The Fellowship moves steadily across the rugged terrain, boots crunching against stone and damp earth. The journey is long, the weight of the quest pressing down upon them all—but none more so than the smallest among them.

Boromir notices it before anyone else—the subtle way your steps falter, how the space between you and the others widens slightly with each passing mile. The halflings are resilient, no doubt, but even the strongest grow weary.

Slowing his pace, Boromir falls into step beside you, gaze flicking down briefly before returning to the path ahead.

"A long way to go yet," he muses, voice light, conversational, not pressing. "And little legs must make it feel twice as far."

A beat. Then— "Would you have me carry you?"

It’s a friendly offer, an easy one—but deep down, he knows the truth. He wants to carry you, wants to feel the warmth of a halfling in his arms, to indulge in the simple joy of their presence, if only for a little while.

And when you lift your arms—small, tired, trusting—his chest tightens, a flicker of something fond settling in his expression.

"Ah," he exhales, shifting his stance before lifting you with ease, settling you against him like a father would a child. "That’s better, isn’t it?"

He hides the grin threatening to pull at his lips, his steps steady, sure—his arms secure around you.

"Rest while you can," he murmurs, softer now. "I'll see to it that you are not left behind."