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“How old are y’all?” Pippin asked lazily one night, leaning against a tree.
Frodo sighed. “Pippin. You can’t just ask someone how old they are.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, Yavanna help me. Pippin you’re the Thrain’s son! You’re supposed to know this!”
“When he’s Thrain it’s going to be a disaster,” Sam noted.
“Frodo’s fifty,” Merry said casually. Boromir choked.
No way in hell was Frodo Baggins older than him.
“I’m thirty-eight,” Sam murmured. Boromir sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was making him feel like he was sixteen again, and he did not appreciate it.
Merry patted him on the head. “Only a few years out of his tweens, bless him.”
Boromir was getting the annoying feeling he really did not understand how the other species worked, at least age-wise, and it was giving him a headache.
“Gandalf can’t answer this question,” Legolas said with amusement.
Gandalf arched an eyebrow. “Neither can you. As I recall, you lost track sometime a few centuries ago.”
Legolas’ eyes lit up. “That means my age can be whatever I want it to be!”
“Legolas, that’s not how it works-”
“I’m eight thousand years old, guys!”
“No, you are most certainly not!”
“I’m three years old.”
“Why are you like this?”
“It’s all Thranduil’s drama genes,” Gandalf said wisely.
“This conversation is a disaster,” Boromir muttered.
“Gimli’s one hundred-and-thirty nine,” Legolas said.
“Elf-folk and their creepy knowledge of everything,” Gimli muttered under his breath.
“Excuse me-”
“-You are not excused, Leggy.”
“Leggy?”
“Wait, how do human lifespans work?” Merry burst in.
“Definitely not how yours works,” Boromir said dryly.
“They have shorter lives,” Gandalf said knowledgeable, “and come of age faster.”
There was a moment of silence. Then at least half-a-dozen eyes turned to look at Boromir and Aragorn.
“That can’t be right,” Legolas said. “I remember meeting you once thirty years ago, Aragorn, and you were most certainly not a babe.”
Aragorn sighed. “I’m a unique case, Legolas. I have elven blood, and blood of Numenor in my veins. I live longer and age slower than normal men.”
Boromir blinked at Aragorn slowly. “...I shouldn’t even be surprised. What are you, seventy?”
“Eighty seven. Why?”
Boromir put his head in his hands. “What in the actual fuck.”
“Pippin’s pretty young,” Merry said agreeably. “He’s twenty-eight; still in his tweens. How old is Boromir?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“I’m going to go jump in a river.”
Aragorn patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, it’s not that bad. You’re like forty, right?”
Boromir lifted his head out of his hands and stared Aragorn right in the eyes. “You thought I was fucking forty??”
Skies above, he really needed a drink. Or seven.
“Wait, so how old are you actually?” Gimli asked, narrowing his eyes. “You look not a day over a hundred.”
A part of Boromir died inside at Gimli’s words. Faramir would find this hilarious, he thought.
“I’ve lost track,” he said quietly. “I was alone for a hundred and ten days before I arrived at Rivendell- the better part of three months. Couldn’t keep track of time. I think my last birthday was six months before my journey, so I’m older now.”
“That’s sad,” Frodo said. “Being alone in the wilds on your birthday.”
Boromir shrugged. “Pretty normal, actually.”
He frowned at Gandalf, who had a shit-eating grin on his wizened face. “Oh, don’t you dare.”
“Why?” Legolas asked. “Age ‘tis but a concept.”
“Gandalf’s the only one here who remembers when I was a child,” Boromir muttered. “Please, I’ve dealt with the ragging about the time I broke six bones for years now, you can stop; and I don’t need my age brought further into this.”
“...How did you break six bones?”
“I was a reckless sixteen year old. My brother dared me to jump off the roof.”
“And you just did that?” Gimli asked, an eyebrow arching in surprise.
Boromir shrugged. “Clearly. Because I woke up a week later with a concussion, several broken ribs, a shattered femur, a broken wrist, a minorly punctured lung-”
The other members looked at him blankly.
“What in the actual fuck,” Pippin said, cutting off his extensive list of injuries.
“I have an interesting medical history,” Boromir agreed.
Gandalf snorted. “You can say that again, son of Denethor. It’s a miracle you’ve made it to how old you are now.”
“Which is-?” Merry asked eagerly.
Boromir sighed. “...I was twenty-six when I left Minas Tirith. Which means I’m probably twenty-seven by now.”
As expected, this caused complete pandemonium.
“-you let two fucking tweens come? What is wrong with you-”
“-it wasn’t up to me! And men age differently than hobbits, dwarrows, and elves-”
“-yeah, no shit-”
“-Oh Eru, I’m surrounded by children-”
“-By Mahal’s halls, what in the world-”
“-Splendid, I’m no longer the youngest!”
“-Pippin, you’ll always be the youngest in spirit.”
“Choke on a Silmaril and die.”
“No one’s putting a Silmaril in their mouth! No one’s going anywhere near any, either. One dangerous and potentially world-ending artefact is hard enough!”
“That sounds like something a Silmaril would say.”
“Merry, sincerely, what the fuck?”
“Does anyone have some rotting grapes?” Boromir asked. “I need some alcohol after this conversation.”
“No alcohol for you, you child!”
“For the love of- I’m twenty fucking seven!”
“Definitely a child.”
“You can have some grape juice,” Legolas chimed in gleefully.
Boromir flipped the elf off, who just seemed confused. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Aragorn snorted. “He’s saying ‘fuck you,’ Legolas.”
“Oh, it’s on-”
“For the love of all the Valar, can you sit your arses down and be quiet for once in your short lives?”
“Don’t start acting all stern, Gandalf, it doesn’t suit you.”
“Hush, the adults are talking.”
“...Wait a minute. When did you start fighting, Boromir? Like actual fighting, with a chance of death?”
“...I was fifteen? We got ambushed by orcs on a journey to Rohan. How is this relevant?”
This time, even Aragorn looked disturbed.
“What the hell,” Aragorn said.