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Summary
‘Oh hell, how childish must I be to cry over surface wounds?’ Though it wasn’t the cuts that made him cry, it was the weight of it all. His desire for the ring, the threat to Gondor, his expectant father, and to top it all off, the way his companions stared at him with such judgement. Boromir felt it everyday. Frodo could not even bear to meet his gaze, and Sam probably hated him for that reason. He felt weak, vulnerable, pathetic. He was running out of space on his wrists.
in which boromir resorts to desperate methods to keep the ring off his mind
Series
- Part 3 of small boromir fics
Bookmarked by NotQuiet
16 Nov 2025
