Boromir Week

Being the Steward's son is, of course, a great privilege. Boromir is proud of his place in the world, perhaps a little too proud sometimes. But there are, alongside all the things that he loves, moments when he wishes he could have lived another life.

He will turn fourteen on the morrow. This is something that he has dreaded for many months - he does not have much luck with birthdays. Two years ago, he had joined the City Guard on the very day he turned twelve. At thirteen, before anyone had wished him congratulations, he had been present at a skirmish outside the city walls. And he had killed a man for the first time that day.

He turns in his bunk, dreading what the morning will bring. Surely there will be some new challenge and he fears greatly that he will not measure up, this time. He wishes shamefully that he could have been born another boy – a boy far away from the fighting, where he could lead a simple life.

And yet he is so good at fighting, as everyone is quick to tell him. At least he has a talent for it, and can generally hold his own among the older men in the barracks. He is the youngest of them, and will be until Faramir joins the Guard. Only the Steward's sons are expected to serve before their voices have even dropped.

He might see Faramir tomorrow, if he is fortunate. Boromir will take supper at the Citadel with his father, in honour of his birthday. That is something to look forward to, at least.

Dawn has yet to fully break, and all the men around Boromir continue to snore. He slips out of his bunk and out of the barracks, into the courtyard. The white walls of Minas Tirith shine like snow, glittering in the early light.

“Boromir!” Someone calls for him in a high, urgent whisper. When Boromir turns, he spots the small figure close to the courtyard gate: Faramir, of course. He must have sneaked out of the Citadel before the light even began to break through.

“Little brother,” Boromir tries for a stern tone, and inevitably fails. “What are you doing here?”

“Wishing you a happy birthday, of course!” Faramir practically jumps into Boromir's arms as they meet, burying his cold little face at the crook of Boromir's neck. “I wasn't sure I would have the chance later. And I wanted you to hear it, no matter what happens today. I know the last two years were… bad.”

Boromir squeezes his brother against his chest. Only wise, dear little Faramir could know the inner workings of his mind so easily. At ten years old he is small, even for his age, terribly and amusingly earnest. When his big eyes fix on Boromir, all is right with the world.

“Thank you, Faramir. I did wish very much to hear it from you,” He sets the boy down on the cobblestones, ruffling his soft brown hair. “Whatever happens, now it will be a good day. I can be sure of that.”

He takes hold of Faramir's hand. With both of them awake, they might as well walk the streets of their beloved city before the day tears them apart. “Come. I will have at least an hour with my favourite brother before the Guard claims me once more.”

“Your only brother!” Faramir pouts, and grins, and Boromir suddenly knows that he will never wish to be anywhere else, ever again. For he could never, ever wish himself away from his dearest little brother. No matter how much the darkness threatens to consume them both.

“You’re awake,” one says, holding him close.

“What is your name?” The other demands.

Boromir screams in fear and rage, thrashing wildly.

The flailing works. Boromir manages to bite the elf who is holding him before he is tossed to the other elf. Boromir thrashes even more, clawing and kicking and screaming himself hoarse, ignoring the questioning of the elves until a familiar voice pierces through the din.

“Let him go!”

Boromir is quickly tossed to the new person -- Thorongil -- who catches Boromir and holds him close.

Everything becomes fuzzy as Boromir relaxes into the warmth of his ada. There's shouting from the elves and quiet yet harsh words from Thorongil, but it all fades away as Thorongil wraps Boromir in his cloak and spirits them both away into the forest.

Thorongil stops walking when they reach a hill in the middle of a small grove, sitting down on the top of the hill and unwraps his cloak to reveal Boromir. The midday sun shines through the leaves, dappling the emerald grass in soothing patterns, and the breeze ruffles their hair with softness of love carried through the years.

Boromir looks up at Thorongil, pushes aside the anger and confusion bubbling up inside him, and decides that father wouldn't punish him for being rude to Thorongil. With the most innocent look he can muster, he asks "What happened to you? You look as old as grandfather before he died."

It is late at night, the stars peeking through the dense canopy. With the main city behind him, and the rest of the Fellowship out of sight, Boromir allows his mind to wander to years past.

He wonders about Thorongil, wonders where he went after he left with naught but a letter to Boromir’s grandfather, why he left when he was the Captain-General. Thorongil was close to his parents, was close to himself and Faramir when they were young, yet he left with naught but a letter that explained nothing.

"He left us to suffer," Boromir thinks, remembering how his mother started to fade soon after, remembering his father’s concerns about the army’s struggle against the growing darkness of Mordor, remembering all those nights where Boromir wondered if he was the reason Thorongil left.

“'There is still hope,' she says,” Boromir murmurs bitterly to himself, thinking back to what Lady Galadriel said to him in his vision. “Hope abandoned me long ago.”

Boromir continues to wander for a time, sitting by a small creek when his legs tire. The lapping of the water fills his mind, easing his worries a bit, though dark thoughts continue to roil. He wishes eagerly for rest that will not come, for a return to his youth and the peace he has long forgotten. But there is no sign from Eru, no help from the Valar, no Elvish magic to save his mind from the Ring. He will fall soon enough, and he dreads that he cannot speak to save their lives.

Boromir allows himself to wallow in his pity and self loathing for a while before he decides that he should head back to camp. The moon overhead shines down upon him, and a glint catches his eye.

On the shallow bank closest to him is a small object that glimmers. Picking it up reveals that it is about the size of his thumb, and with further inspection he deems it to be a beautifully cut gem. It looks similar to the gem on his collar clasp, which means it is most likely an opal, though his knowledge of gems is spotty. Holding it up to the moonlight makes it glow with an almost otherworldly light, the flecks of colour sparking like a hearth fire. Almost absentmindedly, Boromir touches the gem on his collar with a gentle smile. “You’d like this, Faramir,” he murmurs. “I’ll give this to Aragorn so he can give it to you for me. For your birthday, I think. A gift for after I’m gone, if Mother’s opal is sent with me after my death.”

The gates to the seventh circle eased open, and a pair of horses squeezed through. As they waited for the riders to dismount, the group stood in a line wearing a myriad of expressions. The woman with fair hair quirked a smile and crossed her arms before greeting her two countrymen.

“I do hope that you did not push poor Brego too hard in your eagerness to get here… Théodred Cyning.” This comment earned a hearty laugh.

“Fear not, cousin, Brego is just fine. I do agree that it is about time to retire him, but I wanted him to enjoy one last ride to Mundburg in a time of peace,” said the King of the Riddermark as he gave his horse an affectionate pat. He went to the woman and embraced her. “It is good to see you, Éowyn.”

“Westu Théodred hál,” she greeted with a smile.

“I am glad that Gondor appears to have been a good fit.” He drew back and met her gaze. “It would have been bad luck for the wedding if your husband were to take a fist to the eye for his negligence.” Éowyn arched an eyebrow.

“You have never been one to resort to violence. Have the burdens of the throne changed you this much?” Though her face was serious, her tone was teasing.

“Oh, it would not be me throwing punches. I was actually referring to him,” he said and nodded to the man next to him.

“Éomer knows not to threaten my husband. Don’t you, brother?”

“Aye, I do, sister. Especially after you slayed the Witch-king. I’m not daft enough to anger you to the point that you’d shove a sword through my eye.”

“Good.” While the two siblings greeted each other, Théodred greeted Faramir then continued on to speak to his Gondorian counterpart and his wife, the Evenstar. “I wished to thank you both again for agreeing to come to the Riddermark, especially you, Elessar, for officiating. Traditionally, the King would officiate the wedding of his children. Had I married sooner, perhaps…”

“Arwen and I are happy to be of help in any way we can and consider it an honor. After all, our two kingdoms are bound in friendship, and Gondor would not have survived the war had it not been for the brave Men of Rohan. Though it is a shame that your bride’s father will not be attending the wedding.”

“It is for the best that he is not there.”

Théodred parted from them with a tight smile, which immediately morphed into a wide grin for his dearest friend. Boromir clapped him on the shoulder as they embraced.

“See? I was right when I said that you would be the first one of us to get married,” Boromir said after they had separated. “You were so adamant it would be me, because I am more impulsive than you are, as you have said before.”

“This will probably be the only time that I am relieved to be wrong.”

“I am happy for you, and I know you will be a great King.”

“I hope to be. I hope to have a peaceful reign. If my rule is uneventful and no songs are written about it, at least I will have the reassurance that I kept the Mark out of another terrible war.”

“There are songs written about peace, too,” Boromir said with a knowing smile. He then glanced over to where Éomer was talking to King Elessar and Queen Arwen. His gaze wandered some more, and he leaned and stretched his neck for a better view. A hand landed on his shoulder, drawing his attention back to his friend.

“Someone from the House of Eorl had to stay behind and rule Edoras in my absence,” Théodred said with a wink, earning a chuckle.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Somewhat. And you have my blessing.”

Boromir stared open-mouthed at the other man. After Théodred stepped away from him and went to greet his betrothed and her younger sister, Boromir allowed himself a few moments to think about what would happen when he arrived in Edoras and saw Idis again.

It had been over a year since they last saw one another, when Théoden King was laid to rest in the Barrowfields. At the time, he had not been certain about what he felt for her beyond gratitude for bringing him back from the brink of death. When they were separated at Helm’s Deep, him on the wall and her in the caves, and later parted ways when he rode with the King’s éored for Dunharrow, their interactions had been closer to something resembling friendship than something romantic. And yet, twice now—when Théodred arrived to retrieve his father’s body and at this very moment—Boromir found himself feeling somewhat disappointed that Idis had not accompanied her brother.

His hand went to his chest, and his fingers grasped at the necklace that was hidden beneath his shirt. He had meant to return it to her at Théoden King’s funeral, but he felt that it would not have been appropriate, given the circumstances—although that did not stop Éomer from announcing the engagement of Éowyn and Faramir. But that was a little different, and given the people’s love for their White Lady, the chance of anyone taking offense to the happy announcement was slim.

And now, the wedding of Théodred King seemed to him another inappropriate moment to speak to Idis of his feelings and any future they might have together. It was certainly more inappropriate to talk of marriage at a funeral, but this occasion was wholly about Théodred and his soon-to-be Queen. This was their moment, not his.

After the exchange of pleasantries, Elessar invited everyone inside for a small banquet. The horses were taken to the royal stables for food, water, and rest, and in the morning, the wedding party would depart for Rohan. As he watched Théodred and his betrothed walk arm-in-arm, gazing at each other as though they have been in love for their entire lives, Boromir made the decision that his only concern was to be a happy and supportive friend, nothing more.

The journey to Rohan was slow but uneventful, which was preferable to a perilous road. During the numerous stops to rest, Éowyn answered the seemingly endless questions posed by the bride’s two ladies-in-waiting—her younger sister, Anoriel, and Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, who served in the Houses of Healing with Ellandiel during the war and became her closest friend and confidant.

“Will I get to learn how to ride a horse, too?” asked Anoriel, her gray eyes sparkling with unabashed wonder.

“If you’d like, and if your Queen allows it. But you have nothing to worry about. Théodred will see to it that you have the best teacher and learn with the most manageable horses,” said Éowyn. Ellandiel still looked doubtful. A moment later, all four women turned their attention to Boromir when he approached.

“Éowyn is right. After all, Théodred was the one who taught her how to ride, and how to use a sword, if I am not mistaken.” At this, Anoriel gasped.

“Sister, can I learn—?”

“You are not having sword lessons,” Ellandiel interjected with a tone of finality. “There is no need for you to learn. And I would constantly be worrying about you.”

Éowyn had her own thoughts about it, but she chose to keep them to herself. She would be returning to Ithilien after the wedding, and since she no longer lived in Rohan, it was no longer her place to dictate how she thought things ought to be run. And who knows, perhaps one day the new Queen would change her mind. Boromir also seemed to be of a different opinion.

“Perhaps not to ride into battle, but having knowledge of basic self-defense would be of use,” he said before nodding to them in parting. He then went over to stand with Éomer and Théodred.

“I do hope that you are not upsetting my bride,” said the King. Boromir chuckled.

“Fear not, my friend. She was adamant that her sister was not to learn swordsmanship, and I was only telling her that basic self-defense would be a good skill to have.”

“Hmm. It would appear that she is thinking about it,” Théodred noted as he observed Ellandiel's contemplative expression.

“I just know that if I ever married and had daughters—and sons, too, for that matter—I would want them all to know how to defend themselves.”

“On the bright side, Idis would not need lessons because she already knows how to protect herself,” Éomer commented with a cheeky grin. Boromir felt his ears burn, and then he rounded on Théodred, who held up his hands.

“I swear on my forefathers that I have said nothing to Éomer.”

Boromir scowled and stomped off, muttering something about continuing on. As they prepared to proceed onto Edoras, he mulled over his reaction to Éomer’s words. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed that people knew about his feelings for Idis; it was because they knew before he did.

Éomer hosted the wedding party at his home in Aldburg for the night before the last part of the journey to Edoras. The evening was spent around a roaring fire, good ale or wine, and even better company. Some songs were sung and many tales told, both of Rohan as it was long ago and as it was now. There was no shortage of food, drink, or questions about Aldburg and Rohan as a whole; this appeared to be a topic of great interest for Princess Lothíriel which seemed to please Éomer.

As it turned out, in addition to being a princess and a healer for a time, she also enjoyed learning about the various styles of architecture in Middle-earth, and she had read about the great hall Meduseld whose roof shone like gold in the sunlight. Although the hall of Aldburg was not as impressive, the fact that it was once Rohan’s capital before it was moved to Edoras was enough to pique the princess’s curiosity.

The following morning started early, with a small breakfast before they set out once more. It seemed to be that favor smiled upon the House of Eorl, for the weather remained sunny and pleasantly warm for autumn, with no rainclouds to be seen. Because of this, the Gondorians were able to see that famed golden roof shimmer as the wedding party approached the towering hill.

As they waited for the large gates to be opened, Boromir noticed that Théodred appeared agitated, but whether it was from nerves or impatience was anyone’s guess. Boromir was also a little on-edge for a different reason, and his heart was thrumming against his ribs by the time they brought their horses to the stables and made the rest of the way on foot to the Golden Hall. His breath seemed to become trapped in his lungs when he saw Idis standing upon the front steps awaiting their arrival. Whatever doubts he’d had about his feelings for her vanished in that moment.

Her hair was partially tied back in a braid while the rest tumbled past her shoulders in waves. She wore a dress of goldenrod with beads sewn into the front that formed a sun. The shadows that had circled her eyes during the war had faded, and her smile as she welcomed them looked real rather than forced. She was radiant, as though the sun had gifted some of its light to her.

Boromir was broken out of his stupor as she embraced her brother and then was introduced to her future Queen and sister-in-law. She looked happy; happier than he had ever seen her. Would she even want to leave Rohan if he asked her to? Could he guarantee that she would be this happy if she joined him in the White City? The necklace seemed to burn against his skin as though it was mocking him.

Before he realized it, introductions had been made and greetings exchanged, and they were being led into the hall. He couldn’t recall if Idis had addressed him or if he had offered her a reply.

While the ladies had gone off separately—presumably to help Ellandiel get ready for the ceremony—the men were left to their own devices. Boromir would have usually been involved in whatever the other men were up to, sometimes leading it, but this time he sat at end of one of the long tables in the feast hall by himself, his hand grasping at the necklace through his shirt. A hand clapping down on his shoulder jolted him from his stupor, and just as it had been last time, his friend was smiling at him.

“You are going to wear a hole in your shirt if you keep that up,” said Théodred.

Boromir gave him a once-over when he noticed that the King had changed his clothes. He then looked down at himself, still dressed in his travel clothing. He really ought to stop feeling sorry for himself and at the very least change shirts.

“She did not even notice me,” he said unprompted. Théodred’s brow furrowed.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t been so busy being stuck in your own head, you would have been aware that Idis greeted you and stood near enough to you that she could have reached out and smacked you over the head for ignoring her.” Boromir reeled back. How had he not known? “As you are not a citizen of the Mark, I cannot give you an order as your King. However, as your friend, I am telling you to go and tell my sister how you feel. She has been adamant that she would not remarry after losing her first husband all those years ago, but she has informed me that she might change her mind if you were to ask.”

“She said that?”

“Aye. Now stop your moping. I’ll not have my wedding day ruined by your sour mood.”

“I’m not sour,” Boromir grumbled before pushing himself up from the table and executing a stiff bow. “By your leave, my lord. I must change before the ceremony.”

“Make sure you clean behind your ears, too,” Théodred called after him, not even bothering to hide the laughter in his voice. Boromir growled and waved a dismissive hand in his general direction, refusing to take the bait.

Time passed by him in a blur, and before he knew it, it was time for the ceremony. The throne room was filled to bursting and the voices of the guests bounced off each other and the walls, creating a churning cloud of noise. Boromir stood on the steps of the dais between Éomer and Faramir. Théodred was at the top with King Elessar and Queen Arwen, watching the doors and fidgeting on occasion.

Then the doors slowly eased open with a groaning creak, and Théodred sucked in a sharp breath. The gathered guests quietened and turned towards the doors as well to get a glimpse of their new Queen.

Éowyn and Lothíriel entered the hall first, clutching small bouquets of wildflowers. After they took their places on the dais, Ellandiel walked towards the front with Anoriel holding her veil. The guests who were old enough to have been present at the wedding of then-Prince Théoden and Lady Elfhild recognized it right away. Many of the people of Rohan had their doubts and concerns about having another Gondorian Queen, and they had, for the most part, been fond of Lady Elfhild and lamented the fact that she passed before she could wear the crown. But much of their fears were assuaged when they looked upon Elfhild’s son and saw the raw adoration he clearly had for his bride, and they seemed to have come to the same conclusion that their new Queen was made of softer stuff than steel.

After Théodred lifted the veil from her face, Ellandiel handed her larger bouquet to her sister and took her soon-to-be husband’s hands. Both King Elessar and Queen Arwen officiated, Elessar knowing enough Rohirric to get through the ceremony while Arwen spoke her lines in Westron. Éowyn and Éomer handed over the rings, and once they had been exchanged, the bride and groom’s hands were bound in ribbons bearing the colors of their respective lands—green and gold of the Mark and green and magenta of Lossarnach.

They exchanged their vows, shared a kiss, and the people rejoiced. Ellandiel blushed at the attention, and Théodred beamed with pride. Boromir had never seen his friend look this happy. Of course Théodred had smiled before, but it had always seemed subdued, as though he was not allowed to express himself fully. There was something boyish in his grin.

There was a tap on his shoulder. Éomer. The bride and groom had already descended the dais and were making their way to the doors, and the rest of them were supposed to follow them out. His ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton.

Boromir’s gaze wandered over to where Idis stood at the front of the gathered guests. She paused in her applause to wipe at her eyes. A lightness welled in his chest. He held himself back from grasping at the necklace again.

The feast was just as jovial as the ceremony. Many people approached the high table to congratulate Théodred King and Ellandiel Queen, even those who had no gifts for the newlyweds. After the meal concluded, the tables were cleared and moved closer to the walls to leave room in the center of the hall for dancing. In addition to the music created by the instrumentalists were boisterous renditions of ballads mainly located around the barrels from which ale flowed freely.

Théodred and Ellandiel started off the dancing, the King leading his Queen through the unfamiliar steps. As it was a simpler dance than the ones she had learned in Gondor, Ellandiel was able to learn the steps quickly. King Elessar and Queen Arwen joined later, their movements smooth, flawless, and effortless. Éomer and Éowyn shared a dance, and Faramir danced with Anoriel. Boromir agreed to a dance with his cousin, who could not seem to stop talking about the wood carvings in Meduseld. There was a warmth about them, she said, that was lacking in the marble statues and even the limestone fountains in Gondor. When he had first heard Lothíriel was going to serve as lady-in-waiting to the new Queen of Rohan, he had been worried that she would not handle being so far from home very well. But it appeared that his concerns were misplaced. Lothíriel was built of strong stuff—she had proved that during her tenure in the Houses of Healing. Boromir had no doubt that she would be just fine.

After the first dance, they traded partners—Théodred with Éowyn, Elessar with Ellandiel, Faramir with Arwen, and Éomer with Lothíriel (and the two remained together for much of the evening). Boromir danced with Anoriel, who suddenly became less talkative. She kept her head lowered, occasionally sneaking glances up at him.

All the while, Boromir was searching the hall for Idis. He had seen her briefly during the first dance, but now she seemed to have vanished. He hoped she hadn’t excused herself for the evening, especially after he had ruined his earlier chances of getting a word in with her. As the music slowed and the final notes hung in the air, Boromir released Anoriel and bowed to her when she curtsied. She then hurried over to her sister, so he felt less guilty for going in search of Idis. He wandered the perimeter of the feast hall, but she did not seem to be there. Before giving up, he headed towards the main doors to Meduseld. He recalled that Idis had left the feast held after the Battle for Helm’s Deep for air, so there was a chance that he would find her outside this time, as well.

After stepping outside, he greeted the Doorward; the scar he had received at the gate of the Hornburg had faded somewhat, but was still visible. Even so, his smile did not lose its warmth.

It was indeed on the steps of Meduseld that he found her. She was sitting with her knees drawn towards her chest in a very un-princess-like manner. It reminded him of when he and Théodred would climb onto the stable roof and watch the clouds or try to count the stars. A breeze caused the banners to flap. Idis’s arms wrapped around her middle, her shoulders rising towards her ears. Boromir took a couple steps forward.

“May I join you?” Her shoulders stiffened before she slowly turned her head.

“You may. As much as I want to be there for Théodred, it was getting a bit stifling in there.” He hummed and sat down, probably closer than was appropriate.

“Are you cold?” he asked when her hands rubbed at her arms.

“Only when there is a breeze.” Boromir subtly scooted closer.

“Had I thought to fetch my cloak, I would have offered it to you.” She looked at him briefly before lowering her gaze, a smile blooming on her face.

“That is alright. It is still early yet for the real cold days and nights.” There was a pause, and Boromir raised his arm, curving it and inching it closer to circle her shoulders. “I thought I had offended you somehow.”

“Why do you think so?” he asked, trying to sound casual as he lowered his arm to his side again.

“You ignored my greeting.” He wanted to smack himself.

“I apologize for that. I was… deep in thought. Very deep. And I… did not realize you had spoken to me. Your brother has already reprimanded me for my idiocy.”

“Oh dear,” she said with a giggle. “I hope he wasn't too harsh with you.”

“I have heard worse nagging from him. And it was deserved.” His hand went to the necklace, and after pinching it between his fingers for a few moments, he drew it out and slipped it over his head. “I considered waiting until after the wedding, but since we are talking now… I wanted to return this to you.”

She looked over at him, then down at the necklace. She released a sigh and lowered her gaze to her lap.

“I gave it to you for good luck. It seems to have served you well. You ought to keep it.”

Boromir didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t sure if the necklace had actually protected him during Helm’s Deep and the two battles that followed, but he appreciated the sentiment anyway. Before she found his boat on the banks of the Entwash, they had frequently crossed paths when he visited Théodred but had not said much to one another. And yet, they were more than mere acquaintances but not close enough to consider themselves friends. He did not think that she would have worried about him had they not spent time together on their way to Helm’s Deep, let alone give him something of hers. Now that he thought about it, every time he had seen Idis when they were younger, she was wearing that same necklace, so it was clearly important to her. And yet she did not want him to return it to her.

“Very well. I will hold onto it if you do not want it back. Though I hope that I will not need it for a while. It is nice to spend my days thinking of other things besides war and wondering when the Enemy’s next strike will be.”

“Is that so? What sorts of things are you thinking about now that the war is over?”

The Rohirrim were a straightforward and plain-speaking people, so he would need to be forthcoming in his answer. Not that he minded, since he did not particularly care for the Gondorian way of speaking with half-truths and ambiguous intentions.

“I think about you.” She turned to him with wide eyes. It made her look younger. His hand moved towards her cheek, and when she didn’t recoil or smack it away, he rested it on the side of her neck, his thumb lightly stroking her jaw. “I was most disappointed that you did not accompany Théodred to Minas Tirith when he came to retrieve Théoden King’s body and to escort his bride to Rohan.”

“Oh, well… there were many preparations to be attended to here. And I do not ride much anymore, as you already know.”

“Do they still happen?” She looked away from him and nodded, and his arm went slack.

“Not as often, but still enough to be a nuisance.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“I have made peace with the fact that I shall have them for the rest of my life. I simply try to do what I can.” Boromir’s hand darted out and reached for hers in her lap.

“Idis, I beg your forgiveness if this is an inappropriate thing to discuss on the night of your brother’s wedding, but since Théodred has already given me his blessing, then I will come out with it. After our time together and the chance to get to know you better, I have grown fond of you. I do not know if it is love, but I think it could be one day. I just know that I have never felt for any other woman what I feel for you. And if you do not regard me any differently than you did when we were children, then I doubly beg your forgiveness for making you uncomfortable.”

“That could not be farther from the truth. I have grown fond of you, as well. But... I am old,” she said dejectedly. He gave her a sad smile.

“If you are old, then so am I, as we are the same age. And why should that matter?”

“Because you need an heir. And I do not think I can give that to you. I already lost a child once…” She was referring to the child she lost after she learned of her first husband’s death at the same Orc ambush that resulted in the death of Éomund of the Eastfold. She had been twenty-four at the time.

“If a son was all I wanted in a marriage, then I could marry anyone. But I would wed someone who knows me rather than a stranger. And I would wed someone who has seen me at my lowest point and still accepted me.” She shivered as another gust of wind blew, and this time Boromir wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “And unlike in Rohan, you would not be expected to ride a horse in Gondor, if you did not wish to.”

“That is one benefit, I suppose,” she said with a slight tremor in her voice.

“I know this probably seems sudden, so you do not have to give me your answer right this very moment, or even before I return to Minas Tirith. Just promise me that you will think on it.”

“No.” Boromir blinked owlishly, and every muscle in his body seemed to tense.

“‘No?’” he asked with trepidation.

“No, I will not think on it, for there is nothing for me to think about.” Idis laughed at the perplexed look on Boromir’s face. “If you are certain about this then I am, too.”

“You are?”

“There are very few things that I have been sure of in my life, but I am sure about this.”

Idis laid her hand over his, and his immediate reaction was to cup her hands between his when he felt how cool her fingertips were. She looked down at their joined hands and then up at him. His eyes lowered to her lips and he leaned forward, and she started to meet him halfway.

“Ah, there you are.” They both jumped back and released each other’s hands. Boromir sent a glare over his shoulder at Théodred, who looked way too pleased with himself for interrupting.

“My feet were getting sore from all the dancing and I needed a break,” Boromir said.

“I was actually looking for Idis, but it is good to see you, as well, my friend.” Boromir snickered. Were he not likely to cause a diplomatic incident, Boromir would have trapped him in a headlock.

“Was there something you needed, Théodred?” Idis asked as she moved to stand, but Théodred raised a hand to stop her.

“I merely came to ask you for a dance, but it would appear that you are otherwise indisposed.”

Idis bowed her head, and a faint flush colored her cheeks. Boromir observed her for a moment before he stood and held out his hand to her.

“Unfortunately, I have already asked her for a dance, so you will have to wait I’m afraid.” Idis looked up at him dubiously before placing her hand on his. Théodred shrugged.

“The next one, then. And I will ask Éowyn for another dance.”

“Not your bride?”

“Alas, her poor feet could not handle the strain.” After one final look between the two, Théodred nodded in parting, a slight upward turn of his mouth betraying his amusement.

“I am sorry for involving you in my fib. If you do not want to dance, then—”

“I do.” When Boromir did not reply, Idis leaned in close as though to share a secret. “The real reason why I came out here was because a few men asked me for a dance, but I only wanted to be asked by you.”

“Is that so? For your patience, the least I can do is ask you properly,” he said, raising an eyebrow and slightly smirking. She nodded and lowered her gaze. Boromir took one of her hands and laid her palm over the necklace. “Idis, tonight will you honor me with a dance? And in the near future, will you honor me by sharing your life with me as my wife?”

Idis was momentarily speechless, and Boromir had to squeeze her hand gently to break her out of her stupor. She then nodded and her eyes shone in the torchlight as she smiled tearfully.

“Yes. To both.”

Boromir touched his forehead to hers briefly before he kissed her. She leaned against his chest and his other arm circled around her waist, drawing her closer. And it was not long before the aforementioned dance was forgotten, but no one came looking for them, so they must have been right where they were meant to be.

In Dearer Than Daughter, Idis has epilepsy. So, when Boromir asked if "they still happen" he was referring to her seizures (although they were not called seizures back then).

Starring Charlie Hunnam as Théodred

Anne Hathaway as Ellandiel

Lily James as Anoriel

Rebecca Ferguson as Idis

Katie McGrath as Lothíriel 

Thank you for reading!

So often a father is like a wound,

Only this time the wound was not yours.

There was a day when he could hold

The whole of your body in one hand,

But you do not remember - he was old

For your father never grew to be young.

Each day you thought you would be

Stronger, and more worthy of being his,

And every day he saw the best of himself

In you.

So often a father is like a mirror,

And you polished this one until it shone.

But you were made a simpler kind of man

And a kinder one, better loved, though

You had more than enough love

For the man who made you a man.

Now your hands are bigger than his,

You could hold his whole city in your palm

But you are still his boy, his golden mirror

For most people, late springtime is the best time to live in Dol Amroth. More and more people chose to fly around as the weather warms up and the rain becomes less frequent, people looking down from on high as the flowers bloom after a long winter.

Boromir is not most people, and the spring only inspires jealousy and grief.

He leans on the windowsill in his bedroom, looking out over the sprawling city as it wakes up. There is always at least a few people in the air, moving about from one part of the city to another.

Heartache claws in his chest, begging him to leap and take flight, wishing to feel the wind across his skin. Underdeveloped muscles in his back twitch, trying to move wings that never grew in; again and again, pulsing with his heartbeat until a ragged sob knocks them out of sync and drops him to the floor.

The void in his soul that calls to the sky will never be filled, staining him with a deficiency.

He will never know flight. He will never be whole. He will never be good enough.

Boromir stays at the window until the sun rises to its peak, hot tears of envy and guilt rolling down his cheeks. He does not sob, for that would make him pathetic. He does not sob he does not sob he does not sob. He focuses on the pain from cracked fingernails in a feeble attempt to distract himself, digging and scratching his arms until he bleeds.

“Boromir?”

Boromir gasps at the sudden intrusion, whirling around to see Imrahil in the doorway. His breath stops as his uncle towards him, wings spread in preparation for a hug. It is too late to hide the tears that stain Boromir’s face, yet he curls into the cold stone wall as if it could swallow him up.

The wall, of course, does not respond; Instead, it only surrounds Boromir in the sound of his ragged breathing and his uncle’s approaching footsteps which grow louder and louder. The pit in Boromir's chest grows bigger and tighter, strangling him.

Imrahil sweeps Boromir into his arms and sits them both on Boromir’s bed, chittering and chirping softly. Calloused hands run through Boromir's hair as his uncle's brown wings wrap around him to create a small nest. Boromir gasps a few times as his uncle whistles a lullaby that his mother used to sing to him and Faramir when they were young, choking on sobs before catching his breath and continuing to hold his uncle as close as he can.

Thorongil allowed himself a few moments to gaze up at the throne of the King. He had glanced at it in passing many times during his stay in Minas Tirith, but he made it appear as though he was merely showing respect for it. Looking too long was too risky. There was a chance that someone might figure out the truth—that he had a deeper connection to the throne of Gondor than he let on. He had a feeling that Steward Ecthelion’s son, Denethor, suspected something.

He closed his eyes and released a breath. It was time to go. Steward Ecthelion had tasked him with taking care of the Corsairs, and it would take several days to reach Umbar.

“Thwogi!” a small voice called to him, breaking him out of his reverie. He turned to see Lady Finduilas approaching with her young son, Boromir, in her arms. He placed his bag on the floor and knelt as Finduilas set the squirming child down. Boromir wobbled a bit; he was fully capable of walking on his own now, but sometimes his legs got ahead of the upper half of his body and he would lose his balance. The last few steps to Thorongil were almost a leap, but he was able to catch him. “Go bye?”

Thorongil pressed his lips together and gave a solemn nod. He spared a glance at Lady Finduilas and wondered if she knew. Though she often looked morose when he passed her in the halls—when Boromir was not with her—and she seemed to worry for his safety whenever he was sent from the city on an errand for the Steward, she had never looked this grim before.

“Yes,” he answered, returning his attention to the boy. “Your grandfather has given me an important task. There are some men who are hurting Gondorians and damaging their homes.”

“Come back?”

Lady Finduilas shifted in his peripheral vision. Yes, she knew, or at least she suspected. He wasn’t sure how, since he had not told anyone of his intentions, but perhaps she perceived more than she let on. Thorongil held Boromir’s gaze for a few moments more, and when Boromir’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears and he sniffled, he lifted a hand and let it rest against the boy’s cheek.

“We will see each other again.”

“Pwomise?”

Thorongil’s mouth quirked in a thin smile, and he hoped that Boromir would not see the regret that he attempted to keep hidden behind his gaze. Just as Boromir had become attached to him, he, too, had grown fond of the boy. Disappointing him was the last thing he wished to do.

“You have my word.” And then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the boy’s forehead. When he drew back, Boromir rubbed at his forehead and made a face of disgust. Thorongil chuckled and got to his feet, picking up his bag from the floor and slipping it over his shoulder. “Be good for your mother. And your father.”

“I will!”

Lady Finduilas reached for Boromir and held him close. She and Thorongil watched each other for nearly a minute, and then her gaze fell and her eyelids fluttered shut, and she bowed her head slightly.

“No i Melain na le.”

Thorongil nodded his head to her, as well, and then he adjusted his bag and turned his back on them, on the throne of his ancestors, and on the city that awaited their king’s return. One day he would.

February 26, 3019 TA Amon Hen

Once, twice, three times the Horn of Gondor blared, the blasts soaring above the sounds of battle. Boromir had been able to hold off the Uruk-hai well enough, but despite taking down many of them—with help from Merry and Pippin—they kept coming at them from all sides, swarming like ants pouring out of the dirt when their home is disturbed by a boot.

Legend said that the Horn of Gondor’s call would not go unheeded, and yet help had not come. And then the first arrow flew. One arrow pierced him, followed by a second and third. He continued to fight until he grew weak from blood loss—or perhaps it was in fact poison that the enemy had used to coat the arrowheads—and he dropped to his knees. The horn was cloven in two. He would not be able to call for help again.

The world around him became a whirlwind of blurred shapes and muted voices, his ears feeling like they had been filled with wool. Merry and Pippin were grabbed and carried away, their cries fading and becoming buried beneath the rumble of footfalls. Boromir swayed and fell back. He looked up at the towering trees, their naked branches reaching out like bony fingers. The ground was soft underneath him, like a bed made of fallen leaves. It was becoming harder to breathe. His chest hurt, and he could barely feel his arms and legs.

A set of footfalls, coming from the opposite direction the Uruk-hai had gone, reached his ears. The owner entered the clearing where he lay and came to an abrupt stop, and after a pause, took a few more steps towards him, the damp leaves crinkling underfoot. Suddenly, Aragorn’s face appeared above him, his eyes taking in his appearance. The Ranger’s brow furrowed and a look of dismay passed over his features. The wounds must have been worse than he’d thought.

As Aragorn knelt beside him, words began spilling out of him. About Merry and Pippin’s capture, about Frodo and the Ring, about his failure. Aragorn tried to reassure him that he fought bravely and did the best he could, but it still did not change the fact that he had caused the breaking of the Fellowship and he couldn’t keep Merry and Pippin safe. He also couldn’t keep his people or his city safe.

“I do not know what strength is within my blood, but I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”

Boromir lifted his head slightly, looking up at Aragorn’s face. It was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open, and his body felt as though it was being pressed into the soil. Everything felt heavy… except for the hand that rested on his cheek.

That was odd. He had a faint memory of someone else who had comforted him like this. Someone he had looked up to, who disappeared from his life and never returned. Details were fuzzy, as it was long ago, but he recalled the man’s eyes. Gray, keen eyes that pierced like a sword but were kind. As he continued to hold Aragorn’s gaze, he remembered their first encounter in the room that housed the shards of Narsil and how unsettling the other man’s eyes had been. Things had changed between them since then, though they still disagreed on certain matters. Then another memory came to him, not so long ago, when the sharpness in Aragorn’s eyes had softened. They were in Lothlórien and Boromir shared with him what the Lady of the Golden Wood had told him of the fate of his city. Boromir, thinking fondly of his home city, asked Aragorn if he had ever seen Minas Tirith, seen the beauty of the great tower when the shadows of the Enemy did not dim its light.

“I have seen the White City. Long ago,” he had replied.

Now, Aragorn’s eyes shown with emotion as he watched Boromir’s life fade. It almost looked like regret. And then, as though a shroud had been lifted, Boromir realized where he had seen these eyes before.

The heaviness in his body began to lessen until he felt as though he might float away with the breeze or the current of the river. He sucked in gasping breaths, forcing the words out.

“I would have followed you, my brother, my captain,” his mouth formed a smile, “my king.”

As he felt his breath leave his body, his last thought was one of hope rather than despair—the most hopeful he had felt in a long time. It had taken many years, but Thorongil’s promise that they would meet again did eventually come to pass. Now, Boromir felt that he could rest peacefully with the reassurance that Aragorn would keep his word that the White City would not fall.

Thank you for reading! And sorry again for the sads.

Sometimes a mother is like a river,

your fingers on her silken gowns are boats

sailing one by one out of sight,

and you are very small among ripples

of her smile.

But sometimes a mother is like a star,

which you must search for, until

she winks into sight, arms outstretched.

You should bow to a star, but she will laugh

and kiss your hair with flames

until you laugh, too.

And worst of all a mother is an ocean,

for she goes out like a tide one day

and you are too weak to catch her.

You cannot know an ocean, or a mother,

after she is lost. You can never ask her

why she is gone.

Now a mother is a cloud,

your eyes misted over by time and toil

too far off to remember her face,

or anything but the silken kisses, smiles

lost to you and smothered away