained regiment of "Rose Knights".
Ithilien - Captain Faramir - Densely wooded to the north and shifting into more Mediterranean climate in the south, Ithilien is a beautiful region, but currently infested with orcs. Even after the war of the ring, it takes many years to fully purge their influence from the land. It later becomes known for its horses, mining, and crops.
Anórien - King Aragorn - The primary region under Aragorn's influence (for now), its smooth landscapes are well suited to farming, and the great road enables trade between Rohan and Minas Tirith with ease. During the war, this land was less used for farming, due to being frequently attacked, but post-war it starts to regain its notoriety. A quarry located at the foot of Nardol provides Minas Tirith with much of its iconic white stone.
Harondor - Ungoverned - A "debatable and desert land", sparsely populated, with a climate equivalent to North Africa. I have plans to more fully develop headcanons for a potential fic, the start of development for that is found here.
I think that's everything for now?
I have plans to delve more into the different regions later on, I'd love to detail the various fashions, building styles, and cultures within each area, but also getting TOO carried away will eat up my actual writing time 😂
But at least I've gotten some of the basics down, which means I can build up on various bits as and when needed. Some lords will get more 'screen time' than others, so I could do with focusing on them a little more, but we'll see how it goes!
ngl if you've read this far I'm impressed, thank you ❤️
“Baby, are you the Horn of Gondor? Because I’d only blow you if I was desperate and in dire need, since I got chastised for randomly blowing last time.”
Yes, there is weakness, there is frailty, but there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men. But you do not see that. You are afraid! All your life, you have hidden in the shadows, scared of who you are, of what your are!
Yet another thing I love in FOTR is the way, after Gandalf’s death, we get a really clear view of the difference between Aragorn and Boromir’s styles of leadership.
In the immediate moments after Gandalf’s death, Aragorn is too shocked to lead so Boromir takes charge.
This is actually a big departure from the books, but I love it because it makes sense for the very different characters that Aragorn and Boromir are in the films.
Boromir doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Frodo and carries him out of Moria. Aragorn is initially too shocked to move– so Boromir calls his name until he follows him to safety. The moment they’re out of immediate danger, Boromir allows everyone to grieve, and even struggles to comfort Gimli.
Because at this point, Boromir is a better **soldier** than Aragorn.
I’m not saying he’s a better fighter. I’m saying that Boromir’s experience of battle is ENTIRELY based around his his defense of Gondor– giant battles with tons of soldiers on either side, where he’s used to always looking after the men around him, used to situations where he’d have to order grieving men to retreat to get them out of immediate danger. Aragorn has been in those kinds of battles before– but is far more used to the life of a Ranger, which is often more solitary.
But then, as the Fellowship is grieving outside of Moria, Aragorn takes charge.
And it becomes clear that while Boromir is better at being a soldier, Aragorn is far better at being a leader.
Boromir is the one who gets them out of immediate danger. But Aragorn is the one who actually determines what they’re going to do now that Gandalf’s dead.
Boromir made sure no one else was killed— but now they need a purpose. And Aragorn is the one who gives them that purpose. He comes up with a plan, and he gets the broken Fellowship to start functioning again.
Aragorn gives the broken group a goal– we need to make it to Lothlorien– and speaks with such confidence that they all follow him. The Fellowship has scattered and Frodo has wandered away– Aragorn rallies everyone back together. He gets everyone back on their feet. When Boromir disagrees with his leadership (saying the Fellowship needs more time to grieve) Aragorn firmly responds with an explanation of why he’s making the right choice (they only have until nightfall to make it to Lothlorien or else they’re dead), so that even Boromir begins following his orders as well. He quickly and naturally replaces Gandalf as the Fellowship’s leader.
When they reach Lothlorien, Haldir refuses to allow them to enter. And once again– Boromir is a good soldier while Aragorn is a good leader.
Boromir stays by Frodo’s side and reassures him that Gandalf’s death was not his fault.
But Aragorn, meanwhile, is a skilled diplomat. Familiar with Lothlorien and Haldir, Aragorn has a long impassioned debate with the elves and ultimately convinces them to change their minds.
And it’s only THEN, only after the Fellowship is truly safe, that Aragorn allows them to rest and grieve, and even starts doing what he can to comfort them (his conversation with Boromir.)
Because Boromir could lead them out of danger– but only Aragorn could’ve lead them to safety.
Appreciation Post for another underrated moment in FOTR:
When the cave troll bursts in, it tries to attack Sam.
Boromir and Aragorn, the fellowship’s bickering Hobbit Dads, immediately team up to grab the troll’s chain/get it away from Sam.
Then Aragorn lets go of the chain– but Boromir doesn’t let go in time. He gets knocked to the side, falls to the ground, and loses his sword.
He’s about to be killed by a goblin–
And Aragorn instantly throws away his own sword to save Boromir’s life.
And Boromir is stunned, like: “holy shit did the guy I’ve been snarking at and bickering with for the past few weeks really just throw aside his own weapon to save me?”
And Aragorn looks at him and nods like: “yeah of course I did man, I mean………. we’re the Hobbit Dads”
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