Middle Earth || OS

68. Boromir | Nothing But a Number

Tumblr : averil-of-fairlea

 Imagine confessing your feelings to Boromir by saying you are attracted to older men: he looks sadly at you, thinking you consider him old, so you try to fix things, but end up just making everything worse

*

You stand in the center of Rivendell's impressive armory, surrounded by exquisite bows, arrows, swords, and daggers. With their soft curves, strength from the heartiest of hardwoods and the natural glimmer of purest metals, they are as elegant as the finest silver tea service, yet, in only one or two moves, can bring the fiercest foes to their knees.

Just like Boromir's eyes.

He is standing beside you, quietly reviewing the artfully displayed stockpile, save for the occasional "beautiful" comment as he carefully strokes handles and the broad side of several blades. He's actually talking to you, trying and failing to drop a clue of his feelings, but you don't detect it.

It's been several weeks since your first meeting at the Council of Elrond, and since then you've spent as much time with him as you have with the others in the fellowship. Not one of them seem to have the faith that Elrond has in you, unfortunately.

Elrond, a father figure to you, knows of your meticulous, almost obsessive study of Elvish weaponry and your undying respect of it. You may not be as skilled a warrior as some of the other members - only the Hobbits are less experienced - but neither Aragorn nor Legolas know as much about caring for, and mending, these special weapons as you.

You smile, feeling proud that Aragorn and Boromir aren't the only people from the race of Men in whom Elrond has confidence.

Suddenly you're aware of how ridiculous your wide grin must look to Boromir. You slide a fast glance his way, and for the millionth time note his strong nose, stubborn chin, his short, oft-petted beard, and brown-golden hair. Some locks rest against his face, others touch his broad shoulders covered in the dark leather of his tunic. Unlike Aragorn, whose rugged looks have an almost divine allure to them, Boromir is striking in a devilish sort of way.

But you wouldn't change one thing about him. Not even his age. He isn't ancient by a long shot (that would be Aragorn) but for some reason he's fond of bringing attention to the gap separating your years when he calls you 'young one' - as if you're a baby.

"See anything you'd like to get your hands on, young one?"

A harsh, sudden cough tumbles forth and you lean forward, hand over your mouth, trying to quiet and control it and hold back the response you'd like to give to the unexpected question: Yes. You.

Boromir reaches over and thwacks your back with firm pats until you lower your hand and he sees your embarrassed smile.

You take a look at his stately face and try to think of something to say before he can get a chance to call you 'young one' again.

"Are you alright?" Boromir asks. He already sees that you're fine, and his voice becomes buttery as his face lights up into a toothy grin. "Did I startle you?"

He brings his hand back to his side.

Your face flushed, you raise your head and try a nonchalant hair toss in an effort to change your expression from sickish to sultry.

"You've got me all choked up, Captain," you say, slipping your lips up and to the right, into a long, soft curl, giving him your best "I'm-not-that-young-and-I-hope-this-look-conveys-that" face.

"I didn't know my handsomeness still had that effect on women," he says. Then, his blue-grey eyes stay on yours for a half a beat, before he looks down briefly at his fingers, as if searching for notes - or an apology for such an inane remark.