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This is just the beginning of what could be a short fic, but I've been very unmotivated to write lately so I may give up while I'm ahead, we'll see. I'm really interested in Jack's time in service so its basically a glimpse into what I think he went through. Also explains the wedding ring. Basically this is dripping with my personal head canons. Enjoy! :)
(heads up: since this is really just laying the groundwork/going through history, there’s lots of time jumps. I hope it doesn’t come across too choppy or fast.)
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NOVEMBER 1979
Jack was born on the cusp of 1980; four years after the end of the Vietnam War and the same year movies like Alien and The Muppet Movie were released.
He was the second child of Michael and Paula Abbot. His older sister Christie adored him the second he was born. She was six years older than him and was already a pro at baby care, all thanks to her Baby Alive doll their grandmother Betty gifted her for her fourth birthday.
1982
When Jack was three, his father walked out on his family. No real explanation, but his mother chalked it up to a mental break from undiagnosed PTSD he developed from serving in Vietnam. That, and the fact Michael and Paula's relationship was built on an unplanned pregnancy that was Christie and years of immaturity and infidelity on Michael's part.
When Michael left, Jack's grandmother stepped in as the second parental figure in both Jack and Christie's lives. Grandma Betty was the grandmother of all grandmothers. Her cookies were legendary, Jack was grandma's little helper when it came to baking. She'd always let him eat the cookie dough when his mother wasn't looking.
Grandma Betty was a tough woman. She was raised by her Irish immigrant parents in Boston, married her husband Franklin at 16, became a mother at 17 and a widow at 19. Never remarried. She raised Jack's mother on her own in the Rhode Island house Franklin had inherited from his parents. She knew what it was like having no one to help when it came to raising a family, she was not about to let that same thing happen to her daughter.
She had a quick wit and a half smoked cigarette bounced on her lip when she'd tell jokes while playing cards on their little kitchen table. She'd have these coughing fits so bad that she'd wheeze and gag and cry, and when she'd be doubled over trying to catch her breath, Jack would come running over with a glass of water and some medicine he blindly grabbed from the medicine cabinet. The labels meant nothing to him, he couldn't read yet, but he knew they helped him whenever he was sick. "My little healer, Jackie." Grandma Betty would say between breaths, ruffling his curly mop of hair.
She'd taken to calling Jack her little healer. He was always caring for everyone, running to bring her medicine (even if it was a bottle of calamine lotion for her coughing) and covering Christie's knees with bandages when she scraped them on the sidewalk. Grandma Betty said he was a born healer, placed on this earth to help those who need it.
Jack took that to heart. His passion for helping others never dulled as he got older. And when Grandma Betty was diagnosed with lung cancer, he stayed by her side the entire time. Jack made sure she was comfortable, made her famous cookies and snuck them into her room when his mother wasn't around to tell him not to, and helped her get in and out of bed when she needed it. He was with her until the end.
1992
Betty died when Jack was 13. She passed in the morning, right after Jack had left for school. When he came home, his mom was on the couch crying with Christie, who rushed home from her classes at community college.
Jack took it pretty hard. Grandma Betty was his best friend. She was always there for him when his mother was too busy wrangling Christie in from her wild child phases. The house still smelled like Betty's cigarette smoke and fresh baked cookies and cheap dollar store perfume. It choked Jack at times, but he didn't mind all that much. He'd sleep in her bed some nights, but after a while he had to let her go.
1996
Once Jack was close to the end of high school, he knew college was out of the question for him unless he wanted to go to community college like Christie had, so instead he decided to go into the family business: military service. His grandpa Franklin — who was KIA over in Europe during WWII — was in the Navy and his father had been in the Air Force in Vietnam. What's one more branch of the DoD to add to the family?
Jack enlisted (after much protest from his mother) in the Army at the age of 18, just six months before he graduated high school. He signed a medic contract and after walking across the stage and getting his high school diploma, he was off to basic training.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND 1997 — FORT BENNING, GEORGIA
Jack wasn't normally the type to have to be dragged out of the barracks to go party with a bunch of college girls on a three day weekend, but tonight he needed some convincing. He had a long week of sitting around and waiting (typical day in a deployable unit still stateside) and just wanted to spend Memorial Day weekend vegging out in his room.
"Come on man, you're gonna miss out. You know Ronson needs his wingman or else he'll yak all over the girls again." Eisenhower, Jack's roommate, slung a heavy arm over his shoulders and jostled him side to side.
"I literally just want to sleep." Jack argued but Eisenhower ignored his protest and continued badgering him until he gave in.
Two hours and four beers later, Jack, Eisenhower, Ronson, and two other buddies — Jackson and Quill — piled into Quill's lemon of a car and made their way to Columbus State University. They frequented the parties on and off campus there, mainly in the frat houses on what the students called Greek Row. Jackson's cousin was a member of one of the frats so it was an easy in every weekend.
The four soldiers waltzed proudly in to the bumping house, packed full of college kids and some drop outs that couldn't manage to leave the surrounding area of the campus. Jack slunk behind the rest of his group, still wishing he were laying in bed with his feet kicked up.
"Yo Abbot! Heads up." Eisenhower tossed a dripping can of the cheapest piss beer you could find on campus to which Jack fumbled. "Butta fingaaas!" Eisenhower and Jackson nudged each other and laughed as Jack bent to pick up the can, smirking from embarrassment. "You know the rules Abbot!" Jackson shouted over the music.
Jack rolled his eyes but followed orders, cracking open the shaken can. His lips quickly met the mouth of the aluminum, catching the foam bellowing from it and chugged as best he could, burping from the excess of air when he fully drained it. Ronson clapped him on the back hard enough to shove him forward an inch and replaced the crushed empty beer in his hand with an ice cold full one.
He was in for a long night.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Jack stayed planted on the torn up frat couch after being on his feet for two straight hours trying to wingman for Ronson, who successfully landed a girl and was now tonsils deep with her somewhere in the house. His job was done and he desperately just wanted to be in bed sleeping off these shitty beers.
That is until a pretty little thing sat on the nasty couch with a defeated huff. Jack glanced over for a split second, then did a heavy double take to fully appreciate who was beside him. Straight red hair made blood red by the dimmed colored lights in the house, freckled face, and the most beautiful big eyes he had ever seen.
"Hi." Her voice was light, her tone not entirely interested but friendly nonetheless. Jack nodded to her, too afraid to speak in case he'd sound like a drunken mess.
"Friends bail you too?" She shouted over to him over the music. Jack frowned a little and shook his head 'no'. Her perfect pink lips formed a small O shape and she rested her cheek on a balled fist propped by her elbow on the arm of the couch.
Jack opened his mouth to try and strike more conversation but was stopped short by the beautiful girl next to him.
"I'm Ann." She extended a small hand to him, a flash of regret washed over her face due to the formality of the action and the informality of the setting they were in, but still she held her arm out toward him. Jack took her hand and squeezed it lightly, savoring the softness of her palm, the warmth and electricity that flooded him as their skin touched.
"Jack. And my friends are over there. Well…three of them. One is preoccupied." He laughed a little as he imagined Ronson fumbling over the brunette he helped him sweet talk not too long ago.
Ann squinted her eyes at him for a moment, processing what he said before explaining herself to him. "My friend is preoccupied as well…"
They stared at one another for a few seconds before Jack let out a crazed laugh after connecting the dots. He must have wing-manned Ronson with Ann's friend.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
"Yo Abbot, ready to bounce?" Quill nodded his head to the door and adjusted Eisenhower's limp arm over his shoulders as he supported his weight, too drunk to stand on his own without risk of falling. Ronson followed close behind saying his goodbyes to his flavor of the night and Jackson dapped his cousin up before catching up with the group.
Quill raised his eyebrows once he realized Jack was sitting fairly close to a girl on that shitty frat house couch and contemplated just leaving him to it until Jack nodded and said his final words to Ann.
"Could I see you again sometime? Outside of a frat house?" He went out on a limb and received a smile from Ann that made him weak in the knees. She pulled out her Nokia and handed it to him to put his cell number in.
The drunken gang — sans Quill who was the DD for the night — made teasing sounds at the scene unfolding on the couch which earned a look that could kill from Jack.
Jack handed the phone back to Ann, her fingers brushed his as she took it back, sending shockwaves through his nervous system.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
MARCH 1998 — FORT BENNING/COLUMBUS GEORGIA
Jack and Ann had been together officially for eight months now and were smitten as ever. Jack felt that this was truly his first true love. She just got him and she was a total babe. She was sweet and kind, funny and so smart. Smarter than Jack could ever be. She was always studying even when they were together. He'd help by reading off flashcards for her, the content of them sounding like latin to him but Ann was able to recite the answers like they were lyrics to her favorite song.
When they weren't together, Ann was off at the library with friends studying some more. She'd spend hours in her books until her head hurt. But eventually those headaches turned to intense migraines, and her focus faltered, her answers were confused when Jack quizzed her with the flashcards.
Ann had suffered headaches most of her Sophomore year but it wasn't until Junior year that they progressed to blinding migraines that made her so nauseous she turned white and couldn't get out of bed without feeling like losing her lunch.
Jack grew more and more concerned as the pain grew more and more intense. Pain meds weren't helping Ann and he hated seeing her suffer. He pleaded with her to go see someone for them, and after months of protesting, the pain grew to be too much that Ann finally gave in and went to the doctor.
Glioblastoma. Ann cried as she shared her diagnosis with Jack, who held her tightly in his arms, kissing her head and burrying his face in her glorious red hair.
The doctor had told her the mass in her brain was fairly large, removal would be impossible without doing irreversible damage. She could start chemotherapy and radiation, but her chances of living comfortably and surviving were still fairly low. He had thrown out a timeframe: three months.
Three months.
Jack would only have 3 more months with the love of his life.
Jack did as much research as possible on glioblastoma. The survival rate (not good), the risks of removal (subpar), and any options that could at the very least extend her three month death sentence. Treatment would be expensive, but luckily Jack had access to Tricare through the Army. He could help her pay for any treatment or even medical trials.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Ann and Jack were married in a courthouse on their one year anniversary in June 1998. Eisenhower and Ann's friend from the party — the one that Ronson was with — stood in as their witnesses. Ann looked so beautiful in her white silk dress with thick straps and wide neckline. Her hair was curled and tucked away from her face. Her eyes were dull though, tired and dark circles hanging below. But Jack didn't notice that. He only saw her beautiful face and her spattering of freckles and her pink plump lips.
The two newlyweds celebrated their union in their new apartment in downtown Columbus, a few blocks from the hospital.
Jack savored the time they had together. He used up his leave time to spend his days at home with Ann.
Since they were married now, he was able to put her as a dependent and Ann could use his Tricare to receive treatment.
Though the treatment could only go so far. Ann started withering away before Jack's eyes. It killed him seeing her be in more pain than she was before, seeing her dying, knowing there wasn't anything he could do for her. All he could do was be there, support her, give her comfort.
Toward the end of Ann's life, she could barely move from the bed. She felt sick constantly and the hospital had her on so many pain medications she was on cloud nine a majority of the time. Jack's unit allowed him to take emergency leave under the verification of the Red Cross so he could be with her full time in her last days.
Ann's parents tried to fly in from her hometown but were unable to because of a snow storm. They had to rebook for the soonest flight, but they all feared they would not make it in time to say goodbye to their daughter. Thankfully, the airline was extremely helpful and expedited Ann's parents to the next possible flight and they made it for Ann's final week.
Ann lived for ten months after she was given her three month death sentence.
She went in her sleep in Jack's arms. He was wide awake. He had a feeling she was leaving him and couldn't fall asleep for fear she would need him or would pass. So Jack stayed awake beside her and held her tightly in his arms, stroking her hair and caressing her freckled cheek.
He tried not to cry but before he knew it her hair was soaked, sticking to his cheeks when he kissed her head.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
The month's after Ann had passed were incredibly hard on Jack. It didn't help that his unit was preparing to deploy, so his days were filled with prep and simulated field ops. He barely had time to grieve and process the loss of his Annie before he was back to work, and now when his head hits the ISO mat at night, all he can see is Ann's freckled face, smell the shampoo in her hair, feel her tiny body fading in his arms.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
AFGHANISTAN 2001
"Abbot, up here!" A squad leader flagged Jack down, shouting over the chaos around them. He ducked as he ran to assist the wounded at the feet of the Sergeant. Jack started working as soon as his knees hit the hot earth. GSW to the upper right shoulder. Clean exit. Survivable, quick fix.
"I'm good man, I'm good." The injured soldier tried pushing Jack's hands away but he fought back and continued his work.
"Which hand do you shoot with?"
"What?"
"You want to get back in there, which hand do you shoot with? Left or right?" Jack finished packing the wound and wrapping it to the best of his ability.
"Left, left, agh—" The troop winced as Jack administered a syrette of morphine into his arm.
"Alright you're good. Hope you're a good shot, leftie." Jack helped him to his feet and surveyed the battlefield around him.
Any man down he attended, if they were non-responsive he marked their forehead with a D, anyone fit to continue fighting was patched up and given a syrette, and anyone requiring a MEDEVAC would get moved to the makeshift LZ for transportation. Luckily, they haven't had any KIA's or MEDEVACS. Just a lot of wounded still fit to fight.
"Medic!!!" Jack's legs moved before he could even think twice.
"This one's bad, Doc." The Corporal provided covering fire as Jack assessed the wounded Private writhing in the sand and dirt. His blood clotted in the earth, making a sickly clay puddling around Jack's knees. "Shit." This much blood at this much rate screams arterial.
Jack cut the left leg of the soldier's camis and ripped the fabric open to get a better look. GSW to the inner thigh, arterial bleeding. Potentially fatal. Requires MEDEVAC.
Jack drove his knee just above the wound to suppress the bleeding while he looked for the tourniquet, applying it swiftly and tightening it until the Private cried out in pain.
"Hey, kid just look at me, alright?" Jack shouted over the noise of gunfire and screaming. "Keep your eyes on me." He marked his forehead with a T — for tourniquet — and the time it was applied. "I'm gonna get you outta here, kid. Don't wo—"
White. Then black. Then that irritating, persistent, ear-piercing ringing.
Jack came to on his back, covered in dirt and rocks and sand. His mouth was flooded with the tang of blood and iron. His eyes were fixed on the sky above him. The faintest shade of blue peaked through the smoke and dust, thin wispy clouds hovered over the chaos. He couldn't hear anything, not fully. Only that high pitch squeal ringing in his ears and faint moaning.
Jack slowly turned his head, first to his right, then his left. The young Private he was just working on seconds — or minutes? Hours? Time was moving so slow and so fast all at the same time it was hard to tell — was laying a few feet from him, his arm slowly reaching for his neck as he choked on his own blood.
Jack tried to focus his eyes on the soldier, tried rolling over to crawl to him, but as soon as he moved he lost consciousness again.
Jack felt light, like he was floating on one of those wispy clouds above the fog of war. He heard a familiar sound — humming, a beautiful soft tune that he had heard as a child, his grandmother's sweet voice. He could see the back of her so faintly, rolling out cookie dough on the counter in her kitchen. Her voice was so quiet, but he could make out the sing-songy tone when she'd call for him: "Jackie! Jackie!" Jack wanted to call out to her, reach for her, but just as he did he heard another voice, though he couldn't quite make out what it was saying.
His mind's eye shifted to a new view, the mirage of his grandmother fading away to make room for it.
Jack was back in his old apartment in the living room. He could see a figure sitting on the couch. Though he could not see their face, he could recognize that head of hair anywhere. Ann.
He wanted to run to her, call out her name, make her turn toward him so he could see her face one more time, but he couldn't move or talk. He heard the voice again, this time a little clearer, more recognizable as Ann's. But what was she saying?
Jack fought his body more and more to inch closer to the couch, to raise his arm and reach for her. Just as he felt himself making progress, Ann's voice rang loud and clear in his ears.
"You can't stay."
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Jack came to once more, this time the roof of a Black Hawk MEDEVAC helo replaced the the faint sky and dust. He reached for the oxygen mask strapped to his face and tried to take stock of his extremities until a helmeted medic restrained his arms back down to his sides.
"You're good, man. We got you."
Fuck. This couldn't be good. He turned to look for any one else being transported along with him, hoping to see that Private he was applying the tourniquet to. He only saw the Corporal who was providing suppressing fire as he worked on the young soldier. The Corporal was unconscious, bloodied, it didn't look good. His arm was nearly hanging by a tendon, fingers missing, but miraculously the gaudy tattoo of the unit insignia on his forearm remained unscathed.
His vision started to go again, but Jack tried his best to fight it only to lose once again.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
He woke in a hospital bed at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, his right leg — or rather, what's left of his right leg was elevated to reduce swelling after amputation. Jack got one look at his leg, amputated from just below the knee, and his head dropped back into the pillows defeatedly. Fuck me.
"Sergeant Abbot, good to see you're awake." A doctor appeared at his bedside as if summoned by some higher power. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I just got my leg cut off."
"Sense of humor's intact, good."
"Unlike my leg." Jack countered, sincerely not trying to make a joke of the situation, he just had no better way to express himself.
The doctor gave a sad closed mouth smile, the kind that doesn't meet the eyes and only tugs at the corners of their pressed lips. "How are you feeling?"
Jack mimicked that same sad smile and shook his head. "Fine."
"No pain?"
"Nothing unbearable."
The doctor scribbled that down on Jack's chart and nodded slowly.
"Did that Private make it? I think I came in with him?"
"You mean Corporal Rivera? He did, yes. Thanks to your field work, I'm sure."
Jack shook his head. "No, no he wasn't down. He was, uh…he was suppressing fire while I…while I worked on this kid — this Private. Private…shit…" He couldn't remember the kid's name. He tried envisioning his name tape, but all he could see was his gushing wound and how he looked after the blast, his bloodied hand reaching for his throat as he choked for air. Jack blinked hard, trying to erase these images from his eyes but they only grew more vivid in the darkness.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant. You and Corporal Rivera were the only two on your helo. Our triage bay is packed with wounded, so it's possible he could have come on a separate helicopter. He could have been MEDEVAC'd to a MASH also. " The doctor answered and looked over his charts as she fiddled with his IV's and monitor, clearly not as emotionally involved in knowing where that Private had ended up as Jack hoped she'd be.
"If you have any pain, press this button. It'll administer more morphine. But it won't allow you to administer it until an hour passes. Press this if you need immediate assistance, a nurse will come as soon as they can."
Jack nodded and closed his eyes to get some actual rest now, but he couldn't help but see that Private laying there, choking, reaching.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Jack had spent a few weeks in Landstuhl recovering, healing, resting. He was about to start his first few sessions of rehabilitation, focusing on balance and getting used to having one leg. The phantom pain in his nonexistent leg would keep him up most nights, but other than that he was coping fairly well with the loss. Or at least that's what the nurses and doctors told him. He didn't quite come to terms with it fully yet. His brain was clouded. Jack never fully processed Ann's death, even after two years, he still had no answers on how the Private he was working on was or if he even survived, the last thing on his mind was himself.
One day though, while he was slowly working through the parallel bars in rehab he had a visitor. He didn't recognize him. He was tall and lean and was in a flight suit. The black velcro patch on his chest and rank insignia indicated that he was Sergeant First Class Robertson.
"Sergeant Abbot?" Robertson verified as the PT assisting Jack gave him his crutches balance while she wheeled his chair over for him to sit in. Jack nodded, eyes sizing up the much taller man asking his name.
"I'm Sergeant First Class Robertson. I was one of the flight medics that got you here." Jack continued to stare in silence. This was apparently his new default — stoic silence, benevelant glaring.
The flight medic nodded slightly, a somber look washed over him before he continued, obviously picking up on some disdain on Jack's end. "I'm really glad to see you're on your feet—" he paused awkwardly, noticing his mistep but Jack let out heavy breath in place of a laugh.
"Shit, sorry man. It's just good to see you're up and moving."
"Could have been worse." Jack shrugged, looking down at his bandaged leg.
There was another awkward pause between the two besides the typical white noise of a hospital before Jack broke it.
"There was a Private next to me, after the blast. Did he make it?"
Robertson furrowed his brows, confused for a moment. Jack rolled his eyes at the look, tired of no one having a fucking answer to this question.
But Robertson's brows relaxed, relization replaced confusion. "I-I'm sorry, man. We only got you and that Corporal." Jack nodded.
Eventually, Jack had learned through the grape vine that the private did not make it. His name was Private Reyes, 18 years old, took a lot of shrapnel. A large shard lodged into his throat and caused arterial bleeding. He was choking on his blood and eventually died — from bleeding out or choking, it was hard to tell which. Jack was disappointed with the truth, but was satisfied he finally had an answer about Private Reyes.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Jack was finally cleared to fly to Walter Reed for the remainder of his rabilitation and he was fitted for a prosthetic after a few months, then soon after he was released to the wild. He was medically discharged from the Army, awarded a purple heart and bronze star for providing aid while under enemy fire, given a shiny new leg courtesy of Uncle Sam, and sent on his merry way to figure out his next steps as a civilian.
For a while, Jack stayed with his sister but felt like a burden to her family so he bounced around a bit. He found solice and peace at the bottom of a bottle and spent most of his nights drowning himself so he could avoid REM at all costs, hoping to suppress his dreams with alcohol.
But after months of wasting away, bouncing around from couch to couch, drowning himself every night, he decided it was time for a change. Time to get help.
His sister drove him to his first veteran support group. It took him a few sessions to let his guard down and speak up, but after a figurative shove from the group leader the floodgates were opened. Jack felt like a Private sized weight was lifted from his shoulders, but there was still an Ann sized hole that needed to be filled.
Jack saw a therapist pretty regularly. It helped a lot with coming to terms with his new life. He spoke about his Annie, about his father, his childhood and the loss of his grandmother. He talked about why he joined the Army, why he chose field medic as his job.
"It gave me purpose. I'm a healer. My grandmother always told me I was born a healer. I was born for this—that." He corrected himself. Everything was past tense now. He was in the Army. He was a medic. He was a healer. He was married. He was happy. He was a man with two fucking legs.
"Well, why can't you still be a healer? Last I checked, the world will always need healers." His therapist always broke through his melancholic mental loops. "Why don't you go to med school? Use your GI Bill. Get educated and certified."
Jack shrugged to appear dismissive but he did start to consider doing just that.
"You claim you have no purpose in life, right?" Jack nodded. "And helping people gave you purpose…" His therapist nodded her head and gestured her hand in a twirling motion as if urging him to continue her thought. "So…"
"So…?" Jack shrugged, he knew what she was alluding to but wanted to put off this conversation. If he was honest, the thought of going back into medicine scared him. What if mentally he couldn't handle it? What if every day when he saw a wounded person, he'd be sent right back in country, lying there bleeding out next to another nameless Private choking on his own bile and blood.
"Look into it, Jack. That's your homework for this week. And I will be checking in on this next week."
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
After finishing med school, Jack moved around and landed at the PTMC as a doctor on the night shift. It helped occupy his mind at night and tired him out enough to pass out during the day and not have those night terrors or images of war. But one thing remain constant in his subconscious at night: Ann. He couldn't shake Ann. And he didn't want to.
Jack wasn't opposed to dating, but when women would approach him at bars or on the street he couldn't help but feel as if he was betraying Ann. So, to stop this, he started wearing his wedding ring again. Female attention stopped, the guilt subsided, and Jack Abbot was able to figuratively sleep at night knowing he wasn't being unfaithful to his dead wife. Late wife. Wife.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
PRESENT DAY
Jack was well into his postion at the Pitt as the night shift attending. His day to day routine rarely changed: he went into work when scheduled, sometimes earlier, he accompanied SWAT raids when a medic was needed, and he listened to the police scanner like it was the radio once he was home (after catching a few Z's).
Today, however, was one of those days where he clocked in early at the Pitt. The police scanner alerted for an active shooter at a summer music festival called PittFest and Jack was out the door.
He'd been working in the ER for just barely over a decade now and rarely did he get shaken up over the things he saw. On occasion he'd have a moment where a particual patient's wound would send him back to the desert, the risidual taste of sand and iron and sulfur covering his tongue. Today was one of those days.
112 wounded. A majority were gun shot wound victims. Their bodies torn and chewed up from bullets. Jack had to step outside a few times to breathe, only to be pulled back in by a screeching abulance or a speeding car dropping off more victims.
It was a long shift. One of the longest both literally and figuratively. He walked home like a zombie, his feet moving on their own while his body floated just above.
His tired hands fumbled with his keys at the lock and he cursed under his breath at the metalic clang when they fell on his doorstep.
"Ah!!" Jack jumped at the sound of a yelp from behind. "Shit, you scared me." He turned slowly on his good heel to face this disembodied voice.
"Sorry, just got off." Jack raised his hands in surrender to come across as harmless.
"All good, no worries," she reached for Jack's hand, "nice to finally meet my neighbor! I was starting to think you were nocturnal. I'm Cate."
Jack gave her a quiet laugh and shook her hand, noticing her firm grasp. His brows flicked upward, intrigued. "Jack. And I work nights, so fairly nocturnal."
"Nights? Damn. That's got to be rough."
"Not really. I prefer it." Jack shrugged before bending down to grab his keys, favoring his good leg to apply the brunt of his weight to.
His new neighbor nodded in understanding as there was pause between them. She raised her eyebrows at him when he stared for a beat too long, sleepy eyes fixed on hers.
"So…" Cate gestured her head in the direction of the stairs, indicating she intended on continuing on her path down. Jack realized now that he was blocking the way of their shared top step of their brownstone duplex.
"Shit, sorry. I'm uh…long shift. Here." He stepped back against his door and stretched his arm out to usher her down the stairs.
"Thank you Jack, nice to meet you!" Cate waved as she made her way down the walkway and through the short front gate of their yard. Jack watched her step with pep down the side walk, likely heading for the light rail station a few blocks away.
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I’m sitting pretty on a jack abbot fic but I’m so discouraged with my writing skills (or rather my lack of writing skills) that I may never post it 🥲
SO because of that, here are my abbot headcanons:
• Jack totally has an older sister and was raised by a single mom and his grandmother. Of COURSE he respects women.
• everyone on Spotify makes his playlist mostly oldies (which I agree, he screams CCR and Journey), but I think Jack definitely enjoys R&B and a few 90s pop girlies too as a guilty pleasure.
• Jack was married very young and she passed, hence why he still wears a ring but takes the risk of flirting with pretty ladies here and there (I go over this in my fic)
Sedryneth was aware of how flustered she was, from the heat and the view in front of her, and her face was no friend of hers when she tried to conceal it. Boromir raised his eyebrow at her, amused at how she seemed to lose herself just by his presence. Oh, how you’d be putty in my hands. He thought deviously to himself, his mind picturing what she may look under her gown, hoping she’d join him in the water and press her supple flesh against his in the cool river.
*note* this is a flash back & sort of a filler chapter because I miss writing Boromir and Sedryneth together :( please enjoy!
Master List | Chapter Ten
Grunting echoed in the training pavilion as the various guardsmen-in-training showed their skill in combat, striking one another with dull blades and punching their opponent when the swords were knocked from their hands. The men had an audience today, the Steward of Gondor had called for the nobles among Minas Tirith among others from the Kingdom of Gondor and a few from beyond its borders to come view the brute strength of their militia and witness the oath ceremony.
Boromir lunged with his sword, his forearm tensing with the gesture, holding the brunt of weight of the steel. The sun was high and mighty this afternoon and caused his armor to bake his body within, sweat rolling down his back and the middle of his chest. He blinked furiously as the rays bounced off of his opponent's chest plate, blinding him temporarily and giving the other the advantage over him. He swiftly moved from the path of his sword and struck him from the side while he was off balance, knocking his opponent over. Boromir delivered three final blows, the last being a simulated drive through the center of the man’s back. He panted, taking off his helmet and shaking the sweat from his short hair that fell in waves. He sheathed his blade before helping his fellow guardsman to his feet, smiling handsomely, and pulled him into a brief embrace as a sign of respect. “Yes, Boromir, that’s my boy! My brute!” Denethor called from the audience of noblemen, clapping his hands loudly and laughing with the others in the audience. Faramir stood beside him and clapped for his brother, but rolled his eyes at his father’s overly excited outburst. Boromir laughed to himself at his brother’s reaction and moved to the trough of water to splash onto his head to cool off. He fought for two more rounds, losing only one narrowly to his rival, and the men were dismissed to clean themselves off and ready themselves for the oath ceremony where he and the others would be sworn into the guard.
***
Sedryneth stood by her mother and listened to the other noblewomen drone on about the usual; childrearing, the intense heatwave, whose husband is fairing well, whose husband is having affairs, and the newest wears of Elvish royalty from those fortunate enough to have seen them firsthand. Bored, her eyes wandered around them, ears fully tuning out the conversation and picking up on the clanking of armor and clicking of boots against stone. She followed the sound with her eyes until they lay upon the most enticing view. A young man, clad in worn training armor, was walking away from the pavilion beside a few other trainees. He smiled brightly as he spoke and at some point he turned his water horn over himself, the clear fluid rushing over his already damp crown, and he pushed his light hair from his forehead. He glanced in her direction, seeming to sense her peering gaze, and grinned slightly toward her, winking as he did so. She felt her cheeks flush for a moment and she sunk into herself somewhat from embarrassment.
Her mother lightly smacked her thigh and gave her a look telling Sedryneth to sit up, communicating with her child in the silent way only mothers can do. She straightened her back and returned to daydreaming and pretending to enjoy the boring topics the women continued to discuss, though she couldn’t help her eyes occasionally shifting toward the direction where that man had gone.
***
Denethor welcomed the crowd, now standing in a semi circle around the White Tree in front of the citadel, and began the ceremony. “Commander, bring in your men.” He spoke with authority and the high ranking man bowed before ordering the men to enter the courtyard. Twenty-something young soldiers marched in step, now dressed in shining armor bearing the Tree on the chestplate, and halted when ordered. They turned to face the Steward and crowd on their heels and saluted their swords after hearing the command. Denethor gave his address to the men, reminding them who they are swearing to protect and to hold themselves to a high standard as they are no longer men, but instead are now guards to the people, to the city, and to the kingdom. “May your swords be ever swift in battle, may death be quick. Walk with honor, for you are men of Gondor!” Denethor raised his voice to rile the men up before they gave their oath, swearing their life to the Steward and to the kingdom.
Boromir stood in the front detail of guards, the sun beating down on them. He cursed in his head, finding it odd that these ceremonies where they must be dressed in full armor seem to always happen during a heatwave. Sweat began to drip from under his helmet and into his eyes, causing him to nearly lose his bearing as he stood. He blinked a few times until the stinging ceased and he continued to look forward into the crowd, studying the faces to keep his mind off of the sun’s damning rays. His eyes floated around the various onlookers, bouncing from his brother's face squinting in the light of day to his father's pale and weathered one. They moved to the noblemen standing side by side until they landed on something that was not like the others; a young maiden in a sea of old men.
Boromir focused his eyes on her and recognized her face, now pinker from the sun, she was the girl he saw earlier while on his way to the bathhouse. She fanned herself with her dainty hand, rubbing the back of her neck with the other, until her father noticed her moving in discomfort. She stopped and poised herself again, acting as if the heat wasn’t just bothering her. Boromir smiled at the display, amused by the subtle defiance from the young maiden toward her father as she begain blowing air from her mouth upward, moving stray hairs that fell upon her forhead and cooling her in the process.
***
The ceremony concluded and the men were dismissed and marched back into the citadel. There, the noblemen and their families (along with a select few of newly appointed guardsmen with noble connections) gathered for the celebration hosted by the Steward of Gondor himself.
Those who were dressed in armor changed into their ceremonial garb; a blue leather tunic with a silver Tree of Gondor embellished on the front of it and an off-white undershirt that had almost a blue hue to it. Boromir felt he looked very dashing in his new uniform and held his head high as he walked into the dining hall with his brother beside him, taking their place at the long oak table. They sat a bit further down than they typically did to account for all of the noblemen who were deemed a higher echelon than the sons of the Steward, but the brothers weren’t complaining. Even being a few feet away from their father was freeing enough for them.
Boromir was, however, a bit disappointed that the young maiden would be sitting a few seats away from him on the other side of the table. He had wished she would be placed in front of him so he could get a better look at her, but he supposed it was for the best, he would be staring at her the whole evening instead of filling his empty stomach after having a full day of sword fighting and marching in the heat. That, however, did not stop him from stealing a few glances, turning in her direction whenever it was convenient. Every so often the two would catch the other looking. Boromir, ever the bold one, never looked away from her. Sedryneth however seemed far more bashful and would do her best to conceal her smile and look down sheepishly at her plate.
Faramir began to notice his brother’s interest at the other side of the table and nudged him with his elbow, giving him a look as if to say he approved of what he was seeing. Boromir squinted his eyes at his little brother, unsure what Faramir was implying with this, he surely wasn’t going to be getting this girl if that is what he meant by the look he gave.
The night carried on and more glances were stolen between the two before everyone was dismissed and the night was called to an end. The brothers and Denethor followed the noblemen and their families out of the hall and outside, shaking hands and bidding everyone fair travels. When it came to the young maiden’s family, Boromir made sure to be especially courteous to her father, Lord Ivandur, and to her mother, Lady Naurmiriel. He shook her father’s hand firmly and spoke with strength in his voice. He tenderly kissed the Lady’s hand and bowed to her like a gentleman. And when Sedryneth appeared in front of him, waiting for her adieu, Boromir took her small hand in his and kissed it, his lips lingering a moment longer than they should have, and he bowed to her as well. She shyly curtsied to him and followed behind her parents, looking back for a moment and blushing when she saw Boromir watching her with a soft look of admiration. He tried to remember the curve of her precious face so that it was ingrained in his mind as he feared this may have been the only time they would see one another. She appeared to be of courting age, surely she had a suitor and Boromir was lusting after a taken woman.
***
Boromir poured warm water into a shallow bowl atop a desk in the brothers’ room and washed the day away from his face, sputtering the water from his lips and drying his skin with a rag. Faramir was already in bed reading a book he borrowed from the library a few days prior, something he was keen on doing ever since he learned to read as a boy. Boromir sighed as he climbed onto his mattress, mind lost in thought, when Faramir decided to pry a bit. “Dinner was good.” Boromir grunted in agreement and settled into his pillow as his brother continued. “Lots of savory morsels.” He scrunched his brows, not pleased with that description but he kept going. “And…plump, fruitful, delectab—” “Alright, brother!” Boromir threw his pillow at Faramir to stop his grotesque way of teasing, earning a mischievous laugh from the other side of the room. “You don’t disagree though! The spread was especially divine to look at, was it not?” “Faramir, if you continue with your poor attempt at riddles, I’ll find the will to lift this bed and throw it at you.” Boromir groaned from where he lay and Faramir tossed his pillow back at him.
After a few moments of silence between the two, Faramir spoke up again against Boromir’s wishes. “She was looking quite fair. I can’t remember the last time I had seen her, but she is certainly more womanly now.” Boromir turned to lay on his back now, his arm propping his head up slightly on his pillow, and he stared at the ceiling that appeared golden with the light of the candle flames reflecting off of it. “We were children when last we saw her. At mother’s funeral.” He could see the memory manifest in his mind clear as if it were the day before and not some thirteen years ago. Sedryneth was only seven, standing next to her father, dressed in a black gown with a sheer black veil covering her copper blonde curls. Boromir was ten at the time, Faramir only five, marching in the funeral procession behind their mother’s body surrounded by her favorite flowers.
“She certainly blossomed since then.” Boromir sighed dreamily, her face appearing in his mind's eye now. Her eyes twinkling in the candle light, her fair face framed by the ornamental greenery on the table. He closed his eyes hoping that her image would remain as he slept. He began to drift as Faramir’s voice disturbed him once more. “Surely Lord Ivandur brought her in hopes of finding a suitor.” “What makes you think that? A lady as fair as she certainly must have a suitor already.” Boromir sounded defeated as he spoke, realizing his dreams would be the only way he could live out his fantasies with her. Faramir, ever the reasonable young man, shook his head as he placed his book on the table next to his bed. “I think you overestimate the boldness of men, brother. Lord Ivandur wouldn’t have brought her here had she been promised to someone. This was the most opportune time for him to show the other noblemen and their sons, and the Steward, that his daughter would make a proper wife. Even King Theoden was here, I’m sure his son took a liking to what was presented this evening. It’s a right good plan in my opinion. When else would she have the chance to be placed in a room full of mighty men and their eligible sons?” He extinguished the candles beside his bed and settled in for the night as he spoke, trying to plant the seed into his brother’s head to pursue young Sedryneth.
Boromir stared at the ceiling once more in thought, considering what he said. “Perhaps you’re right, brother. Seems all those hours reading have served you well. You’ve developed quite the mind.” He laughed a bit, his turn to tease Faramir, but Faramir was already dozing off into his pillow. He closed his eyes, following his brother’s example, and started to drift as his mind created scenarios of him approaching Sedryneth, asking for her hand, and what he would do with her when his offer was accepted.
***
Weeks had passed since the oath ceremony and dinner in the Hall of Kings, and Boromir was only a memory again in Sedryneth’s mind, one she fondly revisited every so often when she was daydreaming or drifting off to sleep at night. Her father’s attempt to promote his daughter’s hand had fallen short as she had yet to receive any offers from the noblemen in attendance of the feast, and normally she wouldn’t mind that she did not have anyone asking her father for her, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed that the Steward had not even introduced his eldest son to her. A few nobles had, flaunting their newly appointed guardsman sons in front of her and her father. Though none had made any offers. Or if they had, her father was keeping them from her, which she doubt he would do.
Her mind wandered as she walked to the bank of the Anduin River, hopping from one thought to the next, imagining what her life may look like if she never receive any offers from suitors. Would she enjoy her solitude? Or would she become a hag in the dark corners of the city, becoming the subject of a child’s cautionary tale? She was horrified of the idea of her older self, all haggard and wild looking, spooking the children that crossed her path. She shook her head, attempting to erase that image from her imagination forever, and kept walking through the tall grass and reeds.
Sedryneth wiped her brow of sweat and lifted her heavy braid behind her head, allowing the breeze to cool her damp neck. Her eyes closed in ecstasy as she walked, unaware of the fact she was no longer alone in the wild. She heard a splash in the water and her eyes landed onto a man wading in the deepest part of the river. He had just surfaced from under the water, his hair slicked back on his head and his skin gleamed under the sun's rays. Her eyes lingered a bit longer than she had hoped and the man caught her staring as he turned toward the shoreline. Sedryneth gasped when she recognized that this was no stranger, but Boromir, swimming toward the bank where she was standing. He stood now on the more shallow portion, the water reaching his mid stomach. “Lady Sedryneth, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He bowed his head to her and smiled brightly. “It’s ungentlemenly for you to not come and greet me, my Lord.” She said, mostly teasing but partially serious as she was used to manners when it came to social situations with men. Boromir’s brows furrowed slightly. “I’m not sure I am in the proper regalia for such pleasantries, my Lady.” He laughed a bit but Sedryneth seemed to not understand what he meant by this, so he was set to show her, smiling deviously when his mind decided on his next move.
He began walking toward the bank, the water level lowering and more of his skin is exposed. Sedryneth’s eyes widen slowly as she watches more and more of Boromir being revealed to her. She gasped as the angular crease above his hips were exposed, a patch of hair appearing from below the water's surface, the sound causing him to freeze where he was and a playful laugh escaped from him. “I tried to tell you, my Lady.” He threw his hands up exasperatedly before planting them onto his hips. He could see her face growing red, more from embarrassment than from the sun. He twirled his finger in the air in front of him before giving her a verbal command. “Turn around.” With nary a protest, Sedryneth follows and turns so that her back is now to the naked man in the water. Boromir made his way out and onto the shoreline and pulled his pants uncomfortably over his wet legs. “Alright, it’s safe.” He watched as she turned to him, gasp, and turn away again as if his bare chest startled her. “You said to turn, my Lord!” She shrieked which made Boromir laugh again. Her innocence was commendable, and he was not used to such decency when it came to intimate moments like these with women.
“Sedryneth, I am not naked. But if it makes you uncomfortable I can cover myself for you.” Sedryneth shook her head and turned around, willing to prove she wasn’t as immature as she was painting herself to be by being so startled at his bare form. But as soon as she faced him she couldn’t take her eyes off of his glistening chest, muscled and tan, sprinkled with light hair between his bulging chest, trailing down to his navel, the line of hair crawling further down into his trousers. She swallowed hard, noticing how dry her throat had become. Sedryneth was aware of how flustered she was, from the heat and the view in front of her, and her face was no friend of hers when she tried to conceal it. Boromir raised his eyebrow at her, amused at how she seemed to lose herself just by his presence. Oh, how you’d be putty in my hands. He thought deviously to himself, his mind picturing what she may look under her gown, hoping she’d join him in the water and press her supple flesh against his in the cool river.
Sedryneth cleared her throat and stuttered as she tried to speak. “Actually, I’d much prefer it if you covered yourself, my Lord.” Her words contradicted her thoughts and desires. She’d actually much prefer it if he lost his trousers as well as his shirt, but she was a lady first and foremost and must conduct herself as such. What would people think if they caught her, a nobleman’s daughter, conversing with a half naked man out in the wild of Gondor? Boromir looked at her with slight confusion painted across his face as he reached for his shirt. “As you wish…” He spoke slowly, almost as if he hoped she would interrupt him and stop his movement. But she did not, so Boromir continued to pull the linen shirt over himself.
They stood in an awkward silence together, one staring at the other until Boromir broke it. “You never answered my question from before.” She cocked her head to the side, puzzled briefly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?” He reminded her and her mouth made a small ‘o’ shape. “Oh, you owe nothing at all. In fact, you’re trespassing. I came here to find refuge from the beating heat but alas. My bank was occupied.” “Your bank.” Boromir repeated her and she nodded, smiling and fluttering her lashes at him. “Surely you are mistaken, my Lady, but I have come to this bank ever since I was a young boy and unfortunately I have never seen the likes of you here.” Sedryneth laughed at him, a bit more confident now that the two were bantering. “Oh, Lord Boromir, I am afraid you are the one mistaken here. You see, my father’s vineyards stretch out past that line of trees, which means this is my bank.” “It is your father’s bank.” “Yes, so it is my bank.” Boromir put his hand up, stopping any more of her rebuttals before trying to speak with reason as he could see she was far more serious about this land ownership deal than he thought. “Lady Sedryneth, no man owns the river Anduin, not your father, not even my father. You understand that right?” He spoke as if he were explaining something to a child, concerned she fully believed her father owned this bank and that she had rights to remove anyone from the premises. She smiled, indicating she was merely playing a game with him, and he smirked back at her before going along again.
“So then I am a trespasser. What will you have done to me?” He crossed his arms and stepped forward, closing the space between them a bit more and creating palpable tension. Sedryneth blushed at his suggestive tone and averted her eyes, she couldn’t bear looking into his anymore than she was. Noticing her uncomfortableness, Boromir softened a bit and shifted from his usual charm he used on beautiful women to one that was a bit more respectful.
“It seems we have a common purpose here. To cool ourselves. Shall we?” He offered his arm to her and she took it with grace, hand firmly gripping his bicep as they walked closer to the shoreline. He started to pull his shirt off again and Sedryneth protested the action, but he gave her a look and explained himself. “No maiden as fair as yourself should go around walking with a soiled gown. Please.” Boromir continued and laid the linen onto the earth to save the light fabric of her skirts. “But now you’ll walk through the city in a muddied shirt, my Lord.” “Boromir is alright, my Lady, and I’ve walked through Minas Tirith in worse states.” He shrugged, laughing at the memories of stumbling through the alleys in drunken delight with his fellow guardsmen.
“Well, Boromir,” she began, the sound of her voice speaking his name was music to his ears, “why haven’t we ran into each other here before? Seeing as you supposedly frequent this river.” “Supposedly, eh?” His brows furrowed and he looked into her sparkling eyes, the ripples of the water reflecting in them. “Perhaps we have and you do not recall.” “I think I would recall.” “And I should say the same. How could one forget a face as fair?” Sedryneth blushed at his compliment and Boromir smiled at the effect his charm was having on her. “In fact, I remember the first time I saw you.” Her eyes lit up in curiosity as he spoke. “You do not?” Boromir asked, sounding almost hurt that she seemed to have no recollection of this. “No, no, I am just interested in hearing what you have to say.”
“I was ten, you could not have been more than six or seven years of age, my brother five. You were so small, I remember that, dwarfed standing beside your father. And your hair was behind you covered in a veil.” His voice trailed off toward the end, the parts of that memory that gave clues as to the event they were attending creating an emotional response from him. Sedryneth placed a gentle hand onto his knee as a gesture of comfort, knowing of which moment in time he spoke of. She remembered only parts of his mother’s funeral, having been seven years old and entirely distracted by the Steward and Stewardess’ eldest son during the whole affair.
Boromir seemed to push the bleak memory from his mind and lightened up beside her. “But now I do not see that little girl sitting beside me. No, I see a stunning woman, one who blossomed into beauty with grace.” He reached for a curly strand beside her delicate face and tucked it behind her ear, a gesture he knew would please her as it seemed to please the prior women he had involved himself with. He was no stranger to his feminine counterparts, he knew how to move with them and behave. But with Sedryneth, he intended to be far more gentlemanly than he typically was.
“You flatter me, Boromir, thank you.” She spoke shyly and averted her gaze toward the river as she was not used to such pleasantries from a young man as none have been so bold to speak to her in such a way. “Forgive me, I am not familiar with these sorts of things.” “I speak only what I see and know to be true, Sedryneth. And I would find it rather hard to believe that you have not been told these things before.” She shot him a glance which made him laugh for a moment and she almost looked offended at his sudden outburst. “But you must be joking, right?” She shook her head no and he continued, his voice a bit shocked as he spoke. “You are, what, a year from twenty and no man has told you these things?” “I am twenty, and my father has—” “Fathers do not count here.” “Then no, no one has been as bold as Lord Boromir of Ithilien.” Sedryneth exaggerated her tone when she spoke his full title and wiggled her fingers in the air as if mustering some magic from it. “No suitors, then?” He asked, finding his way in now, and she rolled her eyes. “No. Are you satisfied with humiliating me this afternoon? I came here to relax and escape the sun but here I am being badgered by some…scoundrel, explaining myself when I should not. And now I am right and fully burnt from the sun. Look, see?” She rambled on and stuck her arms out in front of her, showing off their reddened hue. Boromir watched with enjoyment, he rather liked seeing her become flustered because of him. It was attractive to him, youthful and pure. Something he was not used to with the women he had been with before. But Sedryneth was not like these prior women. No. He wouldn’t dare lump her into that category with them. Sedryneth was more than just a woman. There was depth to her, innocence, joy, fear, she had many layers and he meant to peel them back and explore them if she would allow it.
He hesitated speaking aloud the thought that had been bubbling in his head since he saw her at the dinner all that time ago. Would this alarm her? Would it be too bold of him to come right out and say it? Perhaps this sort of thing required more thought, but Boromir was not the thinking type, he was more of a man of action. Thinking was Faramir’s line of business. He’d sit and ponder and weigh options and consequences of a thought. Boromir would act on impulse. If it was in his head, it would manifest into an action, and rarely did these actions have consequences but when they did, Boromir took them on the chin with no complaints. He decided there on that bank sitting on the cool earth next to Sedryneth that he would act on this thought, but be a bit more skillful like his brother would. Sedryneth required tact and stealth. He couldn’t pounce on her or profess anything. No, that would surely send her running into the water to flee from him. His mind began to spin now with all of this pondering. Is this how Faramir felt all of the time?
He sighed and looked off at the river, clearing his throat and speaking with a much softer tone now, almost at a whisper. “I would court you.” “Hm?” Sedryneth wasn’t sure what she had heard, he was quieter now and she thought she had mistaken him saying something about courting but wanted to clarify before jumping to conclusions. “I would court you, ask for your hand.” He explained and watched as her eyes widened In both surprise and concern. This was awfully fast for her. Was this how it happened? You speak to a man briefly and they decide to offer marriage to you? Surly this wasn’t how it was done. Sedryneth wasn’t a stupid girl, but this bold statement threw her off balance. Noticing this, Boromir attempted to retract what he said and correct himself, realizing how overly eager he had sounded just then. “Not now, no no, we’ve barely just officially met. I purely mean I would like to court you—see you frequently, or…you understand?” He stuttered, suddenly his confidence had escaped him and he was no longer this suave man he seemed to be at all times with the opposite sex.
Sedryneth giggled at his sudden bout of fluster, bringing a small delicate hand to her mouth to conceal the melodic sound escaping her. But when Boromir gave her a pitiful look, she couldn’t resist the unladylike laughter that bellowed out of her. She cackled as he joined her in her fit of mirth, the two bodies bouncing back and forth where they sat on the earth. When they quieted down and caught their breath, Sedryneth spoke up, the lilt of amusement still painted on her tone. “I would like that, if you would.” Boromir raised his eyebrows almost too eagerly and she continued, a playful smile dancing across her lips. “To see you frequently, or…” She echoed his earlier stuttering claim that pushed them to a fit of laughter. He smiled at her, pleased with this relaxed childlike side of her being expressed. “You would?” Sedryneth nodded and Boromir beamed like a victorious boy. He was always successful with charming the women of Minas Tirith, many of whom he wooed his way into their beds, but never before had he attempted to court someone with pure intentions. Sure, he would love to have Sedryneth bend to his will and give herself to him, but he found her to be more than a beautiful face to have claim over.
After some time sitting together on the bank, talking about anything and everything, Boromir noticed the sun beginning to dip lower toward the land. “Shall I accompany you back to your home?” He offered a strong hand to her as he stood now, helping her from her spot. She smoothed her gown and picked up Boromir’s shirt, the one he gave her to sit on to save her skirts, shaking whatever earth from the linen she could. “Oh, my Lord, I’ll manage. I’m afraid you’ll ask my father for my hand now if you did escort me home.” Her lips turned upward again, cheeks plumping and blushing pink as she jest with him once more. Boromir returned the smile and graciously took his soiled shirt from her gentle hands, pulling the dirtied linen over his head as the two made their way toward Minas Tirith, splitting off in separate directions and returning to their homes.
***
Months had passed since their encounter on the riverbank, the day this all began between the two young lovers. Boromir was fully smitten over Sedryneth, and he was not used to this feeling. Sedryneth was equally as devoted to Boromir, having never been in a courtship with a man before, this was a new experience for her as well.
The two navigated in secrecy, dipping behind the city walls to steal a kiss and Boromir skipped training to spend lazy afternoons along the river, swimming together and laying in the beach grass that grew along the shoreline just south of Minas Tirith. Though they were well into their adulthood, both Boromir and Sedryneth felt like youthful adolescents exploring the world of romance with one another.
They rolled around in the grass, the cool breeze kissing their flesh, a characteristic of bright summer days passing into the golden hues of autumn. Sedryneth lay atop Boromir’s large frame, peppering his cheeks with soft kisses, only deepening them when her lips found their place on his. His tongue caressed her bottom lip and she opened her mouth slightly to allow him entry, tangling her tongue with his. He sucked and nipped at her plump lip and earned a pleasured noise from his love. Boromir’s hands explored Sedryneth’s body, dragging the fabric of her skirts up her leg so that he could place his rough calloused hand against her smooth supple thigh, inching his way under her behind. He contemplated sliding a thick finger over her, entering her most private part of her being and bringing her pleasure as he worked with her body, but decided against it as he noticed her breathing hitch cautiously, her kissing ceasing for a moment when she noticed the path his hand had taken on her body.
Had he no conscience, no morals to stand on, Boromir would have taken her right then and there. But he was a man of honor. He followed orders. And hers were to preserve her purity. So he obeyed and fought to restrain himself. Her kisses continued and she moaned into his mouth when she felt his arousal manifesting against her. Sedryneth’s chastity was torturous for Boromir. He had never had a woman who remained true to her abstinence with him before. And frankly, if he had, he would not have continued with them. But Sedryneth was different, something about her called to him when he saw her all those months ago dining in the citadel, and when they decided to pursue this connection between them, he had no issue with waiting for Sedryneth. He knew she would be his one day, so what was waiting a bit of time until then?
***
Boromir accompanied Sedryneth back to her home like he did most days since beginning their secret courtship, stealing kisses and embraces behind the tall pillar of stone beside the gate to her father’s property, hiding from the eyes of her parents.
Boromir peppered her neck with kisses, his stubbled chin tickling her skin causing her to giggle loudly. He shushed her, pulling her closer to him, pressing her delicate body to his firm chest and smothering her lips with his.
Having known loss for some time, experiencing it in battle and having those closest comrades of his being taken from this realm, Boromir knew the pain and agony that twisted and choked a man’s soul. He ached for days when his first man was lost. To see these poor Hobbits, faces drenched with tears, their throats growing raw from wailing in sorrow, it was as if he were that fresh soldier all over again experiencing his first death in battle.
Master List | Chapter Nine
Sedryneth conjured a small smile as Giluen and Arathalion romped around the court yard, a comforting hand on her belly while the other ruffles her son's hair as he galloped before her. Though physically she is present, her mind is elsewhere — with her husband far away from the halls of their home. It had been some time since word had come of how Boromir fared. Faramir last told her that his brother made it to Rivendell and joined a small company, set to ensure Middle Earth remains safe from evil.
“There you are!” Faramir entered the courtyard, picking up a giggling Giluen on his way to Sedryneth. “You seem worried…” He looked down at her where she sat on a stone bench along the surrounding wall. “Any news of the company?” Sedryneth was short and to the point, no reason to conceal her concerns of her husband’s wellbeing. Faramir pressed his lips together into a firm line and shook his head, placing his niece back on her feet as he rested one of his next to Sedryneth on the bench, leaning his wait onto his elbow. “No. Not since last we spoke of him.” Sedryneth blinked, averting her eyes from her brother in law’s caring gaze. “Do not fret, Sed. You know my brother, I’m sure he is leading the company gallantly.” He placed a strong comforting hand onto her shoulder, the weight easing the tension in Sedryneth’s neck for a moment. She placed a small hand over his and gave him a soft smile, nodding in understanding.
***
The Fellowship barely made it out of the mines alive. Boromir hurried to the side of Gimli, whose wails of agony and sorrow echoes in the valley of the mountains. Flashes of the scene of what just transpired continued to play in Boromir’s mind. The roaring flames, the heat that filled the air around them, the horrific bellowing of the beast that dwelled in the depths of the darkness.
The screams from Frodo echoed in Boromir’s ears. Shrieks for Gandalf, the endless wailing and disbelief that he was taken from them so quickly by the Balrog, the Wizard’s final orders to the Fellowship. Boromir did his best to stay strong for the little ones, though Frodo was no bigger than his own daughter, the weight of him multiplied in his grief as he held him back and carried him from the mountain.
He looked around as he consoled Gimli — who tried desperately to claw his way from Boromir’s arms and run back into the gaping mouth of the mountain — and took in the sorry sight of his new companions. Pippin, though he may appear to be the thorn in Gandalf’s side at times, lay on the rough stone and sobbed as Merry did his best to comfort his friend. Sam held his head in his hands and wept quietly to himself, folded over a rock. Legolas looked on stunned, unfamiliar with the emotions swelling within him
Having known loss for some time, experiencing it in battle and having those closest comrades of his being taken from this realm, Boromir knew the pain and agony that twisted and choked a man’s soul. He ached for days when his first man was lost. To see these poor Hobbits, faces drenched with tears, their throats growing raw from wailing in sorrow, it was as if he were that fresh soldier all over again experiencing his first death in battle.
Aragorn stood calmly to the side, cleaning his blade from the extensive battle they experienced in the mines, seemingly unmoved at what had just transpired, oblivious to the weight of the moment. “Legolas, get them up.” He ordered the Elf, who paused before carrying out the command, dazed and almost floating to aid the Hobbits. Boromir felt many things — sorrow, agony, pain — but it was rage that began to take over. “Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!” He shouted, voice strained and cracking slightly from his own emotions that were conjured from witnessing the mourning of Hobbits, but Aragorn countered. “By nightfall these hills will be swarming with Orcs. We must reach the woods of Lothlórien.”
Though he understood Aragorn's need to keep the Fellowship moving, it did not ease this swelling anger from bubbling within. “Come Boromir, Legolas, Gimli…get them up.” Aragorn ordered once more as Boromir readjusted his gear before assisting the others.
The company continued their journey through snow and shallow water until a dense forest appeared in the distance. Aragorn hurried them along and soon they made it to the labyrinth of lush trees.
Gimli bantered on about an Elf Witch, frightening the poor Hobbits as he spoke. Boromir continued walking cautiously behind the group, taking in his surroundings as he did so. The woods here reminded him of the dense wood he and Faramir would venture off to as young men over the mountain range to the north of Gondor. They would hunt small game there and sit in the shade of the green canopies for hours, avoiding the responsibilities that await them back in Minas Tirith.
Before drifting too far off into his daydream, Boromir’s attention was caught once the Dwarf’s gruff voice was suddenly cut off and the quiet groan of a bow traveled through the still air of the woods.
"The Dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark." Shining points threatening release surrounded the Fellowship. Gimli growled in displeasure at the Elf’s insult, but the Fellowship did not disagree. Their position was often exposed because of his Dwarven qualities – talking loudly and proudly, heavy footed and clanging armor.
Haldir and his accompanying guards escorted the company through the woods. They climbed platforms high above the forest floor, Boromir could have sworn they were at the top of the canopy but when he looked up, there were still stories of branches above them.
Haldir welcomes Legolas in his native tongue as well as Aragorn before being interrupted by Gimli, who mentioned something about the Elves not living up to their courteous nature. Boromir smirked to himself, amused at the Dwarf’s boldness, only for the insult to be escalated by a Dwarven curse upon Haldir, to which Aragorn scolded Gimli like an abashed parent correcting their illmannered child.
Haldir continuesd his examination of the Fellowship, sending a glare to the Dwarf as he moved away toward the Hobbits, his eyes landing on Frodo’s timorous face. "You bring great evil with you…" His voice shakes ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving Frodo as he whispers to Aragorn with a tone of urgency. "You can go no further." Haldir turns from Aragorn and begins to rejoin his men who stood not too far from them. The Fellowship turn to look at Frodo, almost as if accusing him of intentionally doing something to cause such a banishment from the Elven guard.
Some time passes and Aragorn and Haldir are still locked in a hush conversation. Boromir found himself envying Aragorn’s ability to speak and understand this language, he thought of all the times he teased Faramir as a young man for putting his studies higher than his training and how he wished he could go back in time and learn a bit more Elvish so that he could understand a portion of the heated discussion going on just feet away. He could only pick up a word here and there, but none of them made sense.
Abandoning his attempt of eavesdropping, Boromir took a seat across from where Frodo rested. He noticed the glances of the rest of the Fellowship toward the poor Hobbit who sat before him, their displeasure and sadness being directed at the Ring Bearer. He felt sorry for Frodo, though he felt the same sorrow the rest of the company was feeling, he did not place that in the hands of Frodo.
"Gandalf’s death was not in vain, nor would he have you give up hope." Boromir spoke with a hushed voice, just loud enough for the Hobbit to hear. "You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don’t carry the weight of the dead." He spoke with experience. Having charge of countless men who met their ends in battle, Boromir had carried a heavy load for years until someone shared these words with him.
Frodo blinked a few tears away and looked up before a voice broke the silence in the air. "You will follow me." Haldir ordered and the Fellowship sprang to their feet. They made their way down out of the canopy and walked through the woods again, following their guides closely. They walk up hill after hill, over fallen tree and through dropped foliage until they are met with a glorious sight – one Boromir had only seen sketches of in books and murals in the great halls of Rivendell. "Caras Galadhon. The Heart of Elvendom on Earth. Realm of the Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light."
The sight that followed, Boromir could have sworn he was in a dream. The air around them glittered as they walked through Lothlórien. Winding stairs and pathways lead them up the ancient roots of enormous trees. Boromir stumbled time and time again as he had his neck craned, looking up at sun peeking through the tree tops that seemed to go on and on for miles.
They climbed a long, spiraling staircase around a wide enchanting tree and made it to its platform some time after. The elegant archways glowed an ethereal blue hue. Boromir could feel his mouth became dry as sand from having it agape as he looked on in awe. Giluen will love this, he thought to himself. If only he could paint, he would have this plastered upon the entirety of her bedroom wall so that she could look on at it and dream she were in the most beautiful place on Middle Earth every night.
Haldir stops them in front of a staircase. The ground was littered with fallen leaves with three prongs, the size of a grown man’s boot. Boromir considered taking one and placing it in his bag to bring to his children, to prove that this beautiful place existed and so that they could have a piece of their father’s great adventure for their own. But just as he was about to crouch down and take a leaf, a great white light illuminated the space before them.
Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel floated gracefully down the stairs, hand in hand. Boromir felt his heart skip, his breath caught in his throat. He thought he knew beauty. Sedryneth is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, yes, but Lady Galadriel was the most beautiful Elf he has ever been graced to witness with his own two eyes. Her eyes twinkled, a heaven of stars captured within them. Her hair glowed like the milky rays of the moon. Her skin sparkled like the finest ore of the Earth.
"The enemy knows you have entered here," Celeborn spoke, his voice deep and demanding, "what hope you had in secrecy is now gone. Eight, there are here, yet nine there were set out from Rivendell…" He paused, eyes scanning the defeated Fellowship that stood before him. "Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him. I can no longer see him from afar." "Gandalf the Grey did not pass through the borders of this land. He has fallen into Shadow." Galadriel answered her husband, her face stricken with grief as she looked on at the eight before them. "He was taken by both Shadow and Flame. A Balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria." Legolas explained sorrowfully.
"Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his full purpose." The Elven queen reassured the young prince. "Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Glóin. For the world has grown full of peril, and in all lands, love is now mingled with grief…" Galadriel turned to Boromir, who gulped and blinked aggressively. She held his gaze for some time before the strong man began to weep to himself, her voice infiltrating his mind. Visions of his family flashed before him as the city of Minas Tirith burned around them. Faramir struggling to bring them to safety as he is mortally wounded himself. His father losing himself to madness. All things, her voice told his mind, a possibility should the Fellowship fail to complete this quest. Should Boromir give in to weakness and take the burden from Frodo, impede his mission, then Minas Tirith, his family, all that he loved would be lost.
"What now becomes of this Fellowship. Without Gandalf, hope is lost." Celeborn’s voice interrupts the premonition given to Boromir. "The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all." She looks to Boromir once more and he trembles in response, reminded of the vision she had given him just moments ago. "Yet hope remains while the company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary with sorrow and much toil. Tonight, you will sleep in peace."
***
Boromir sat alone, a bit away from the others, on a thick root beside a statue of an elegant Elven maiden. Ethereal voices filled the air, he heard Legolas explaining to the others that it was a lament for Gandalf – to which Samwise added a verse about the Wizard’s legendary fireworks. For Boromir, the lament only worsened the ache he felt inside. He missed his family, his wife and children. He missed his brother. He had a sinking feeling that perhaps he won’t be going home to what he left. Perhaps the vision Lady Galadriel had given him was not just a premonition, but a glimpse to the future.
Being so lost in thought and worry, he didn’t notice Aragorn approaching him until he heard his voice come from behind. "Take some rest. These borders are well-protected."
"I will find no rest here." Boromir fiddled anxiously with the wooden sword Arathalien had given him before this journey. "I heard her voice inside my head. She conjured images of great evil and unrest. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. The end of my family. She said to me, 'Even now, there is hope left.' But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope." Aragorn sat beside Boromir now, looking on with genuine concern
Boromir took a deep breath before continuing, his voice wavering and fingers still fidgeting with the small sword in his hands. "My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And now our…our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right and I – I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored." He paused for a moment and looked to the future, to a day where he would sit as the Steward, his sons at his side as he and Faramir served with their father. And one day, his children would have the same honor, and theirs after them. Perhaps this was the hope Galadriel spoke of.
"Have you ever seen it Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver. Its banners caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?" Boromir spoke as if he were describing the city as it lay before him. "I have seen the White City, long ago." Aragorn answered, looking on at his companion's grief stricken face, a glimmer of hope twinkling in his eye.
"One day, our paths will lead us there. And the tower guard shall take up the call: "'The Lords of Gondor have returned!'"
Aragorn's lips twitched, a solemn look washed upon him as he looked down, averting his eyes from the barely hopeful man who sat across from him. Boromir could see the doubt — or perhaps the shame — in Aragorn. Had he no trust in this company to make it to the end of this journey? Had he no faith in their strength to defeat evil and return to the White City? He could feel that same doubt seeping into his mind now, perhaps this was a doomed quest. But he could not dwell on this uncertainty.
Some time had passed after his discussion of their home, of his doubts and worry, and the warning the Elf Witch had shared with him. Boromir lay on his sleeping roll tucked within the enormous roots of the Elven trees, unable to quiet his mind and rest for the evening. His thoughts were elsewhere, in a different time. Memories of the early days with Sedryneth played through his head, soothing his homesickness and easing his worry. He stared off into the glittering expanse of the treetops as images of a young Boromir and Sedryneth flooded his eyes.
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He gasped, his body frozen from the impact and fog of battle surrounding him. His life flashed before his eyes for a moment. Sedryneth’s eyes, his children’s laughter, Faramir’s smile. Would this be his end? Is this how the Steward of Gondor falls? At the hands of a diseased, shrieking, crazed creature in an abandoned Dwarven mine?
*quick authors note*
It has been SO LONG since I have written. I still intend on finishing this and continuing my other fics as well. Life has been insane this whole year (graduated, moved across the country, updating my new house, adjusting to a new state/town/job/life) so I haven’t had the time to sit down and write like I was. I apologize if the quality of this chapter (and probably the next one too) isn’t the greatest, its a lot of referencing the movie and script. I’m trying to add more Boromir POV though to make it a bit better. Thanks for sticking with me!! <3
Master List | Chapter Eight
The sight of the Dwarven city of Dwarrowdelf could bring any man to his knees. The neverending columns of uniform pillars and angular archways went on deep into the dark of the mountain, the high pitch ping of water dropping echoed through the abandoned city.
The company continued through, the Hobbits whispering to each other in amazement of the sight before them. Boromir was used to halls of grandeur, but Dwarrodelf still took his breath away for a moment. He could only imagine what these little fellows must be feeling, having only known the quaintness of the Shire.
A sliver of light caught the eye of Gimli, a choked gasp escaping his throat and reverberating against the walls. “Gimli!” Gandalf called to him, his voice low but urgent. The Dwarf ran to the chamber that the light was shining from.
Mummified corpses with arrows wedged between exposed bone, their leather skin covered in dust and webs. Dwarven weapons scattered the floor, shreds of paper and cloth lay like leaves on the ground as the warmer months turn to autumn. In the center of the chamber was what appeared to be a stone table that Boromir soon deducted was not, in fact, a table, but a crypt. Gimli knelt before it and wailed, mourning for whoever lay eternally within its confines.
“‘Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.’” Gandalf read the inscription etched into the stone face of the tomb. “He is dead then…it’s as I feared.”
Gimli continued his weeping. Balin, the relative he spoke fondly of when they first entered the tomb that is this mountain, would no longer host his elaborate feasts and entertain halls of guests with barrels of ale and spickets of meat. Boromir, recognizing the agony bubbling inside of the Dwarf, came to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. He knew the weight of loss, having lost friends and good men before.
Through quiet sobs, Gimli began chanting in his tongue. “Kilmin malur ni zaram kalil ra narag. Kheled-zâram…Balin tazlifi.”
The wizard blew the dust and webs from a thick bound book found in the rotten hands of a dwarven corpse leaning against the tomb. Legolas shares a concerned look with Aragorn before whispering to the man, urgency in his voice. “We must move on, we cannot linger.”
Boromir once more placed a gloved hand upon Gimli’s trembling shoulder as Gandalf began to mutter the words scrawled across the aged and warped pages, his voice but a low and raspy whisper. “They have taken the bridge…and the second hall…we have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long…the ground shakes…”
He pauses, the eeriness of the words he spoke seeped into the very core of Boromir, his spine tingled as he stood, feeling so exposed and as though someone – or something – was lurking its way to him from behind.
“Drums…drums…in the deep.” The Hobbits listened to Gandalf intently, as though they were back in the Shire listening to one of his old tales, though this time this tale was not one of adventure, and they certainly were not in the Shire.
Boromir’s gaze shifted around the dank room, his eyes scanning every crevice for any signs of movements, the sick feeling in his stomach growing more and more unbearable. He had felt unease before battle, but this was not unease he was experiencing. This was more than a battle between men. He was no longer in command of a legion of hundreds of Gondor’s finest. He was but a man in the company of nine, four of which had never so much as wielded a blade sharper than a butter knife.
“We cannot get out…” the wizard continued, his eyes fixed on the ink dragging across the page as though the author’s hand had lingered with no intent. “...they are coming…”
The unnerving silence that followed Gandalf’s reading was startled by a neverending clanging. All eyes land onto the Hobbit responsible: Pippin. He had backed himself into the dry well and, with no restraint, reached out to touch the rusted arrow point struck through a corpse teetering on the well’s edge, which then sent it tumbling down the endless pit.
The rattling bones and armor and chains echoed throughout the mountain and the company paused, listening for any sign that they were not alone and if whoever – or whatever – the author had written of was coming for them now. When no indication came, Gandalf slammed the book closed, causing the Hobbits to wince at the noise and anticipate the coming lashing of their friend at the wizard’s hand.
“Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!” Just as he turned away in disappointment, Gandalf froze as he heard the distant rapping of drums; quiet at first then faster and louder and accompanied by ghastly shrieks. He turned back to Pippin, who then turned to look into the gaping mouth of the well, drawn in by the drumming.
Boromir’s skin tingled violently as he drew an uneven breath. His heart raced like it was his first time at war all over again. What horrors lurked in the shadows of this mountainous tomb had now awakened. The Fellowship were trapped, Boromir realizes, as the Dwarves had been, and all that remained of them were their decaying bodies and creaking armor strewn across the cold floor. A bleak glimpse into the company’s future.
Samwise gasped as his eyes landed onto Frodo’s side, Sting was now glowing an iridescent blue hue. “Orcs!” Legolas announced and Boromir bolted for the large doors, looking out to see if these beasts had grown nearer, when two crude arrows hissed through the air missing his nose by mere inches and punctured the ornate wooden door.
Aragorn barked orders to the little ones, demanding they stay close to Gandalf before running to assist Boromir with the large Dwarven doors. The two men strained to shut the heavy wood and stone, their thighs flexing against their once-loose pant legs and boots sliding against the rocky floor. A bellowing roar carries through the great halls of Moria, a sound so horrendous that the two brave men exchanged a fearful and worrisome look. “They have a cave troll…” Boromir announces exasperatedly, loud enough for the others to hear but just quiet enough to be meant only for himself.
Legolas tosses axes and spears to the men to brace the doors, hoping the obstruction could bide the company some time to prepare before the screeching orcs came for them.
Boromir readies himself for battle — against whom or what, he can only conjure the most dreadful of foes in his mind — twisting his sword and bracing his shield, ensuring the little ones are behind him at a distance and away from any harm that may come barreling through those Dwarven doors.
The sharp ring of metal chimed through the thick stale air as the company of Hobbits unsheathed their blades. “Let them come.” Gimli growls as he climbs the tomb, ax in hand.
The door shook and shattered as jagged spears and rusted axes pierced through the wooden planks. The Elf releases an arrow into a gaping hole and a horrid squeal bled through the air of the mine, Aragorn followed suit and together they maimed the creatures clawing and gnawing their way through the door. That is, until it collapsed and armored orcs came through to meet their doom.
Boromir watched as the arrows shot expertly by his new companions hit their targets each time with accuracy. But this could only buy the company so much time before the room had nearly filled with these putrid creatures of the dark.
Boromir twisted his blade to ready his wrist for battle. He slashed and stabbed, he pummeled many with his shield. Their bodies blurred as they entered the room so quickly, Boromir nearly lost his footing, twisting and turning to attack those that surrounded him. He thought of the battle in Osgiliath, how easily they had defeated the orcs and Uruk Hai, grateful for the manpower he had fighting beside him to reclaim the city. How he wished he had that strength fighting with him now.
Chaos ensued for a moment, each member of the Fellowship slashing and thrusting their blades into the orcs as they surrounded them. Then a rumble shook through the earth beneath them, a horrific roar echoing in the distance, a chain clanging as an orc yanked whatever was attached to the other end closer to the door.
The stone surrounding the door burst as a terrifying troll with eyes like beads ripped its way through, letting out another horrid scream.
Legolas shot an arrow into the beast but it was only empowered by the pain inflicted and lunged forward toward the company. Boromir swung his blade toward the remaining orcs before moving his attention to the troll. The beast had honed in on Samwise, who tried with all the might and courage he could conjure to best the giant with but a frying pan he had on his pack. Boromir noticed Aragorn go for the chain leash attached to the troll and followed suit, the two men straining themselves to pull this monster away from the little Hobbit.
They were successful, but there was no moment to celebrate. The troll swung its giant flail toward the men as though it were swatting annoying flies. Aragorn released the chain and ducked but Boromir remained attached to it as the troll flung him into the wall.
Boromir’s body slammed against the cold stone, his breath escaping his lungs from the impact. He lost consciousness only for a moment as he tumbled to the floor, but came to as an orc readied his blade to sink into Boromir’s flesh.
He gasped, his body frozen from the impact and fog of battle surrounding him. His life flashed before his eyes for a moment. Sedryneth’s eyes, his children’s laughter, Faramir’s smile. Would this be his end? Is this how the Steward of Gondor falls? At the hands of a diseased, shrieking, crazed creature in an abandoned Dwarven mine?
As Boromir’s mind raced, Aragorn threw his sword and pierced the orc in its neck. Boromir shook his head, almost as if he were trying to shake the thoughts of his death from his mind and find the strength to fight again. He looked to his savior and the men nodded to one another, a moment of reassurance between the two.
Violence raged on and on. Gimli grunted and swung his ax, lunging at every foe he could. Legolas climbed the troll with swiftness and attempted to send an arrow through its skull but missed, sinking it into its shoulder instead. Samwise’s cast iron rang like a bell as he struck orc after orc. “I think I’m getting the hang of this!” He shouted as he continued to strike.
Despite the troll being severely injured, its rampage carried on, and it had now zeroed in on Frodo who hid himself behind a pillar. It cornered the Hobbit and snatched him from where he lay cowering in fear. Aragorn rushed to come to his aid but the orcs obstructed him with every step he took. The Hobbit called for him, as the creature tossed and dragged him across the rocky floor. Aragorn pounced between the troll and Frodo, thrusting a corroded spear into the monster’s ribs. Merry and Pippin pummeled the beast with stones, but this did more bad than good as it only angered the troll and caused it to swat Aragorn with such force that he was slammed against the jagged corner of a pillar and knocked unconscious.
Boromir continued to fight the orcs that continued to pour into the room when he heard a choking sound and gasps from the Hobbits. Frodo. He thought to himself, fighting more furiously as he saw Aragorn had been injured and knocked unconscious and Frodo was being pierced by the troll. Merry and Pippin began furiously stabbing their swords into the monster’s back in an attempt to take it down.
Legolas shot into the troll’s mouth, the arrow piercing through its skull and mortally wounding it. The creature moaned pitifully and swayed, its grotesque fingers poking the feathered end of the arrow lodged into its brain. Boromir watched the horrifying scene intensely, unsure if this truly was the end for this troll or if it would continue to fight with more fury from the pain it has endured. This image of this horrific monster is now etched into his mind, surely his family would never believe this, it would have to be reserved for bedtime stories of heroes defeating enormous beasts in caves.
Finally, the troll fell and Pippin was launched from its back as it met the ground. Aragorn, now conscious, crawled his way over the rock and rubble to Frodo, who lay limp against the cold stones. “Oh no…” Aragorn turned Frodo onto his back and — to everyone’s surprise — he gasped and coughed as he came to. Sam, bewildered at the sight, ran to his side and sighed in relief as he looked over his friend. “He’s alive.” He confirmed and Gandalf let out a relieved breath.
Frodo clutched at his chest, panting to catch his breath. A shimmer beneath his blouse caught Boromir’s eye. It wasn’t the ring he saw, no golden sparkle, but a diamond-like gleam just below his collar bone. “You should be dead.” Aragorn stated, still in disbelief at the miracle that seemed to unfold before his very eyes. “That spear would have skewered a wild bore.”
“I think there is more to this Hobbit that meets the eye.” Gandalf inched forward and smiled at Frodo, whose brows knit together in slight confusion before he reached for his buttons and revealed a shimmering tunic. “Mithril…” Gimli said in awe as his eyes drank in the beauty of the metal. “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins—“ This moment of calm was interrupted by screeching in the distance. Crooked shadows grew nearer to the room as the company gathered themselves. “To the Bridge of Kazadum.” The Wizard ordered and swiftly made his way out.
The Fellowship ran as fast as they could, adrenaline taking over and numbing whatever pain or injury they had. The never ending abyss of Moria echoed with the yipping and shrieks of the orcs that bounded after them, surrounding them at one point. Boromir’s heart pounded through his chest, he has known fear but not fear quite like this. The horrors of this cave were something he could never conjure in his own mind without experiencing it for himself first. He felt as though he was flying, his feet moving swiftly and on their own accord, carrying his body along with them.
The orcs climbed out of cracks and scurried down pillars like giant horrifying spiders, yipping and chattering as they closed in on the Fellowship. But then a hush fell, the screeching stopped. All that could be heard for a moment was heavy breathing and the heartbeats of the terrified company. Then a bellowing from the deep. The orcs looked in the direction from which the terrifying noise came. Boromir followed their gaze and his eyes settled at the end of this long dark hall, the archway illuminated by an orange fiery light. His heart sank. The Bridge of Kazadum was through that arch, he assumed, and they would soon meet whatever creature bellowed and growled through there.
The orcs retreated after another horrifying grumble echoed, scattering like insects under an old log that was lifted. Gimli laughed confidently, but his laughter was drowned out by more growling from the lit archway.
Boromir’s whole body shook now, his palm getting slicker as moments passed, he gripped onto the torch as tight as he could for fear of it slipping from his hand. He turned to look into the orange light with Gandalf and Legolas now, shivering in fear.
“What is this new devilry?” He whispered into the old wizard’s ear, his voice quivering. Gandalf hesitated, clenching his eyes tightly before answering. “A Balrog…a demon of the ancient world.” Boromir felt a chill down his spine, his body went hot then cold as sweat trickled down his skin. He had thought he had seen the worst of the horrors of Moria. He may not survive this.
“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!” Gandalf exclaimed and began to flee as fast as he could, the Fellowship not hesitating to follow close behind.
Fungus has done so much for humanity. Penicillin. Radiation cleanup. Delicious mushrooms. Deadly mushrooms. Psychadelic mushrooms. And now my boy RA has chosen the humble mold spores as his vessel through which to cure cancer.
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