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Boromir should have been dead. He should’ve bled out on the forest floor. He should’ve drowned going over the falls. And he certainly should’ve died in a storm in the sea. Instead, here he was, drifting away with the current. The arrow shafts had snapped off. He had enough fresh-water pooled in the bottom of the boat to keep him alive. He was lost.
“Fuck,” he breathed. He had no way of knowing where he was. The stars he’d seen had been ones he didn’t know, and the sun seemed to never go in the same direction more than once. Faramir would know how to find himself, he thought suddenly. Faramir always knew where he was. Eru, how he wished they were together-- that this was nothing more than one of their pretend adventures. Maybe he’d wake up and they would just be playing in the fountain, pretending to sail away.
Boromir squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Nothing ever changed. He was still in an elvish boat in the middle of a foreign sea, and he was going to die.
He drifted endlessly, sun browning already dark skin, storm clouds leaving him soaked and heaving over the side, but the water in the bottom of the boat refilled seemingly just when he needed it. This was hell. It had to be.
It could have been days, it could have been years that he drifted. He could barely drag himself from the bottom of the boat anymore. Nothing would have changed. He would see no land. No hope.
So it came as quite a surprise when the boat capsized violently and he was suddenly in the water.
His eyes burned with his lungs and he couldn’t find up. Where was the sky-- where was air? Boromir flailed helplessly. His armor weighed him down. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe-- he couldn’t see-- he was going to die-- he was going to--
Strong hands grabbed him and suddenly his head burst through the water. Boromir sucked in air. He flailed further until those same strong arms wrapped around him and he couldn’t move. He coughed and sputtered, forced to float on his back. “Faramir--” It had to be. His brother had finally found him. His mind was too muddled to come up with anything else. “Fara--” he coughed some more, salt burning his throat and his eyes. He couldn’t see.
The arms around him squeezed and then he was being dropped onto soft sand. His eyes closed without permission and the last thing he heard was sea birds.
A soft breeze soothed over his skin, ruffling Boromir’s salt-crusted curls. He lay there for a while, eyes closed. He had to be dreaming. The cloth beneath him was soft like the sand and the sun was no longer glaring down to burn him. It felt peaceful.
A gentle hand ghosted over his cheek. “Faramir?” the Gondorian whispered past the salt in his throat. He looked over, expecting to see his brother.
Umber eyes met his own, rimmed with black and jade lines. Not Faramir then. “Who--”
A strong finger was pushed against his mouth and they shook their head. He shook his head, Boromir realized. “Wait, what--”
The face the eyes belonged to frowned. It was a sharp face, with strong planes and a raised scar that barely missed the left eye. They shook their head once more in a clear with the same firmness the gondorian had often seen healers use on their stubborn patients.
Boromir frowned back and struggled to sit up. “Where am I?” he managed hoarsely.
The figure sighed and stood. They were tall— taller than even Lord Elrond had been. He gazed up at them in awe. It was almost like staring at the sun. They were bright and wild, with thick, pale hair barely contained in a leather band and a bow strung across broad shoulders. A hunter, Boromir realized.
“Oromë?” He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until the hunter laughed, throwing his head back and shoulders shaking with mirth.
The hunter shook his head, smiling down at him with sharp teeth. He crouched back down to steady the Gondorian.
Boromir licked his lip free of salt and then tried again. “Where am I?”
The hunter spoke, gesturing around to the sea and the land. His voice was smooth and warm-- golden like honey, but Boromir couldn’t understand a word.
Boromir bit his lip. “I don’t know…” He was sure if Faramir was here, he’d understand. He’d be able to figure out what language Boromir’s saviour was speaking. He’d be able to speak it too.
The hunter sighed a little and stood, frowning a little as he looked around. He started packing. His lips moved as though speaking, clearly muttering to himself. He seemed to come to work out something and simply nodded.
Boromir managed to get to his knees and looked around for anything he might have managed to save. “My sword?” He looked to the hunter. “I need to return to my companions— I need my sword.”
The hunter didn’t even look at him. He finished with a speed that alluded to years— decades— of living as a nomad. He stood and simply hauled Boromir over a shoulder.
“What the fuck—“ Boromir struggled futilely. “Put me down!”
The shoulder beneath him rumbled and shook with soft laughter. A broad hand squeezed the back of his knee. “No, second-born— we cannot have you wandering our lands just to fall back into the sea.” The hunter’s voice was warm and lilting. His strange accent was marked by odd cracks in his voice, almost as though he hadn’t spoken aloud in years.
Oh, he was fucked. Boromir hated feeling powerless, but being manhandled by someone with a voice like the Wild itself had him turning weak in the knees. What was he, some blushing flower girl to be swept off his feet by whatever strong man passed by? He was angry.
“Put me the fuck down!”
Tyelko rolled his eyes as he carried the squirming Second born away from the sea. “I will not oblige your desire to be dropped.” He wasn’t going to risk him escaping— not when he had questions.
The hunter had been searching the horizon for a ship he’d long hoped for when he spied Boromir’s vessel. The Second born’s dark hair and equally dark complexion had him running down to the waves. Even when Tyelko knew he wasn’t who he was awaiting— even when his heart knew Beren was long since passed. He’d still dived into the water. He’d still dragged the armored Atani to the sand. His heart had still broken.
“What are you called, sea-drifter?” He found himself asking.
Silence. No more squirming. Then, “Boromir,” the Atani answered. “Son of Denethor.”
Tyelko frowned. The name rang familar. He hummed under his breath. “You should not have been in the sea, son of Denethor. It does not take kindly to strangers lost on its waves.”
Boromir frowned darkly. “I did not want to be on the sea— I do not want to be here,” he practically growled. He had places he needed to be— gaps in the shield wall he should be filling. His people needed him— almost as much as he needed them. “I need to cross back. I cannot stay here— you would do well to put me down and let me go.”
The hunter didn’t deign that with a response. He simply gripped Boromir tighter whenever he struggled, trapping him on his shoulder.
It was a disorienting moment for Boromir when he realized just how strong this hunter must be to carry the hunter around like a halfing. Fuck. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t escape. He was too weak— too injured.
“If you do not stop flopping like a fish, I may still decide to toss you back to the sea.”
His blood boiled. “I would not be fucking flopping if you would fucking put me down!”
The hunter laughed and then Boromir’s world spun. He found himself face to face with him. “Do you want to be treated like a misbehaving child?” A broad hand grabbed at the back of his shirt and Boromir found himself being frog-marched through the trees.
“Let go of me!” Boromir managed to slam an elbow back into the hunter’s chest and snatch himself away. He spun to face him and reached for his sword. It was gone.
Tyelko laughed, a hand pressed to his chest. Just like Beren, his mind supplied treacherously. “Alright, fishling— I will leave you be.” He straightened up, smiling down at the Second born. “Provided you can walk on your fins.”
Boromir’s lip turned up in a half snarl at the nickname. “I can walk,” he growled. He took a few steps to prove his point. He promptly collapsed.
Tyelko scooped him up with a chuckle, holding him like a bride as he returned to trudging through the forest. He ignored the Second born’s growls and objections. One of his brother’s songs was one his lips— a soft, simple one used to calm children. He knew the atani would hate it.
Boromir could not be sure when he had finally fallen asleep. He only knew that when he found wakefulness, he was warm and contained and all his hurts seemed to ease.
The same soft tune that had lulled him into restfulness was curling in the air currents around him though it lay less heavy. Boromir raised onto his elbows, dark eyes filled with the forest around him. Was he still in Loth Lorien? No…
The gondorian moved to his knees, the absence of his armor lending ease to his movements. “A dream,” he whispered, gazing at the white trees around him. “I did not fail.” He was still in the bounds of the Lady’s land and none of the terrible things he dreaded had come to pass.
A step— purposeful in its volume— behind him. “You did not fail, Second born,” the hunter spoke.
Boromir flinched at the sound and turned. This was not Loth Lorien. None of this had been a dream and he had failed, no matter what his saviour told him. “If this is not the land of the Lady Galadriel, then I have indeed failed,” he whispered.
The hunter approached slowly and lowered to his knees alongside the man. “I know of no Galadriel, but I would assume even a Second born would know the feel of Valinor,” he laughed. The jade below his eyes only made his smile more noticeable. “Though you do not belong here.”
Boromir could not breath. Valinor. He had seen no lie in the hunter’s eyes. He couldn’t be here— Faramir would know how this could happen.
“No,” the man denied. “That’s not possible—“
The hunter sat back, a smirk playing on his lips. “And yet here you are, an atani— the only atani to ever be in Lord Oromë’s woods.” Tyelko had too much experience with the Valar to truly question how this could happen. He knew they could do as they pleased.
The gondorian looked away. “I have duties.” His brother. “I cannot be in Valinor— it’s not even possible.” The fellowship. Aragorn. He needed to be there with them. He needed to protect them. He needed to atone.
He struggled to his feet and started walking. He would reach the sea and fucking swim across if he had to. He had to.
“Fishling—“ a hand grabbed his shoulder and suddenly he was facing the hunter. “Patience. I will take you to Oromë.” The hunter’s hand squeezed Boromir’s shoulder and he found a little comfort in the press.
The man grasped the Eldar’s wrist. “Yes— take me to him. Think you he will help?”
The hunter’s smile was like sunshine. “Oromë always helps.” It was clear he loved him.
The course was long and the two spoke little the first day beyond finally learning each other’s names. Boromir regained his strength even as they walked.
Tyelko, as he named himself, had many questions the second day. “We have few returning from other lands in these days,” he’d explained. “Little news and less willing to tell it.”
Boromir had obliged him, telling him much of Gondor and his brother, but secret things he kept secret. He would not fail Frodo again.
That night was the first they noticed their followers. “Maia of Oromë,” Tyelko guided Boromir through the trees with their hands joined. For safety, they told themselves. So they would not lose each other. “They’ve come to welcome us. Oromë will meet us tomorrow, so we may rest easy this night, fishling.”
Boromir woke slowly as he always seemed to in this land. His back was warmed by the line of Tyelko’s side where they lay curled against each other. It felt right to be close. He shifted away to his knees, facing the sun. Close for sleep maybe, but that was only for the night.
“The sun greets you, fishling,” the hunter said behind him. “We must meet our Lord this morn.”
“Yes,” Boromir whispered. And then he would be going home, back to his brother and his quest just as soon as he could explain the terrible mistake that had occurred. He got to his feet. “Lead the way, hunter.”
Tyelko caught his hand— for safety, they both knew. “It is not far,” he promised.
It was barely minutes before they were before the Vala. Oromë was the feeling of terror a hare feels before hounds and the peace of a fire with friends. He was every part of the hunt, victory in the furs that draped his shoulders and mercy in the little animals that followed him. His eyes were wild and cheerful and Boromir almost cracked under the weight of them.
“My Lord,” he stumbled out. The man dropped to his knees, forehead almost touching the grass. “My Lord, forgive my trespass—“
A broad hand grabbed his shoulders and lifted him from the ground. “No, my child. There is no trespass,” he assured the gondorian, voice like the wind in pines.
Boromir swallowed thickly past his fear. Faramir should be here. Not him. Faramir deserved this. Boromir was a failure— a traitor to the one person he had sworn to protect. “But…”
“This was no mistake. And you are no traitor, Boromir son of Denethor.”
Boromir closed his eyes against sudden tears. He was. And he had to atone.
Oromë just squeezed his shoulders. “You were brought to my woods because you are of my hunters. You will stay. You fought hard and you will now rest.”
The gondorian could not form the words. He knew there was no return for him. “I have duties,” he finally managed, voice cracking rawly.
The Vala just smiled and suddenly Boromir could see why Tyelko loved him so. “Your duties are complete. You did not fail,” he told the man. Oromë kissed his forehead and then stepped back.
Tyelko stepped in to support the gondorian, arm around his shoulders. Boromir was grateful— he felt like he might faint like one of those ridiculous maidens from his brother’s books. He was barely aware as the hunter led him away. “I did not fail,” he murmured.
Tyelko chuckled and kissed his temple. “No, fishling. You have a home here. We will be here with you until the time as your brother comes to you.”
Boromir nodded a little, leaning into the hunter. He could live with that.