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It was midwinter, and you went to the river to do laundry. A mundane task, but for you, it was also an excuse to leave the house, to be alone—and perhaps to meet the one whose presence you longed for so much. You wore warm, simple clothing suitable for a merchant’s daughter from a roadside village in Rohan. A long green woolen cloak lined with fur, fastened with a leather belt, covered you. Underneath, you wore a dark blue dress of sturdy fabric that didn’t hinder movement. On your feet were soft boots lined with sheepskin, and you had wrapped a thick scarf around your head to shield your hair from the wind.
You carried a wooden basin and a small sack of laundry. In your hands was also a bag containing washing tools: a brush, wooden paddles for beating out dirt, and bars of soap that your father had acquired from a passing caravan. Yet what you regretted most was leaving behind the iron pickaxe, deciding at home that the river wasn’t fully frozen over yet.
When you reached the river, you set the basin down on the snow and looked around. It was quiet here. The white shores and the still, icy surface of the river gave the place an almost magical air, but the cold seeped through your clothes, making you shiver. You sighed regretfully, realizing you’d have to explain to your father why the laundry remained unwashed. But worse, returning home earlier than planned might mean missing a chance to meet him, and that was something you could not allow.
You knelt by the shore, brushing away snow with your hands to gauge the thickness of the ice. The ice was thick, smooth, with no visible cracks. You hesitated, wondering what to do, when you heard a voice behind you:
“You won’t break through it.”
You turned abruptly and saw him. Boromir stood a short distance away, having just dismounted. His horse, dark and powerful, was tied to a nearby tree. He wore a long cloak lined with fur, barely concealing the mail beneath. At his side hung a sword in plain but sturdy scabbards, and over his shoulders was draped a light woolen mantle typical of Gondorian soldiers. His face, weathered and intent, was framed by light chestnut hair that had slipped loose from beneath his hood.
“How long have you been here?” you asked, trying to keep your composure, though your heart raced.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he removed his sword and stepped toward you. His movements were confident but unhurried, and for a moment, you thought he was coming to help. He stopped at the very edge of the shore, his gaze fixed on the ice.
“Step back,” he said curtly, raising his sword.
You took a step back, watching as he gripped the weapon with both hands, lifted it over his head, and brought it down forcefully onto the ice. The strike rang out sharply, the sound echoing off the frozen trees. The ice cracked but did not give way. He struck again, and the crack deepened.
“Enough to freeze to the bone,” he said, sheathing his sword. His voice was warm, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible smile. You caught the tone and felt your lips curve into a small smile of their own. A simple act—a sword striking ice, the crack, the resounding echo—but in it, there was a care so natural to him that you couldn’t help but notice it.
The ice was no longer an obstacle, but you knew the laundry was just an excuse. All of this—the sack of clothes, the heavy basin, the biting cold that stung your fingers—was merely a guise to meet him once again.
Your meetings became more frequent, but in your father’s shop, they had turned into an impossibility. Boromir, with his proud bearing and noble manners, immediately drew attention. Your father was a perceptive man, and it didn’t take him long to notice how the gaze of the Gondorian lord lingered on you too often. His voice softened whenever he inquired about your health, and his movements became unnaturally slow as he browsed the wares, as though searching for excuses to stay longer.
“A merchant’s daughter is no match for Gondor’s heir,” your father said one day—not with malice, but with the stern honesty that was part of his nature. Those words were sobering, but could they stop you?
You recalled that kiss, given to him on the night of the Winterwood Festival. It was a moment when everything stilled: the forest, the stars, your hearts. That kiss was a promise, spoken without words, and it remained etched in your memory.
In Rohan, where hearts were free and traditions less rigid, such moments were a natural expression of human connection. But in Gondor, where people upheld strict morals and every action, every word, was dictated by tradition, such a gesture would be audacious, especially for an heir. Boromir knew that in his homeland, such behavior was unacceptable. Even married couples refrained from public displays of affection, limiting themselves to light, almost fleeting touches of the hand.
He thought of his brother, Faramir, and his wife, Éowyn. Their union was a living example of how two cultures could merge. Éowyn, while retaining the straightforwardness and strength of her Rohirric spirit, had learned to be restrained among the Gondorian lords. Yet behind closed doors, their love was vibrant and unreserved. Boromir had seen how Faramir looked at Éowyn—with pride, warmth, and admiration. Now, he understood that he wanted the same. He wanted to look at you that way—openly, without fear, so the whole world would see that he had found his happiness.
But for now, your meetings remained a secret. You learned to love what had once seemed like hateful routine. Washing clothes by the river, carrying dried herbs from your father’s shop, sorting fabrics and furs—all these tasks had become your excuses. They allowed you to leave the house, to step into the winter wind, and perhaps, to meet him.
You always noticed how different your worlds were. His confidence, forged by the strict traditions of Gondor, and your ease, shaped by the freedom and simplicity of Rohan, created a striking contrast. Boromir seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, often becoming too serious, and it stirred in you a desire to push him toward laughter, to see his true, human side. He, in turn, sometimes looked at you with mild astonishment when you spoke your mind or made a decision without hesitation, as though all the rules he had ever known could so easily be cast aside.
"Are you really going to wash clothes here?" he asked one day, crouching by the river. His finger traced lightly across the ice, leaving a faint line before he raised his gaze to meet yours, filled with a mix of doubt and concern.
"Of course," you replied with a wide smile, adjusting your scarf. "Do they do it differently in Gondor?"
"I wouldn’t know," he admitted after a brief pause, as though surprised by the question himself. "I never gave it much thought."
He glanced at your fingers, reddened from the cold, and frowned.
"Do you need help? Your hands must be freezing."
You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, surprised by his offer.
"Alright, but don’t let the laundry fall into the water."
At first, everything went well. He pulled pieces of fabric from the basin, and you showed him how to work them against the paddle. But the further you went, the more it became clear: Boromir had no experience with such tasks. His strong hands, used to gripping a sword, fumbled awkwardly as he tried to wring out the fabric. Water splashed onto his face and cloak, and one of your best shirts nearly slipped into the hole in the ice.
"Eru Almighty!" he exclaimed as the fabric slid from his grasp. He managed to catch it, but not before leaning precariously over the icy water, nearly plunging in himself.
You couldn’t suppress your laughter as you looked at his bewildered expression, droplets of water streaming down his cloak.
"What?" he asked, wiping his face with his hand. "You said this was easy."
"For me, yes," you said, still laughing. "But for you, my lord, it seems beyond your skill."
He huffed in mock annoyance but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.
"In that case, I’ll leave the washing to you."
And indeed, he didn’t offer his help again. But you noticed that he particularly enjoyed watching you work. He would sit a little ways off, as if guarding you, his gaze warm and slightly pensive, lingering on your movements.
Sometimes, though, he stepped in when he saw you struggling—pulling up a bucket of water or hauling the heavy basin. In those moments, he would speak with a quiet, barely noticeable smile:
"This isn’t washing, but at least I can help with this."
You liked it. There was something so genuine in his desire to be helpful that you began to wonder how little Gondor had offered him in terms of simple, human joys.
He still loved to watch you at work.
Even today, his eyes followed you as you bent over the basin, scrubbing the clothes with effort. Your hands, red from the cold, your cheeks lightly flushed, and a stray lock of hair slipping from beneath your scarf that you kept tucking back behind your ear—it all captivated him. To him, you seemed a part of the harsh winter landscape: determined, stubborn, and unyielding.
"In Gondor, it often snows in winter," he said, breaking the silence, and you looked up at him. He stood by his horse, running a hand along its neck. "But it rarely stays on the ground for long. And the rivers never freeze. Winter there comes quietly, like a guest who doesn’t linger."
You smiled, blowing the stray lock from your face.
"And here, winter is a mistress who sets everything in order," you said, glancing at the forest around you. "She closes the rivers, lulls the earth to sleep. Even the air is different—it smells of snow and pine, and of a cold that chills you to the bone."
Boromir chuckled, looking at you with warmth.
"But you don’t seem afraid of it," he said more softly. "You even come to the river in such cold."
You looked at him, your smile turning slightly mischievous.
"And if you didn’t come?" you teased, a playful spark in your eyes. "Do you think I’d endure these frozen fingers?"
He glanced away, visibly flustered, and turned his attention to his horse to hide it.
"But I do come," he said simply, pulling a comb from his saddlebag.
He began carefully combing the horse’s tangled mane, but the winter rides had taken their toll: the comb snagged in the knots, and the horse tossed its head in irritation. You frowned as you watched him.
"What are you doing?" you said, setting aside the laundry and wiping your damp hands on your skirt. "You’re holding a brush, not a sword! It’s hurting him."
Boromir looked up at you and smirked.
"He’s not complaining. If he could talk, he’d thank me for my care."
"He is talking. You’re just not listening," you huffed, stepping closer.
You removed your scarf and began gently untangling the mane with your fingers. The horse snorted but soon lowered its head, visibly relaxing under your touch.
"See?" you said over your shoulder without looking back. "A bit more patience, my lord, and he’d thank you."
Boromir watched you, unable to suppress a smile. Your confidence and ease in handling the task reminded him why he kept coming back to this harsh, wintry place.
"Easy, my friend," you murmured in Rohirric, softly running your hands through the tangled mane. "Your stubborn lord is used to having stablehands look after you, isn’t he? But things are different here."
You spoke quietly, almost a whisper, as if your words were meant only for the horse. It snorted and shook its head, but less sharply than before. You continued your steady, confident movements before leaning forward to place your palm on its neck, as if trying to share your warmth.
"Hey," Boromir protested, breaking out of his reverie. "I understand your language."
You glanced over your shoulder at him, smiling but saying nothing. Instead, you continued speaking to the horse, avoiding the Common Tongue:
"He’s stubborn, but he meant well. Didn’t he, friend? There, that’s better.»
You extended your hand toward Boromir.
"Give me the comb.»
He handed it over without a word, frowning slightly as you began untying the horse from the tree.
"Leave him," he said cautiously. "He might run off. And I still need to ride back..."
You turned to him with an easy smile and shook your head.
"A horse never leaves its master if it knows it’s well cared for. And here, my lord, he knows he’s safe.»
You led the horse a step away, giving it more freedom, but you continued combing, occasionally smoothing its flanks with your hand. The horse snorted again, dipping its head toward your touch, as though accepting your care.
"Incredible," Boromir said, watching the two of you. "You’re so good with him. It’s as if he melts under your hands. Your bond with horses...»
"Has nothing to do with it," you interrupted, standing upright and returning to your basin. Your movements were brisk, as if eager to finish the washing. "He simply trusts me and 'melts under my touch,' just like his master, my lord.»
You returned to your work, feeling Boromir’s gaze linger on you. He stayed by his horse, watching you, his expression a mix of admiration and unease. In your world, touch was natural—a gesture to the shoulder, the hand, the heart through warmth and action. But for him, it was something new, almost forbidden. You noticed how he increasingly sought excuses to touch you: handing you the comb, brushing a stray lock from your face, or lightly grazing your hand when helping with the heavy basin.
For you, it was natural. But each time you met his gaze in such moments, you saw something more: longing, hesitation, and sometimes gratitude, like a man learning to accept warmth for the first time.
"Are your hands cold?" he asked when you had kept them in the icy water too long.
You sighed, lifting your eyes to meet his.
"As always."
He stepped closer, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the snow. Your hands, red from the cold, trembled as he took them in his. His fingers were warm and strong as he carefully rubbed your hands before cupping them in his palms, as if protecting something fragile.
Usually, it ended there. He would warm your hands until they stopped trembling, then let go, avoiding your gaze, as though afraid to linger too long. But not today.
Today, he did something different. His lips brushed lightly against your index finger, then your middle finger, as if testing whether you could feel the warmth. He moved to the next, slow and deliberate. Each kiss was soft, barely there, but they carried something new, as though he himself was surprised by his boldness.
"And now?" he asked in a quiet, low whisper, his voice making the moment feel like it belonged only to the two of you.
You started slightly, not expecting the gesture, but you didn’t pull your hands away. Instead, you smiled faintly, meeting his eyes as warmth spread from within.
"Now it’s warm," you replied just as softly, letting the words hang in the air.
Your gazes locked. You saw the struggle in him, the attempt to reconcile the feelings that consumed him with the boundaries he had been taught to uphold. But you knew: with every touch, with every kiss, he was thawing. The polished veneer of a Númenórean lord, a familiar mask for a Gondorian heir, was beginning to fade.
You didn’t pull your hands away, letting him hold them a moment longer. You understood this wasn’t just physical contact for him—it was a step toward closeness, a moment of vulnerability he rarely allowed himself.
"My lord," you said with soft amusement, breaking the silence but keeping the tenderness intact. "Perhaps now you’ll warm them completely"
He laughed, quietly but sincerely, and the sound warmed you as much as his hands did.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, you gathered your things. He helped you lift the basin, and together you walked back to the village, silently enjoying the winter stillness, which no longer seemed so cold.
That day became another thread binding your worlds together. Every gesture, every word—small steps, but they led you both to a place where Gondorian rules and Rohirric traditions didn’t matter. There was only the two of you, and a winter that no longer felt so harsh.