Collection of One-Shots

》star of gondor

Boromir's sword was heavy by the end of the day. He'd wielded it since the break of dawn and now the silver steel was painted with the blood of many. The southern borders of Gondor had been successfully defended from orcs and Harad mercenaries.

Bodies were being piled in high heaps to be set alight. Ash and metal would be all that remained. A warning for those that would come to test the might of Gondor.

The Captain of the White Tower turned toward the west and let the rays of the last day's sun fall over him. He stood in the midst of the corpses, wondering how it had come to this. Boromir drove his sword into the ground and went down on one knee. There was blood coming from beneath his breastplate. It painted his fingertips a bright red.

Wordlessly, Faramir slipped his arm beneath his brother's and hauled him back to his feet. The men needed their captain strong and unchallenged. It was Boromir that held together the army of a once great kingdom.

The speech came easily, but the soldiers did not rejoice. There would be more fighting to come. There always was. Boromir instructed that the Gondorian dead be buried in the green valleys of Lossarnach. Their swords and trinkets would be taken back to Minas Tirith and delivered to their kin.

"Faramir." The Ranger turned and pulled at his hauberk. "Where is Oreth?" Boromir inquired.

This was the moment Faramir had dreaded since he'd saw Oreth fall prior in the day. "Come with me." The infirmary tent was full. There was not a cot nor blanket to be spared, but in the corner hung flags and cloaks. That is where Faramir led him.

She lay on a cot, unmoving, with a bruised arm draped over a heavily bandaged torso. The red of her hair masked some of the blood, but the mud was still visible.

His shoulders fell and his heart stopped. This was not how he'd envisioned the day ending. "Why was I not told?" The question was softly spoken with sorrow dripping from the words.

"She fell at the back of the line," the Ranger answered, "you were at the front." Faramir had carried her away from the battle as soon as he saw the Haradrim spear pierce her side and now he left his brother in her company.

Boromir sank to the ground and leaned his back against the leg of the cot. He fumbled at the straps and buckles of his armor. Though once free he could see the deep blue tunic beneath was stained with his own blood. The Gondorian Captain pressed his hand against the wound with a grimace.

He glanced over his shoulder, tracing the pale and peaceful features of Oreth's face. He'd told her to fall back before the fighting grew thicker and for once, she had listened, but it had not saved her from harm.

She'd waded into many battles at his side, despite his concerns. It was foolish of him to think she was untouchable, but until this day, that seemed to be true. Oreth was a force to be reckoned with on the field of battle. Her lineage was that of the Nandorian elves of Dol Amroth and shone in her skill with a blade and bow. But noble blood was not a shield.

Boromir wished he could be angry with her for not heeding his pleas that she stay in Minas Tirith. Faramir said she was as stubborn as he was. She was a shield-maiden, and he'd known that even as they spoke their vows beneath the White Tree on a cold winter's night.

She had been a vision in the pale moonlight. With snowflakes clinging to her fiery hair and lashes in a gown of pale white with his dark blue mantle draped over her shoulders. That memory brought a faint smile across his dry lips. Boromir laid his head back upon the coarse wool blanket draped over the cot.

"My lord!" Raendis exclaimed, surprised to see the Steward-Prince sitting on the ground with blood seeping from betwixt his fingers. Boromir tried denying the healers' aid. It may have bled badly, but in his mind, it was only a scratch.