Work Text:
Boromir was heading north, toward the border of Rohan and Gondor. Officially, his journey was motivated by the need to inspect the condition of the border posts and ensure that caravans passing through these lands encountered no delays. Yet, for months now, he had been finding new excuses to return to this small village nestled among the hills.
The road was winding and coated in slushy snow, marked only by the rare passage of carts and horses’ hooves. The further north he traveled, the colder the air became, biting at his face and hands. A light frost clung to his chainmail and traveling cloak, but he paid it no mind. His thoughts were occupied elsewhere—on the village where Torken's shop stood.
This shop seemed ordinary enough, like many others in Gondor or Rohan: shelves stocked with fabrics, furs, dried herbs, and other goods. Yet, for him, it had become something more. It wasn’t the wares that had imprinted on his memory but the person behind the counter. Over the past months, he had devised countless reasons to visit again and again: to inspect the quality of fabrics for the garrison or to purchase rare furs, supposedly needed in Gondor. And, of course, to see you.
Each time he entered the shop, he found himself freezing momentarily when his gaze met yours. Your smile, bright and simple as it was, filled him with a warmth he seldom felt during his arduous campaigns. If your father happened to be away and you were the one assisting customers, Boromir always found a reason to linger just a little longer, watching the deftness of your hands, and perhaps, accidentally brushing against your fingers as you handed him a pouch tied with a silver cord.
Now, as he approached the village, he felt a familiar mix of anticipation and joy. The closer he drew, the more pronounced was the sense that this snow-covered corner of Rohan held something special for him. Here, there were no marble arches or broad streets like in Minas Tirith, but there was something more genuine: a simplicity and comfort he hadn’t known in a long time.
The village appeared as a tiny oasis amid the white hills. Wooden houses with thatched roofs were lightly dusted with snow. The streets were quiet, with only a few figures moving between the buildings, cloaked against the chill. Thin tendrils of smoke curled up from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning wood, and faint glimmers of light shone from some of the windows.
Torken's shop stood at the corner of the central square, as unassuming as ever. Its entrance was shielded by a rough fabric to block the wind, and wooden crates filled with straw and furs surrounded the doorway. Everything here was simple, yet somehow this simplicity drew him more powerfully than the grandeur of Gondor.
He pulled on the reins, halting his horse. For a few moments, he simply sat there, letting the cold sting his face. His gaze swept slowly over the village. Everything looked different from Gondor. The houses were modest but inviting, their thatched roofs now blanketed with soft snow. Though the streets were deserted, they felt lived-in: faint boot prints marked some doorsteps, left just moments ago. On one window hung a small wooden sun-shaped amulet adorned with snowy rowan branches. Outside another house, overturned barrels were draped with fur coverings, as if someone had recently set them out to air.
His attention was drawn to the evergreen wreaths adorning several doors. Some were simple, made of branches and pinecones, while others were more elaborate, with ribbons or berries. It was a detail unfamiliar to his eyes: in Minas Tirith, ordinary homes were rarely decorated, save for special occasions. Yet here, it seemed natural, a part of life imbued with warmth and care.
His gaze stopped on the shop. The door creaked slightly as it opened, and a figure slipped inside. Boromir leaned forward, trying to discern who it was. Moments later, the figure reappeared: it was you, standing in the doorway with a wreath in your hands. The wreath was neatly woven from fir branches and adorned with small pinecones, though it looked rather austere.
He watched as you lifted something, realizing it was a ribbon. Bright red, vivid like a drop of blood on the snow. You began to skillfully weave it into the wreath. Your movements were quick yet precise. Knot by knot, you wrapped the branches, unfazed by the sharp needles occasionally catching on your fingers. Your concentration was so complete that it seemed the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
You murmured something under your breath as you adjusted the ribbon, and Boromir noticed your glance briefly flicker toward the doorway. Perhaps you were thinking of your father’s recent remark: “The wreath is fine, but it’s too somber. A festival calls for brightness. Here, take this.” He had handed you the ribbon—a rarity in such a place, but surprisingly beautiful.
You worked with such focus that you hadn’t noticed him yet. And he, feeling that he was overstepping all bounds of propriety, continued to watch, unable to tear his eyes away.
The impropriety, of course, wasn’t in the act of observing you. It was in the fact that he, heir of Gondor, had once again found an excuse to be here. That he lingered too long on the sight of your hands, and that questions crept into his thoughts: “Who are you to me? Why do you command my attention every time I’m here?”
Boromir finally dismounted. He knew he shouldn’t. Perhaps even his mere presence at your door could be misconstrued. But something in your absorbed movements compelled him to draw nearer, so quietly that even the snow beneath his boots seemed complicit.
He stopped a few steps away, but you still hadn’t noticed him, so engrossed were you in your task. He thought he heard you softly humming to yourself, checking how the ribbon lay.
A sudden gust of wind rose, swirling snowflakes from the roof and spinning them around you, as if inviting you to dance. Your hair was slightly tousled, and you instinctively tucked a loose strand behind your ear, never breaking your focus on the wreath. In that moment, the sun broke through the heavy clouds, and the red ribbon in your hands blazed like living fire against the cold snow.
And then you saw him. Your fingers froze, still clutching the wreath, and your eyes widened in surprise. The red ribbon you had been weaving slipped from your fingers, swaying gently in the air as if hesitating.
“My lord,” you said softly, your voice trembling. Your hands, sticky with resin and covered in tiny scratches from the fir needles, trembled slightly before you quickly hid them behind your back. The wreath wobbled, a reminder of your task. You hadn’t expected to see him here, amidst the quiet and simplicity that seemed to shield you from the world. “You weren’t supposed to be here…”
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the trees.
“But I am,” he said quietly. His voice was low but warm, as if this moment had been long anticipated. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your hand, tentative, as if afraid to shatter the fragility of the moment. You felt the warmth he made no effort to conceal.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his question catching you off guard.
You looked at him, allowing a light, almost shy smile to touch your lips. Your eyes sparkled with gentle surprise but not embarrassment. You didn’t falter, though something inside you beat faster than usual.
“Decorating for the Winterwood Festival,” you answered calmly, lifting the wreath slightly as if to justify your activity.
Boromir’s eyebrows rose. He tilted his head slightly, as if scrutinizing either you or the wreath—or perhaps both.
“The Winterwood Festival?” he repeated, as though hearing the name for the first time. “We don’t have such a thing in Gondor. What is it?”
You squinted slightly, as if pondering whether he truly didn’t know or simply wanted to hear your explanation. His tone was sincere, and you decided to tell him.
“It’s an old tradition of ours. We welcome winter to honor it and remind ourselves that spring will always come. We decorate our homes with fir branches to protect them and add bright colors to show winter that she’s a welcome guest—but only for a time.” You nodded toward the red ribbon. “Red symbolizes life, warmth, and joy. Without it, everything else would be too bleak.”
Boromir thoughtfully ran his fingers along a fir branch, oblivious as a few needles fell onto the snow. His gaze was fixed on your hands still holding the wreath. He couldn’t understand why this simple ritual stirred such a strange mix of warm longing and curiosity within him. The ribbon in your hands seemed to be a connection between your world and something unattainable for him. He wanted to ask more, to hear just a few more words from your lips, but at that moment, your father’s voice rang out from the shop:
“Well, how much longer? How long does it take to weave a ribbon into a wreath?! Night’s coming, and we’ve got plenty to do!”
You flinched as if snapped out of a trance. Quickly tying off the end of the ribbon, you grabbed the wreath and tossed it over your shoulder.
“Come to the lake at midnight,” you said without meeting his gaze, then disappeared into the shop, leaving him alone.
The day in the village was lively. Festivities began as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Villagers spilled into the streets despite the snow and cold. The village came alive: children played in the snow, laughing loudly, while adults bustled around the fires, setting up large cauldrons with steaming drinks. The air was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, smoke, and herbs.
By evening, large bonfires were lit in the central square. People gathered around to sing old songs, leap over flames, and dance in circles. Every villager seemed to find their place in the celebration: some danced, others stood aside, quietly chatting, but all were swept up in the festive spirit.
Closer to midnight, things became particularly intriguing. This hour marked a special ritual, where those seeking connection could gather by the lake, hidden from prying eyes by trees and a light mist. There were no large bonfires or bright lights here—only the faint glow of lanterns and the shimmer of stars on the dark water.
It was believed to be a time for hearts searching for bonds. Girls and boys gathered by the lake to leap over small fires together, join in dances, or simply talk in the semi-shadowy light. Anonymity was part of the ritual: faces were barely discernible in the flickering firelight, voices were hushed, and time seemed to stand still. This ritual allowed those who were shy or afraid to confess their feelings to be closer, even if only briefly.
When midnight arrived, Boromir made his way to the lake. The path leading there was narrow and covered in snow, but he knew he would find you waiting. Remembering your voice, he quickened his pace, feeling the cold air fill his lungs and his heart beat faster with anticipation.
As Boromir approached the lake, he saw the dark water reflecting the glittering stars. The faint glimmer of firelight from a bonfire on the shore illuminated the trees and the faces of those already gathered. He was cautious: the celebration, filled with laughter and merriment, felt like something unusual for his austere world. Yet, drawn by your invitation, he had come.
But you found him first.
Hiding among the trees, you watched as he approached the firelight, then deftly slipped behind him, stepping so silently that even his keen ears didn’t catch your steps. When he stopped, you moved closer and gently touched his shoulder.
“By Eru Almighty!” he started, spinning around and instinctively reaching for his belt, as if grasping for a weapon. “I could have harmed you by mistake!”
You laughed softly, lifting your head slightly so he could better see your face, hidden behind a mask. Like the other girls, your mask was made of thin bark and adorned with fir branches and snow patterns. It gave you an air of mystery, and even the faint firelight didn’t allow him to see you clearly.
“It’s not so easy to scare me, my lord,” you replied, raising a hand to stop him as he reached to remove the mask. “No. Tonight, you must earn it.”
You smiled and handed him a simple men’s mask made of dark cloth. Its decoration was minimal—a few embroidered threads and a sprig of fir, to distinguish it from the women’s masks.
“Do you see the bonfire?” You pointed to the fire at the very edge of the lake, where pairs were beginning to gather.
He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly, though his gaze remained wary.
“That’s the center of the game. The girls hide among the trees at the edge,” you began to explain, slowly adjusting the ribbon on your waist. “Their goal is to escape and remain unseen for as long as possible.”
You paused to let him grasp the idea, then continued, watching his reaction:
“The boys, in turn, try to catch us—‘snow shadows.’ If you touch my ribbon—on my waist or wrist—I’ll be considered caught and must return to the bonfire with you.”
Boromir raised an eyebrow, thoughtfully running a hand over his mask.
“And then? Caught—then what?”
You smirked, tilting your head slightly.
“It’s not that simple. At the bonfire, you can try to guess the girl’s name or offer to exchange gifts. Usually, these are ribbons, nuts, or small carvings.” You paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “But if you guess correctly… you can ask for anything you want.”
“Anything they want?” he repeated, a light smile in his voice, which might have seemed mocking if not for the warm gleam in his eyes.
“Anything,” you confirmed with a subtle nod, but your gaze was steady. You knew what “anything” usually implied: a quick kiss in the shadows, a granted wish, or something that pairs already close to each other might allow themselves on such an evening. “You must be careful, my lord; all our girls are swift. Don’t be fooled by their delicacy.”
You laughed, stepped back, and with a graceful wave of your hand, disappeared among the trees, leaving him standing by the fire with the mask in his hands. The wind once again swirled snowflakes, and as he watched your retreating figure, he realized this game would be more than just an amusement.
“I don’t need ‘all,’ I need one,” he said softly, almost to himself, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth curling his lips into a smile. His fingers brushed the fabric of the mask before raising it to his face. The mask fit perfectly, concealing his features and leaving only his eyes visible—attentive and now slightly cunning.
Boromir joined the group of young men standing across the fire from the girls. They laughed loudly, tossing quick remarks to each other and shifting impatiently. Some adjusted their masks, fiddled with ribbons tied to their wrists or belts, or nudged each other playfully. Boromir stood quietly among them, remaining in the shadows, and scanned their partially hidden faces.
His gaze swept across the fire and found you. You stood slightly apart, rocking lightly on your toes as if preparing to dash away. You wore a simple but warm dress of deep green, belted with a thin leather strap to which a crimson ribbon was tied. Over your shoulders was a fur cloak for protection against the cold. Your mask, adorned with snow patterns and fir branches, concealed half your face, but he would recognize you among a thousand.
You looked directly at him, and a soft, teasing smile played on your lips. That gaze was a challenge—it seemed to say he would have to earn every second spent near you. Boromir smirked to himself, feeling a spark of excitement ignite within him.
The bonfire flared brighter, as if heralding the start of the game. One of the young men shouted a signal, and the girls simultaneously darted away like a flock of birds taking flight. You were no exception, slipping gracefully into the depths of the forest. The young men followed, their loud footsteps and laughter echoing through the clearing.
Boromir didn’t rush. He waited, watching as the crowd dispersed among the trees, keeping his eyes fixed on you. You moved confidently, your crimson ribbon flashing briefly among the shadows of the trees before vanishing from view.
He followed, stepping carefully to avoid revealing himself too soon. The forest was dark, but occasional glimmers of light from the bonfire or the moon illuminated the path. The air smelled of pine and frost, and around him, he could hear footsteps, laughter, and whispers. In the distance, he noticed one of the young men catching a girl and pulling the ribbon from her wrist before the two headed back toward the fire.
But not everyone was in a hurry. Venturing deeper into the forest, Boromir suddenly spotted two figures near a tree. In the faint light, he discerned a young man and a woman. She was leaning against the trunk, and he was bent over her, cradling her face in his hands. Their lips were pressed together hungrily and passionately, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. It was a sight he rarely witnessed in Gondor, where strict morals dictated restraint and decorum. There, emotions were concealed behind polite glances and cautious gestures. But here, in the forest, this couple kissed as if every moment could be their last.
Boromir paused momentarily, turning away to grant them their privacy. Something in that scene stirred a strange feeling within him: a mix of envy and wonder. Perhaps this festival allowed people to shed the masks they wore in daily life. He wasn’t sure, but he understood one thing—tonight was different from his world. And this evening might change not only those playing “snow shadows” but him as well.
He continued onward, catching a glimpse of the crimson ribbon flitting ahead. You were still out there, and he decided he wouldn’t let himself be distracted again.
She moved like a flicker of flame among the trees, and he immediately gave chase, certain it was you. His steps were confident, his gaze focused. He was accustomed to pursuit, to tracking a target—it was part of his life. But this wasn’t a battle; it was a game, and he realized there was something special, almost sweet, about this hunt.
He quickened his pace, the distance between you closing, and soon the ribbon was within his reach. Boromir reached out and grasped the edge. The girl stopped abruptly and turned.
“Was it so easy?” she said, laughing. Her mask hid her face, but the voice was unfamiliar. It wasn’t you.
He froze, slightly bewildered, then released the ribbon without a word. The girl simply smiled and, turning, headed back toward the bonfire.
“I thought you were more attentive, my lord,” came a teasing voice suddenly behind him. He turned to see you standing by a tree, your head tilted slightly as if assessing him. In your masked eyes, mischief sparkled.
He didn’t hesitate. He took a step forward, but you immediately darted away with a grace that could rival any dancer.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?” he muttered with a smirk, starting the chase.
You wove through the trees as if the forest were your home. Your figure flitted here and there, the crimson ribbon catching his eye like a beacon. You laughed, glancing over your shoulder, and that laugh sounded like a challenge.
Boromir knew he could catch you at any moment. His height, stamina, and trained body—everything suggested he needed only to quicken his pace, take a few long strides, and you would be in his grasp. But he didn’t. He let you slip away, savoring the game. Your breathing grew faster, your laughter more breathless, yet you didn’t stop.
You hid behind a tree, peeking out and casting quick, teasing glances. He drew closer, each step louder than your light movements. You laughed again, trying to wrap yourself around the tree trunk to escape to the other side. But this time, he was closer than you thought. His hand suddenly appeared from the opposite side of the tree, deftly catching your wrist.
“Tired?” he whispered, his voice low but warm. You felt his fingers, strong and warm, tighten gently around your hand, preventing you from breaking free.
You feigned a scoff, tilting your head.
“Never, my lord.” And boldly meeting his gaze, you slipped out of his grasp, sliding down into the snow and dashing off again.
Boromir laughed, his laughter echoing among the trees. He took another step forward, his hand carefully brushing against the crimson ribbon at your waist. His fingers, strong and warm, grazed the fabric, lingering for a moment. You were breathing heavily, your unsteady rhythm mirrored in the trembling shadows cast by the moonlight on the snow.
“Do I need to guess your name?” his voice was low, with a hint of amusement, but his eyes carried a flicker of something else—curiosity, expectation.
You shook your head, barely noticeably, and licked your lips, dry from the cold and the chase.
“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with such confidence that it almost sounded like a challenge. “You may claim your prize.”
You stepped back slightly, and your back touched a tree. There was nowhere left to run, but you didn’t intend to. Your gaze never left his face, almost entirely hidden behind the mask. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, you raised your hands and let him approach, so close that your fingers brushed the tree’s bark behind you.
“What do you want, my lord?” you whispered, your voice quiet but full of meaning.
He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze traveled slowly from your eyes to the mask you wore, then back again. With one hand, he gently lifted the edge of your mask, barely touching your skin, as if afraid to disturb this fragile moment. Your mask slipped away, and the moonlight illuminated your face.
He froze for a moment, captivated by the way the moonlight caressed your face, creating a delicate interplay of light and shadow on your cheekbones, as if outlining each feature with the precision of an artist painting the most beautiful portrait. In this silvery glow, your skin appeared almost translucent, your eyes sparkling as they reflected the starry sky. His fingers, barely grazing your chin as if to lift your face, trembled slightly. In his gaze, there was not merely admiration—there was something much deeper, more sacred than fleeting infatuation or the thrill of the chase. Something that made his heart pound faster.
He leaned closer, so near that his breath brushed your lips. The deep look in his eyes, no longer hidden by the mask, revealed a whirlwind of emotions—admiration, doubt, desire, but above all, a reverence for this moment that seemed eternal.
“I…” he began, but the words seemed caught in his throat. Everything he wanted to say couldn’t express what he felt inside. Instead, his lips parted as if to continue, but he only held your gaze.
A distant horn sounded, echoing deep and long through the forest. It signaled the end of the game, but it seemed so far away as to be irrelevant. In this moment, nothing existed but the two of you. His fingers tightened gently around your chin, still tenderly, and he hesitated for the briefest instant, as if seeking permission, before closing the remaining distance.
You felt the warmth of his lips before they touched yours. It was a light contact, almost imperceptible, like the first snowy kiss of winter’s wind. But behind this gentleness lay strength—not the force of passion, but a deep, almost instinctive recognition that this moment meant far more than just a game.
The wind rustled the branches above, lifting a few snowflakes and swirling them around you. The previously noisy and lively forest seemed to hold its breath, bearing witness to this encounter.