It's Feb. 26th. I had to.
Lyric table
Title: Beyond the Known
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas, minor OCs, Boromir
Prompt: 15: if you feel scared, a bit confused, I gotta say, this sounds a little beyond anything I'm used to
Word Count: 549
Rating: PG
Summary: There are some things that Denethor just can't do.
Author's Notes: Tolkien's characters. The pet fanon of Boromir's likely birthday comes into play again. Beware circumspect mentions of gratuitous Hurin nudity.
Later, Denethor would think of it as the oddest night of his life. Finduilas rolled towards him in the bed, made slow and awkward by the late stage of her pregnancy.
“Denethor,” she said through clenched teeth, placing cool, bloodless fingers firmly around his arm. “Now.”
“I’ll get the chamberpot,” he offered, knowing that seasonal illness and a difficult unborn babe had made things extremely uncomfortable for his wife.
“No, that won’t help,” she said. Her grip was tight enough now to startle him out of the remaining fog of drowsiness. Turning his face to hers, he noticed the pained, frightened tightening in the corners of her eyes. “I need -, ” she gasped hoarsely, cutting herself off.
“The midwife,” Denethor finished. Internally, he wondered whether it would be wiser to leave her alone while he went after the healers, or if he ought to taker her with him. “Hold on, Finduilas,” he said, taking her cold hand in his and kissing her forehead quickly, trying to ignore how tense and trembling both were.
He slipped out of bed, throwing on his robe. When she made no move to follow him, his mind settled on the proper course of action.
The sight of the Steward’s son running through the halls of the citadel in a disheveled dressing robe was not a normal occurrence in Gondor, but fortunately for Denethor’s nerves, the nearest night watchman was not too far off. “My lord?” the guard greeted him, raising an eyebrow before reschooling his expression into neutrality and snapping to attention.
Denethor himself was having difficulties containing his feelings of mixed distress and surprise, but he calmed himself enough to come up with a full sentence before addressing his subordinate. “My Lady Finduilas requires the midwife immediately. Bring Mistress Ivorwen to our chambers.”
The old citadel guardsman saluted and broke into a wide grin. “Will do, sir. Congratulations!” The solider took off with an enthusiasm that would do credit to a man half his age.
Denethor did not yet see anything to be congratulatory about. His Finduilas was ill, frightened, and in pain, and he had left her alone when she most needed help. At least now, he was free to return to her. There was very little he would be able to aid her with physically, but at least he might offer her some comfort. Nevertheless, it felt like a long time before the midwife arrived, knowing he could only hold Finduilas and made sure she relaxed what she could.
Ivorwen’s knock upon the chamber door was the most welcome noise he had heard that night, though he nearly missed it at first. “Oh, dear,” the midwife clucked upon receiving Denethor’s permission to enter. “Not a moment too soon, am I? I think I can handle things from here, my lord.”
Denethor sighed with quiet relief, but turned once more to his wife. “Finduilas? Do you wish me to stay?” Still shaky, and sweating with exertion from her still-irregular contractions, she nevertheless shook her head, dismissing him from the impromptu birthing room. “I love you, Finny,” he murmured, kissing her once more before taking his leave. He was still out to sea, but Denethor at least recognized that there were simply certain battles that a man was not meant to fight.
Title: Live for the Fight
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Boromir, Finduilas, Denethor, Faramir
Prompt: 16: Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day; if you want it you're gonna bleed, but it's the price you pay
Word Count: 490
Rating: PG
Summary: Finduilas dreaded the day her son would join the Guard. Probably with good reason.
Author's Notes: My state's sorry excuse for a football team ruined the prompt song for me. It's not related to the fic, but it's true. All characters belong to Tolkien.
His mother had always dreaded the day that he would join the Guard, Boromir remembered ruefully. She’d at least pretended to take an interest when he described the intricacies of his swordsmanship lessons, and had humored his love for tales of battle over romance. But still, he had heard he whisper with his father when she thought he was not watching; when he was “absorbed” in childish antics involving a wooden sword, an overstuffed chair, and occasionally, his baby brother. At least he’d never used the sword on Faramir. Intentionally. If the younger boy had not really deserved it. And then his mother or Nanny Camithiel would take the sword away for a week, and worse, Faramir would cry, so it was never fully worth it.
But having Faramir underfoot whilst playing had sharpened Boromir’s senses, allowing him to be alert for other sounds even as he concentrated upon the brown, shabbily-upholstered enemy before him.
“I suppose I should be glad that he shows such an interest in such things. He’ll need them, I know,” Boromir heard his mother say.
He turned slightly at the sound of her voice, catching sight of his father’s approving smile. Boromir flashed them both a grin of his own before returning to the delicate art of furniture slaying. “He’ll be a match for our legendary Thorongil himself, one day.”
“Just like his father.” Boromir’s curiosity for the remainder of their conversation dimmed; he recognized that tone. It was bad enough to have his mother fussing over him without overhearing her do the same to his father. “But he’ll need more than a warrior’s skill. Even now, we have some hope of peace, and all the political niceties that go along with it,” Finduilas had stated with shaky optimism.
“Give him time; he’ll learn the easy part soon enough. If we are lucky, he might yet be the last of our house that needs such a love of fighting.” Boromir’s memory of the rest of that particular day was rather hazy, but he thought he recalled rescuing Faramir from the monstrous chair-dragon without mishap that day.
In the end, none of his later training had been so easy as his father’s soothing words might have suggested. Politics might be Denethor's battlefield of choice, but Boromir still felt more at peace with a sword in his hands. Even now, when he had been serving in the military for but for three months officially, and already he had broken his arm, ripped a tendon, and had gotten enough minor wounds to scar his mother for life, had she lived to see them, it was better than the council chambers. There, one would not get hurt physically, but Boromir saw no victory within them. Here, yes, he bled. He could be killed. But he could win. And all the blood he lost was worth it, if future generations had no greater enemies than their father’s old, overstuffed chair.
Title: Beyond the Known
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas, minor OCs, Boromir
Prompt: 15: if you feel scared, a bit confused, I gotta say, this sounds a little beyond anything I'm used to
Word Count: 549
Rating: PG
Summary: There are some things that Denethor just can't do.
Author's Notes: Tolkien's characters. The pet fanon of Boromir's likely birthday comes into play again. Beware circumspect mentions of gratuitous Hurin nudity.
Later, Denethor would think of it as the oddest night of his life. Finduilas rolled towards him in the bed, made slow and awkward by the late stage of her pregnancy.
“Denethor,” she said through clenched teeth, placing cool, bloodless fingers firmly around his arm. “Now.”
“I’ll get the chamberpot,” he offered, knowing that seasonal illness and a difficult unborn babe had made things extremely uncomfortable for his wife.
“No, that won’t help,” she said. Her grip was tight enough now to startle him out of the remaining fog of drowsiness. Turning his face to hers, he noticed the pained, frightened tightening in the corners of her eyes. “I need -, ” she gasped hoarsely, cutting herself off.
“The midwife,” Denethor finished. Internally, he wondered whether it would be wiser to leave her alone while he went after the healers, or if he ought to taker her with him. “Hold on, Finduilas,” he said, taking her cold hand in his and kissing her forehead quickly, trying to ignore how tense and trembling both were.
He slipped out of bed, throwing on his robe. When she made no move to follow him, his mind settled on the proper course of action.
The sight of the Steward’s son running through the halls of the citadel in a disheveled dressing robe was not a normal occurrence in Gondor, but fortunately for Denethor’s nerves, the nearest night watchman was not too far off. “My lord?” the guard greeted him, raising an eyebrow before reschooling his expression into neutrality and snapping to attention.
Denethor himself was having difficulties containing his feelings of mixed distress and surprise, but he calmed himself enough to come up with a full sentence before addressing his subordinate. “My Lady Finduilas requires the midwife immediately. Bring Mistress Ivorwen to our chambers.”
The old citadel guardsman saluted and broke into a wide grin. “Will do, sir. Congratulations!” The solider took off with an enthusiasm that would do credit to a man half his age.
Denethor did not yet see anything to be congratulatory about. His Finduilas was ill, frightened, and in pain, and he had left her alone when she most needed help. At least now, he was free to return to her. There was very little he would be able to aid her with physically, but at least he might offer her some comfort. Nevertheless, it felt like a long time before the midwife arrived, knowing he could only hold Finduilas and made sure she relaxed what she could.
Ivorwen’s knock upon the chamber door was the most welcome noise he had heard that night, though he nearly missed it at first. “Oh, dear,” the midwife clucked upon receiving Denethor’s permission to enter. “Not a moment too soon, am I? I think I can handle things from here, my lord.”
Denethor sighed with quiet relief, but turned once more to his wife. “Finduilas? Do you wish me to stay?” Still shaky, and sweating with exertion from her still-irregular contractions, she nevertheless shook her head, dismissing him from the impromptu birthing room. “I love you, Finny,” he murmured, kissing her once more before taking his leave. He was still out to sea, but Denethor at least recognized that there were simply certain battles that a man was not meant to fight.
Title: Live for the Fight
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Boromir, Finduilas, Denethor, Faramir
Prompt: 16: Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day; if you want it you're gonna bleed, but it's the price you pay
Word Count: 490
Rating: PG
Summary: Finduilas dreaded the day her son would join the Guard. Probably with good reason.
Author's Notes: My state's sorry excuse for a football team ruined the prompt song for me. It's not related to the fic, but it's true. All characters belong to Tolkien.
His mother had always dreaded the day that he would join the Guard, Boromir remembered ruefully. She’d at least pretended to take an interest when he described the intricacies of his swordsmanship lessons, and had humored his love for tales of battle over romance. But still, he had heard he whisper with his father when she thought he was not watching; when he was “absorbed” in childish antics involving a wooden sword, an overstuffed chair, and occasionally, his baby brother. At least he’d never used the sword on Faramir. Intentionally. If the younger boy had not really deserved it. And then his mother or Nanny Camithiel would take the sword away for a week, and worse, Faramir would cry, so it was never fully worth it.
But having Faramir underfoot whilst playing had sharpened Boromir’s senses, allowing him to be alert for other sounds even as he concentrated upon the brown, shabbily-upholstered enemy before him.
“I suppose I should be glad that he shows such an interest in such things. He’ll need them, I know,” Boromir heard his mother say.
He turned slightly at the sound of her voice, catching sight of his father’s approving smile. Boromir flashed them both a grin of his own before returning to the delicate art of furniture slaying. “He’ll be a match for our legendary Thorongil himself, one day.”
“Just like his father.” Boromir’s curiosity for the remainder of their conversation dimmed; he recognized that tone. It was bad enough to have his mother fussing over him without overhearing her do the same to his father. “But he’ll need more than a warrior’s skill. Even now, we have some hope of peace, and all the political niceties that go along with it,” Finduilas had stated with shaky optimism.
“Give him time; he’ll learn the easy part soon enough. If we are lucky, he might yet be the last of our house that needs such a love of fighting.” Boromir’s memory of the rest of that particular day was rather hazy, but he thought he recalled rescuing Faramir from the monstrous chair-dragon without mishap that day.
In the end, none of his later training had been so easy as his father’s soothing words might have suggested. Politics might be Denethor's battlefield of choice, but Boromir still felt more at peace with a sword in his hands. Even now, when he had been serving in the military for but for three months officially, and already he had broken his arm, ripped a tendon, and had gotten enough minor wounds to scar his mother for life, had she lived to see them, it was better than the council chambers. There, one would not get hurt physically, but Boromir saw no victory within them. Here, yes, he bled. He could be killed. But he could win. And all the blood he lost was worth it, if future generations had no greater enemies than their father’s old, overstuffed chair.