lotr sideblog

Before the silver platter even grazed the long trestle table, little fingers plunge into the pile of beef cubes marinating in a thick brown sauce. Finduilas does not have the time to reach out for Boromir that Aerin seizes the young boy’s wrist and pries it away from the meat. She holds his limp hand up, scowling at the child.

‘I would have thought, young lord, that good manners had been instilled in you!’ she scolds, her feminine voice thundering in the marble hall of their forebears.

Boromir shrinks into his seat with a whimper. Eyes wide and cheeks blood red, he stares at his aunt, dreading the moment another blame would slip from her tongue. Maintaining eye contact with him, the austere lady wrenches his napkin from under his cutlery and forcefully wipes his dirty skin with it. At the same moment, he feels his mother’s embrace around him yet not rescuing him from the other woman’s rough touch.

‘Aerin, that is quite enough,’ Denethor intervenes, casting his glance over the few plates and dishes separating them. ‘Leave my son alone. He is barely four!’

‘I am hungry,’ Boromir tears up, trying to defend himself amidst the tension between his aunt and his father. ‘I want to eat.’

‘That is your problem, Denethor,’ Aerin retorts, continuing to clean the boy’s hand even though it no longer requires it, ‘you coddle that child too much. You love to praise him for being your son, but you do not educate him.’

Denethor dismisses a servant coming to refill his glass with mead. He rubs a thumb between his brows with a sigh.

‘Let me remind you, dear sister, that you do not have children of your own, and thus have no right to decree whether I am raising my son well,’ he speaks slowly through gritted teeth. ‘I teach him what a man should know. The rest is the realm of his mother and his tutor.’

‘His mother?!’ his sister exclaims, letting go of little Boromir’s hand and ignoring him as he crawls into his mother’s arms. ‘Finduilas is pregnant and has been ill every single day while carrying your child! Is it your role as her husband and as his father to provide for them both? All you want is to call yourself a father but not behave as one.’

‘Aerin,’ Finduilas’ gentle voice attempts to defuse the situation, ‘we are fine, I promise.’

Boromir buries his face into his mother’s shoulder, covering his ears with both of his hands. There is nothing he dislikes more than when Aerin visits them and shouts. She is incredibly loud, especially when she gets angry in the hall. His father becomes tense as soon as she sets foot inside the citadel, and the sight of Denethor in unease pains his young heart. His father is doing his best and he knows it. Just like Finduilas is, if not more.

Yet, this time, finding himself the subject of his aunt’s indignation does not simply make the young boy uncomfortable. It terrifies him. Even though he does not understand everything the adults discuss around Ecthelion’s table, he can sense that Aerin is a headstrong woman who knows what she wants and how things should be. But she is never lenient. Her temper is short, her blood always hot.

And her remarks later make Denethor and Finduilas scream at each other behind closed doors while he tries to sleep.

‘How dare you insinuate that I do not provide for my family,’ Denethor hisses defensively at his sister. ‘You know nothing of our lives, nothing!’

‘One look is all I need to understand how you function, brother,’ Boromir’s aunt responds, standing up at once, her chair scraping against the marble floor as she kicks it back. ‘During our visit to Osgiliath, you let Finduilas carry your child against her hip even though she was already out of breath all day from walking and carrying your babe! Not once did you offer to help her walk, not once did you relieve her from Boromir. All you do is pride yourself on being the future steward and on having already produced an heir. It is all superficial.’

‘Aerin, Denethor, enough,’ Ecthelion’s deep tone interrupts their bickering for good. ‘There is no need to argue; Boromir made a mistake and that is that. He is but a child.’

‘But father—’

‘No, Aerin. I want you out of my hall for the time being. I will send a servant to bring a meal to your chambers. You will return once you are ready to present an apology to your brother and his son.’

With a grunt, Aerin glares at her older brother and tosses the dirty napkin onto her clean plate. Instead of secluding herself in her chambers, she stomps out of the citadel and disappears when the great doors close.

After the meal has been shared, Boromir is brought to his chambers to have a change of clothing for his afternoon activities. Before they reach the stables, his governess brings him along to the Houses of Healing so she can first obtain a remedy from Ioreth against her lasting cough. While the two women are talking, Boromir wanders away and through the corridors of the establishment. Through a door left ajar, he catches a glimpse of the garden beyond it, framed by lofty arches looking onto the lower levels of the White City. The young boy casts a glance over his shoulder and tiptoes towards the door, lured by the singing of birds and the dancing of tall flowers in the light breeze.

Boromir presses his back against a wall as one of the healers passes him by with a stack of clean sheets balanced against her chest. She hardly pays him any mind. Noticing the stone stairs descending into the piece of nature amidst man-made architecture, he shuffles towards them and descends the stairs while clutching the guardrail.

As soon as his foot grazes the gravel, Boromir gasps. In the garden, surrounded by butterflies and bees, Aerin is kneeling in the grass, ripping overgrown weeds at the roots and discarding them into an old and cracked bucket. The boy’s expression of surprise alerts her of his presence and she looks up from her chore. She extends her hand, but the movement startles him further. Boromir steps back, but his heels catches against one of the stone steps and he falls right on his buttocks.

Aerin leaps back onto her feet and runs up to the confused and fearful child.

‘Boromir! Are you hurt?’

The genuine fright in her eyes as she carefully pushes his sleeves up prevent him from crying. He stares, dumbfounded, as the aunt he is sure must loathe him inspects his skin and tenderly rubs the reddened elbow.

‘Did you hit the back of your head?’ she asks, reaching out behind his head to feel whether there is any swelling or blood.

‘N-No.’

‘Is anything causing you pain?’

Boromir shakes his head. Aerin slips her palms under his armpits and lifts him up to place him flat on his boots on the same step. She kneels before him, tousling his hair with a grin.

‘You gave me a fright, darling. But I think I gave you one first. I apologise.’

The child bites the inside of his cheek and toys with the hem of his tunic.

‘I forgive you,’ he replies.

‘Thank you. What are you doing here anyway?’

‘My governess is receiving medicine. I wanted to see the garden.’

‘I see. What are you doing this afternoon?’

‘Stables.’

Aerin raises an eyebrow and snorts.

‘That does not sound very exciting. Would you like to tend to the garden with me? I will show you bugs that live here.’

Boromir’s eyes light up, but there is still restraint halting his feet.

‘Boromir, I apologise for scolding you at lunch,’ she whispers with enough sincerity to persuade him. ‘I should have been nicer.’

‘That is fine. But you said there would be bugs?’

‘Do you like that?’

‘YES.’

Dividers by @pixopix

The Captain of Gondor and the Second Marshal of the Riddermark entered the bustling citadel with the laughter of carefree youth. Inside the hall, majestic banners bearing the White Tree and others displaying a white and gold horse’s head hung from the windows of the triforium. All torches were ablaze, casting a bright halo glistening on the white halls and black columns. Underneath the lofty arches, Gondorians and Rohirrim alike mingled and celebrated a rare gathering of their people, while music played and couples danced. Some servants were still busy carrying away crumpled tablecloths and wooden boards. Wine and ale flowed together, warmed up cheeks and lightened spirits.

Except Denethor’s and Théoden’s.

Boromir and Théodred had hoped to slither through the crowd unnoticed, but the steward and the king quickly intercepted them on the other side. Surely the two rulers must have caught sight of them from the dais they stood upon.

‘You are late, Boromir,’ Denethor scolded him, careful not to attract attention and bring dishonour on himself and his beloved heir. ‘We had to open the banquet without you. After all I have done for you, you dare bring shame onto our house!’

‘And you, Théodred,’ Théoden intervened, glaring at his own son, ‘I have taught you better. We are guests here, and it is our duty to honour the land we have come to, especially when we are allies. You have disrespected our hosts by disregarding the food they served us and only showing your face at your own convenience. You have disappointed me, son.’

‘Théodred is innocent, Lord Théoden, and he has not disrespected our land one bit,’ Boromir defended his old friend, though not without fear coiling in his guts. ‘I was the one distracted and looking forward to showing him my favourite places in the city. If anybody is to blame, it is I. Théodred showed kindness by indulging me.’

Théoden sighed and considered the two young men. He had been sixteen one day, too, and the thought of ever ruling Rohan had never crossed his mind. His military duties already occupied most of his time then, but he remembered having disobeyed a few occasions to taste freedom for himself before being dragged back to reality. Perhaps he could forgive Théodred. If he was not the instigator and Boromir spoke true, then he did nothing but honour his host’s wishes.

The King of Rohan waved a dismissive hand and turned away to sip on a rich burgundy wine. Denethor continued to scowl at the two boys, but his anger faded fast.

‘Well. If King Théoden can forgive you, I see no reason I should not, but I beg that you be more careful next time, Boromir. Since you have missed the banquet, I do not want to hear you complain about being hungry, is that understood?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Good. Now go and enjoy the festivities. Do not embarrass me.’

Boromir nodded and slipped his hand around Théodred’s arm, pointing his chin towards a large ale barrel from which a Rohir was filling his tankard. There, they grabbed clean pints and happily poured the foamy beverage into them. Once the young marshal felt it drip on his fingers, he closed the tap and leaned against one of the columns.

‘With all due respect, Boromir, your father terrifies me.’

‘Ah, nevermind him,’ the Captain of Gondor snorted, his mouth salivating at the thought of indulging in simple pleasures for the rest of the night. ‘The worst he could have done was to send me back to my quarters. He would not dare scold you, unless you slaughtered his household.’

‘I would never!’ Théodred retorts, stiffening up with eyes widening.

‘I know. So he will never scold you. Calm down.’

Boromir approached him to clink their tankards and chug a first few gulps, trying their best to ignore the overwhelming bitterness coating their tongues at first. The Gondorian coughs a few times, concealing an amused smirk from his comrade behind his wrist.

The two stayed beside each other, nursing their half-drunk pints and observed their peers as they danced and cultures met. Among the diverse Gondorians, mostly clad in various shades of blue, the Rohirrim stood out with their golden manes and beards, and garments in earth tones. In spite of the mingling, the conversations they share were much too often shared among fellow countrypeople; some willingly approached others, curious about their ways of life or customs, but most preferred the company of those they knew well. Denethor’s banquet, supposed to bring the people of Rohan and Gondor together despite past strained relations, did not have its anticipated effect. The steward had dared to hope that his son’s decade-old friendship with Théodred would set an example to his guests, but the boys’ absence during the meal ruined his plan. But the two teenage boys were blissfully unaware of it.

Théodred cast a brief glance in Boromir’s direction as they remained silent, observing and taking in the scene unfolding before them.

‘You know,’ the Second Marshal spoke, leaning towards his friend as the musicians began a new song, ‘I still cannot believe that we have known each other nearly all our lives and I am only now visiting Minas Tirith.’

‘Forgive me,’ Boromir let out a laugh, ‘I meant to invite you over much earlier, but either my father disagreed or your father wrote to me to decline because of your duties.’

‘Our roles are not ideal for enjoyment, are they?’

‘They are not. But how do you like the White City, then? I have shown you around, but you still have not said a word about your impression.’

Théodred gulped and drank some more, which baffled Boromir. The young captain’s jaw slacked at once and he stood upright, clutching his sticky tankard.

‘I cannot believe you! You do not like it one bit!’

The Rohir shrugged apologetically and offered him a timid smile. Even in the orange glow from the crackling fire above their heads, Boromir could perceive the deep blush tinting his friend’s cheeks and nose. His faint freckles, obtained from the long days spent riding in the scorching sun, now shone like beacons on his traits. With the tip of his short thumbnail, Théodred scratched the engraved decorations on his mug.

‘It is… different. Busy, cramped.’

‘Not enough horses?’

Théodred snorted.

‘Not enough horses,’ he confirmed. ‘But our presence makes up for that. We brought ours for all to enjoy, I suppose.’

Boromir leaned against the smooth and cool column again, his shoulder grazing against his friend’s.

‘I am sorry that I did not manage to show you how beautiful Minas Tirith can be. It is not its usual self, what with all of Edoras suddenly showing up. But I swear that it can shine as bright as your city can. And it would be much more dazzling if the tree…’

‘I know, Boromir. I have heard tales of the White Tree, and songs complimenting its majesty. The Rohirrim might not always bear Gondor in their hearts, but we can admit that your realm has its treasures.’

‘Our honour is safe, then,’ Boromir teased.

‘Shut up.’

The two friends laughed and finished their ales. They stepped forward to help themselves to more, and while Boromir held the tap open so Théodred could have his fill, he caught glimpse of Faramir in the distance, sitting alone in the shadows with a book balanced on his knees. The Rohir followed his gaze and beheld the younger child.

‘Should we go talk to him?’ he suggested, his heart aching at the sight of the lonely boy, whom he knew was so dear to Boromir.

‘No need,’ the Gondorian responded, taking his place and bringing his attention to the tilt of his pint so he could control the amount of foam falling inside. ‘He may not show it, but I can assure you he is content sitting over there and reading. He does not want to read at the library or in his room because he is much too interested in lending an ear to some of the Rohirric songs that might be played during the night.’

‘If you say so. Besides, he might be quite tired of having company. Éomer ran after him all day to make him carry him on his back like a horse. That child can be relentless.’

‘I find him hilarious.’

‘He can be.’

They toasted again and chugged their ales. Just as he was about to empty his tankard, Boromir felt an arm hooking around his and a melodious voice caressing his ear.

‘When will you finally ask me to dance?’

He took the time to swallow the golden brew, trying not to choke from the surprise, and turned to the young lady who had invited herself beside him. Íriel laced her arms around his and rested her chin on his shoulders, batting her long lashes at him.

She was beautiful in every way and many young nobles in Denethor’s court coveted her. Many longed for a chance to brush the silk or linen of her long and flowy dresses, to remove a fallen petal from her tresses, and to be the ones she addresses. She hailed from Dol Amroth, but her family had moved to the White City after her father entered the steward’s service under the counsel of Prince Imrahil. Her skin had paled away from the sea, but her eyes still bore its colours, with the light cast in them resembling the foam on its waves. Her long brown hair reached the back of her legs and covered her lean but strong body like a shawl whenever she cast her gaze down.

During Denethor’s birthday celebration a few months back, Boromir had been assigned a seat beside her. Since they were the same age, their fathers thought it best to introduce them, though they ensured that her maid followed them wherever they set foot to keep them chaste. Boromir had greatly enjoyed their conversations, and she had listened to his travel tales with much interest. She had seen many places across Gondor, but not nearly as many as he had. According to her, she would never find much happiness in a life where she would be secluded into a household, tucked away from the open road and wilderness.

But neither of them was daft. Their fathers’ idea to place them together had a hidden agenda of which they did not yet speak, but they inevitably shared their conception of a perfect marriage, should they enter one.

Íriel seemed to have taken a liking to him. He did not yet know how he felt about her, but her sudden presence did bring a sincere smile to his face. From where he stood and despite the noise, Boromir could hear the sighs of the young nobles of the court as they beheld the lady at his arm.

‘My apologies, my lady,’ he cooed, ‘I did not see you. My attention has been fully dedicated to Lord Théodred the past few days.’

The Rohir briefly bowed at her before her, kissing her knuckles, and she curtseyed in return. But her attention fleeted back to Boromir within a heartbeat.

‘I will forgive you for it if you allow me one dance.’

The Captain tenderly took her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, then onto the ring on her finger.

‘Your wish is my command, my lady.’

Content with his display, Íriel wove their fingers together and pulled him towards the dancing area. Boromir followed her gladly, but still looked over his shoulder at Théodred, flashing him an apologetic smile and mouthing a ‘sorry.’ Théodred watched him leave, taking his tankard so it would not bother him while dancing.

Amid the other pairs, Boromir and Íriel gave each other’s hand an affectionate squeeze before they parted. One row of men and another of women formed on either sides, and the young souls only had eyes for each other. On one end, a man stood forth and sings a verse, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. Afterwards, each row, with its dancers clapping their hands to the rhythm, sang back; women first, then men. When the first stanza was sung, the pairs trotted towards one another—two steps to the right, two to the left—and once their shoulders grazed, their hands met halfway. They spun in a circle, still in a trot, then changed direction. Íriel ensured that her hand lingered on Boromir’s longer than necessary. They separated again and joined the opposite sides, twirling to face one another again. The leader sung the new stanza and the dance carried on.

In the middle of a twirl, Boromir let out a chuckle as Íriel snuck a caress on his cheek while nobody was watching. When they were side by side, they turned holding each other by the waist instead of the hand. Both of their faces were red, from the dancing and from the rapid beating of their hearts. At once, the music ceased and Íriel ended her course in Boromir’s arms. Everybody applauded the musicians, except the pair, whose eyes were lost into each other. Íriel batted her eyelashes again, her lips parted and her breath heavier. She smiled at first, but it faded away as the tension grew thicker. Guessing her intention, Boromir glanced around them and encircled her waist with one arm to whisk her away from the crowd and under the arches. His back to the wall, he gazed into her eyes again, brushing his fingertips against the smooth skin of her face, tucking flyaway hairs behind her ear. With glistening eyes, he lowered his hand to cup her chin and leaned in, his head slightly tilted.

Just as their lips were about to touch, his eyes met Théodred’s as the Rohir stood by the barrel still. Both tankards in his grasp, the Second Marshal was staring at his old friend, caught in romance.

Boromir pulled away without breaking eye contact. He did not hear Íriel’s protests, nor did he feel her tugging at his shirt to catch his attention again. Nothing worked.

For a few feet away, Théodred’s eyes shed tears.

Dividers by @pixopix

Boromir had survived, but he wished he had not.

He had taken an orc arrow to the shoulder, and had collapsed, watching the hobbits get taken away. But Aragorn appeared just in time, taking down the Uruk-Hai leader, and plucking the arrow from Boromir’s flesh. He then stemmed the blood with pressure, and would not hear of his friend dying, no matter how Boromir protested.

Then Legolas and Gimli arrived, and after a scramble for herbs and a clever surgery with a knife doused in liquor, Boromir was no longer at death’s door. Some hours later, he was well enough to stand, though he suspected the liquor had much to do with it.

And now, it was several weeks later, and he was back. Back in his beloved White City, and the war was won.

Except, he had fallen out of the frying pan into the fire.

Her reputation preceded her, this fire.

She had disobeyed her uncle’s orders, riding in disguise with the Rohirrim. Then, she slew the Witch King at the Battle of Pelennor with Merry’s aid. And then, convalescing in the Houses of Healing, she caused a ruckus trying to get out with a still-bandaged hand. Though unsteady on her feet, it took several healers to subdue her.

Boromir was at the Black Gate at the time, and did not meet her until all was said and done.

But when he did, it was like another arrow to the chest.

He met her at a feast, and for some time, he could neither speak nor move, and the wine dribbled down his beard.

He had heard of such love, that came like a bolt from the heavens. But having lived four decades on this earth, he had never known it – nor any other kind of love. His affection was for his family and friends, and for feats of arms, and he never had eyes for any woman.

He bowed stiffly, introducing himself. But he did not lower his head, for it meant he would not see her.

She was incomparable.

Tall and fair she was, and, yes, there was something wild about her. She moved smooth and free as wind across the plains, her limbs long and unencumbered. She had the walk and bearing of someone who knew how to handle a sword. And her face! One expression chased another, like the sun chasing the moon.

He might have taken on armies for her sake, but her heart belonged to another.

Nobody said as much, but it was plain. She was on the arm of his brother Faramir, and he looked at her like she was the sun, and the rest of the world lay in shadow.

His little brother, who scarcely smiled toward the end of their father’s life. Whose shoulders grew heavier by the day, their father piling on trial after trial.

She lowered her eyes when Faramir looked at her like that. But when he touched her, she did not recoil.

A woman like that would not let anyone touch her against her will.

She stayed beside Faramir through the evening, and when she looked at him, her lips formed a tender smile.

And so Boromir did the only thing he could do.

He bowed, and said all the right things. Etiquette, the strange hieroglyphic nature of it, was a comfort and a lifeline.

When the banquet was over, he excused himself and went to the training grounds. Once there, he practiced sinking his spear into a sand-filled foe.

He would let his brother have this. He would.

His beloved little brother. He had seen too much suffering, well beyond his years. He deserved this.

And himself? He would carry on, though he dearly wished that arrow had been the end of him.

‘One does not simply come out dressed like that.’

Merry sighs and twists the doorknob, but Boromir slams his body weight against it as soon as he hears the click.

‘NO!’ his voice screeches as the hobbit still attempts to shove the door open. ‘Absolutely nobody is allowed to see me like this. Not even Faramir.’

‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Boromir,’ the hobbit says, his cold pipe hanging from his lip. ‘Rosie’s been working on your clothes for weeks, the least you could do is to flaunt them.’

‘You do not understand.’

‘Make me understand, then!’

With a grunt, Boromir wrenches the door open, staring down at Merry, who cannot help but burst out laughing at the sight. Upon receiving an invitation to Pippin’s wedding in the Shire, Boromir wrote back to confirm his presence. At the bottom of the letter, knowing that the bridegroom would not be the one to receive his response but Sam would, he added a line, offering to surprise Pippin by wearing the clothes of his people. Elated at the prospect, the gardener and his wife composed another letter, and Rosie asked for his measurements and favourite colour among a short list, so she could sew him suitable garments by the time Pippin would tie the knot.

As soon as he arrived in the Shire on horseback, accompanied by his brother, his sister-in-law and Éomer King, Lily Brown welcomed them in Bywater. Eager to provide the clothing, she asked who the ‘giant hobbit’ was, and Boromir dismounted. He was pushed by the elderly lady behind the knees towards the Cottons’ farm. There, she insisted that he try the clothes, but he politely declined, assuring her that he trusted Rosie’s talents.

Oh, how he regrets it.

After spending a less than comfortable night in a bed far too tiny for him and with rags tightly wrapped against his scalp—courtesy of Éowyn—he is now facing quite a ridiculous situation.

His hair, usually so pin-straight, is curled like a poodle’s fur around his scalp. The white shirt with its long and sharp lapel is much too loose, and the sleeves hang too low and far from his arms. On the opposite, the sage green corduroy vest fits his torso much too tightly. The buttons are threatening to rupture and blind someone, and the slightest movement would certainly rip the side seams. The fabric itself looks like it is screaming for help. As for the trousers… Boromir is no longer sure that he will be able to offer his line a descendance.

Merry wriggles on the rug, out of breath from the laughter that seizes him.

‘You look like a caricature of a hobbit,’ he cries, burying his face in his hands to muffle the howling laughs. ‘Pip’s going to love it!’

Boromir screeches involuntarily.

‘What?! No. No, no, no, no. No. Nobody is going to see me like that. Surely there is something we can do! I cannot even move in these things!’

The front door suddenly opens and Boromir blanches. He frantically reaches for the knob, but it is too late. Smelling of lavender and vanilla, Éowyn enters, her long golden hair framing her perfectly.

‘Boromir? Are you—‘

Her eyes widen and she slaps a hand over her mouth.

‘What on Arda have you done?’ she says, forcing the trembling words out as she refrains from losing her composure.

‘I know it is bad, Wyn, thank you very much,’ the Gondorian retorts. ‘What do I do?’

‘Do you not have your own clothes?’

‘I do, but they are not fitting for a wedding.’

‘So, your whole plan was to rely on the promise of hobbit garments made for giants?’

Boromir paws at his face. He hates it when she is right.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Before you do anything, I need to fetch Fari and Mer.’

‘What!?’

But she is already gone. Merry sits up, wiping away his tears, but his face still a bright red.

‘Oh, that is too good.’

‘I cannot believe this. I wanted to surprise a friend, and this is how it turns out. On the most important day of his life.’

‘Trust me, that’ll make it a hundred times better.’

‘Shush, you.’

Three heads poke in at once from the round doorframe and gasps resonate throughout the house. Éomer does not waste time mocking his appearance. Faramir winces and steps inside.

‘Oh that is not…’

‘Tell me something I do not know, Fari,’ his brother grumbles, ‘you are usually so good at that.’

‘And your other clothes?’

‘Red and gold.’

‘Ouch.’

Faramir shakes his head and turns to Merry as he hoists himself back up on his hairy feet.

‘I believe the superstition of wearing red with gold embroideries only applies to the ceremony itself, does it not?’ he asks the hobbit. ‘For the celebration and the banquet, there are no “forbidden” colours?’

Merry cracks a match and lights up the weed in his pipe as he ponders Faramir’s question. Hobbit customs and traditions are his everyday life; sometimes, the codes and instructions do not come easy to him without taking a step back and properly thinking about them. What is unspoken must become apparent.

‘I believe you are right,’ he answers, still unable to restrict his smile when his gaze fleets towards Boromir.

‘I am afraid that it will have to do for the ceremony,’ Faramir sighs. ‘Make sure not to make abrupt movements.’

‘Abrupt movements?! Fari, I am not particularly fond of jewels, but I am quite certain that the two I own will shatter the moment I take a step!’

His comment does not appease Merry’s and Éomer’s hilarity.

‘What other choice do you have, brother?’ the Prince of Ithilien says. ‘There is little you can do. Come to the ceremony in these clothes, and I will arrange a horse for you to return and change. Besides, Rosie will be happy to see that you still made the effort.’

‘I hate you.’

 ~*~

In Bywater, the small field tucked between the Green Dragon and the brook is adorned with white flower arrangements. A wooden platform was built at its centre, intended for the newlyweds to stand on so everybody can see, and a banner hangs above it between two poles, bearing Pippin and Diamond’s names. Many hobbits have already reached the ceremony grounds and gaily smoke and chatter, eager to raise their brews to the couple’s health, dance, and fill their bellies with pies and cakes. They know that the Green Dragon has been privatised for the celebration, and the prospect is rejoicing.

Éowyn, Faramir and Éomer walk at the front of the group, still in awe of the natural beauty of the Shire even after two days here. They have not shied away from their normal-sized garments, but they wore ribbons of the same cloth the pair’s wedding apparels were cut from in their hair. Behind them, Boromir hops on the cobbled path, wincing every time his bare feet brush against a sharp rock. Since he eventually consented to keeping Rosie’s creation on for the ceremony, he decided to embrace the hobbit way of life fully, and that included walking around barefoot. But that is torture as well. He misses his boots. Dearly.

‘Faramir, over here!’ they hear Sam’s jolly voice calling from the bridge. Beside him, Rosie and Frodo hold the Gamgees’ children by the hand to keep them from diving into the running water beneath them.

The group joins them and share warm greetings. Rosie makes her way through them to behold her creation on Boromir, but her jaw drops wide open and she looks mortified.

‘Oh, Boromir, I am so terribly sorry! They do not fit at all!’

‘No harm done, Rosie,’ he tries to reassure her. ‘Since my other clothes are not suitable for a hobbit wedding, I will still wear these for the ceremony.’

‘You do not have to wear them all day out of guilt,’ she says, reaching up to pat his arm. ‘I appreciate your effort to wear them already. But they do not look comfortable.’

‘My clothes are red and embroidered with gold otherwise, which I hear is a bad omen for a wedding.’

‘That is very much true. But that should not cause any problem later on. Oh, still, I am so sorry…’

Boromir squeezes her shoulder with a smile and they walk towards the wedding ‘venue.’ Frodo greets him on the way and they exchange some pleasantries, but the Gondorian can sense the hobbit’s unease in his presence. After all, they did not start on the best of terms.

The group gathers by the wooden platform, ensuring that a pathway remains clear for the newlyweds to walk down the makeshift aisle when the time comes. A few minutes later, a cart pulls up at the bridge and an old hobbit stands apart from the crowd with a flute to play a merry tune. As their customs dictate, Pippin descends from the cart and holds out his hand for his bride to take. Together, they pace towards the field to the tune played.

Standing closest to the brook, the humans turn around and smile at the happy pair. Faramir is already dabbing the hem of his sleeve against his eyes as tears of joy invade them. Boromir, like a proud older brother of an extended bunch, feels the prickling as well. As he reaches blindly for his embroidered handkerchief, the piece of cloth falls on the grass. He attempts to bend over, but the seams give way and rip loudly. Three buttons on his chest pop, one of which bounces on the ground and hits the flute player right in the forehead, making him tumble back and fall onto his buttocks. Right as Pippin and Diamond are approaching, the corduroy tears between his legs and up a certain crevice.

Pippin gasps excitedly, recognising Boromir as the giant hobbit with a wardrobe malfunction and ridiculously curled hair.

‘This is the best day of my life!’ he says.

Diamond glares at him and clears her throat loudly.

‘B-But our wedding is the best event of all, my love,’ he responds as fast as he can so she will not run away.

‘I prefer that.’

As they pass the humans by, Pippin glances over his shoulder at Boromir and grimaces approvingly, pumping up a hand conveying his delight.

Dividers by @pixopix

Boromir hoists himself upright on the bed and Faramir rushes to his side to tuck pillows behind his back and plump them up. The older brother thanks him with a sigh, patting his wrist. The younger brings an additional stool to the bedside, earning approval from one of the healers before he does. He sits yet fidgets with the button at his cuff, tapping his foot nervously on the stone floor.

‘Alright, alright, enough already with the ruckus,’ Boromir hisses, already dizzy from sitting up. ‘You said you wanted to tell me something. What is it?’

‘Maybe we should wait a moment.’

‘Wh—’

At the same second, a figure appeared at the doorframe. A lean woman with blond hair reaching her waist, rustling against the white silk of her belted dress with wide angel sleeves. On her shoulders rests a cloak as blue as the night with stars embroidered with gold thread. She curtseys yet does not utter a word. Faramir reaches a hand towards her but she does not take it. Instead, she advances into the room and occupies the open stool.

Boromir’s eyes widen.

‘That is Mother’s cloak. I recognise it.’

‘Yes, well… That is an important detail of what I mean to tell you,’ Faramir steers the conversation again. He eyes the woman for a split second, taking in a deep breath. ‘Boromir, this is Éowyn.’

‘The White Lady of Rohan,’ the wounded reflects pensively. ‘I thought I recognised your face. Anyway, what about it?’

Éowyn laces her fingers with Faramir’s as a silent encouragement. They do not need to speak for Boromir to understand the nature of their announcement. It is already clear as day. His mouth opens and closes, and he stares wide-eyed at his younger brother.

‘Éowyn and I are getting married,’ Faramir says at last, tears of joy glistening in his eyes as he beholds his beloved.

‘Absolutely not!’

The pair snaps their heads towards him, incredulous.

‘Care to explain?’ Éowyn grunts.

‘Faramir,’ Boromir starts, still puzzling his thoughts into order as they collide and slip out of his grasp, ‘do you not remember her from the few times we visited Edoras? She was insufferable, dreaming of becoming a shieldmaiden and hitting everything that moved with her toy sword. Including myself. Including you.’

His younger brother scoffs.

‘She was a child. She has grown out of it.’

‘Oh, has she now?’ Boromir continues, readjusting his position against the pillows behind him with a grimace. ‘Do you think I am daft and that I think that her presence here is natural? I have heard of a Rohirric woman who disguised herself as a man to fight our battle. She is disobedient, ungrateful, and she put many in danger by doing so!’

‘Do not speak to me as if I were not here,’ the Rohir protests, glaring at the man Faramir has told her so much about in the most positive manner. Right now, she does not see the same qualities in him as Faramir does.

‘My apologies, princess,’ Boromir forces a snarky smile. ‘But I stand by what I said; you put all your men and our own in danger by your being here.’

Faramir bites back the tears and uses all his strength to refrain from lashing out at his brother out of indignation. Of all people in the realm, he expected Boromir to understand and support his choice. If he is happy, why should he oppose it?

Éowyn, on the other hand, does not hesitate to defend herself.

‘I took care of Merry throughout our journey to Minas Tirith and prepared him for the battle,’ she states matter-of-factly.

‘Oh. B-But that does not mean tha—’

‘He and I took down the Witch King of Angmar by ourselves.’

‘You wh…?’

‘And I love Faramir.’

Upon seeing the conflict in his otherwise hostile eyes, Éowyn smirks.

‘And do not think that I have forgotten your diplomatic visits to my city, Captain. I still remember where your eyes went most of the time. If you give us your blessing, I could pay my cousin, Théodred, a visit and put in a good word for you.’

Boromir remains silent for a long moment. Faramir furrows his brow and glances towards his fiancée, wondering what on Arda her words could mean. His older brother inspects the young lady from head to toe multiple times, deciding whether he can trust her. Instead, he turns abruptly to Faramir.

‘I like her. Marry her.’

Dividers by @pixopix

Boromir darted into a parking spot, although it was debatable if it was an actual parking spot. It didn’t matter, since he didn’t plan to be there long.

He sprinted across the parking lot, smoothing back his hair with his palm before opening the door… and holding it open for several families who were leaving. He saw his daughter waiting at the front desk as soon as he went inside, standing next to her backpack and glaring at the floor as though it had betrayed her somehow. Just over her shoulder was a tall blonde woman with her hand planted firmly on a blond boy’s shoulder like a hawk’s talons. Boromir knew this mother quite well… better than he would like, if he was being honest.

“Sorry, sweetie. Practice ran a bit over,” he said as he cupped the back of his daughter’s head and drew her against his side.

“Couldn’t Mom pick me up?” Finduilas said with a pout.

“No, she’s with your sister at her piano lesson.”

“I don’t want to miss the dance!”

“I know, and I don’t either. Let’s get you home and—” Boromir fell silent when the woman cleared her throat, and he swallowed when he noticed how she was smirking at him like she smelled blood in the water.

“I couldn’t help but overhear…” she said and flicked some of her hair over her shoulder. “Will you be coming to the father-daughter dance tonight?”

“Yes, I will. It’s Finduilas’ last dance and my youngest, Aerdis’ first.”

She knew what dance he was talking about, just as he knew why she was talking to him. She wasn’t the first mom to try to get his attention—regardless of marital status. In addition to her son being in the same soccer club as Finduilas, this particular mom was the PTA president at their kids’ school, and he’d lost count of how many times she’d invited him to join the PTA. Fortunately, his coaching job occupied most of his evenings, especially because his team was about to play their first playoff game, so he had an excuse to turn her down.

“Wonderful! I will see you there, then,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

“I guess I will,” he said with forced politeness, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her comment about being at the dance. Despite it being a father-daughter dance, some of the PTA moms "volunteered" to be chaperones—not that chaperones were necessary. Really, they just used it as an excuse to be around all of the dads. Boromir leaned down to pick up his daughter’s backpack, effectively extricating himself from the woman’s claws. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Boromir started walking, but after a few steps he stopped when he realized Finduilas hadn’t moved. He turned around and saw her looking up at the mom with her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“I have a mom, you know,” she said, making the woman blanch. Finduilas’ eyes narrowed and then she turned on her heel.

“Bye, Fin,” the boy said shyly with a small wave.

“Hmph!”

Finduilas grabbed Boromir’s hand and tugged him towards the doors, her nose high in the air. Boromir smiled down at his daughter and they swung their arms back and forth as they headed to the car.

After a bath and some dinner, Anael helped Finduilas put on her dress and then styled her hair by braiding her bangs and tying them back, topping it off with a pale pink bow that matched her dress. Her younger sister Aerdis was wearing a blue dress and her hair had been curled to give it waves. Boromir wore all black—both during his days as a player and now as the coach of a hockey team, he had accumulated a lot of black suit jackets over the years, though he forewent a tie this time.

“You both look beautiful!” Anael said as she bent down to kiss her daughters’ heads. She then stood up and kissed Boromir’s cheek. “And you look very handsome.”

“Thank you,” Boromir said with a crooked grin.

“I want to get a picture.” While she went to grab her phone, Boromir picked up Aerdis and stood just behind Finduilas. Anael turned the phone sideways and held her finger above the button. “On three say—”

The doorbell rang. Anael held up a finger as she went to answer the door, reappearing a few seconds later with Faramir, Éowyn, and their twins, who were in the same grade as Aerdis. Faramir was sporting a dark brown herringbone suit while Galuwen wore a forest green dress with a sparkly matching headband.

“You two look adorable!” Éowyn gushed.

“Thanks, Aunt Éowyn.”

“I was just about to get a picture. Get in there, too, Faramir,” Anael said. Faramir picked up Galuwen and moved to stand next to Boromir. “On three say ‘dancing!’”

“Dancing!”

“How come I don’t get to go?” Elboron grumbled.

“I told you earlier that it is a dance for dads and daughters,” Éowyn said, gently running her fingers through her son’s curls. “We’re going to have fun, too. We can watch a movie, okay?”

“I want to watch Sonic the Hedgehog!” Anael kissed her husband and daughters once more before she reached out a hand for Elboron to take.

“Come, you can help me find the movie, alright?” Éowyn kissed Faramir and Galuwen goodbye then went to the living room.

“We’ll take my car since it already has two booster seats in it,” Faramir said. Boromir hummed in acknowledgment. Faramir then turned to his daughter and crossed his two fingers then shook them side-to-side, raising his eyebrows.

“Are you ready?”

Galuwen made a fist and bent her wrist back and forth while nodding her head.

“Yes.”

After everyone was strapped in—with Finduilas insisting that she could put on her own seatbelt—Faramir backed out of the driveway and headed towards the school. Boromir rested his chin on his hand and sighed.

“Something wrong?”

“Just a long day.”

“How’s the team looking?”

“Good. They play the Pelargir Pirates in the first round, so I’m not too worried.” He then chuckled to himself. “I’m actually more worried about the PTA moms who will be playing chaperone tonight.”

“Are they that terrifying?”

“Oh, my dear brother, you have much to learn. At least you’re here. Strength in numbers, and all that.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow but didn’t press for details. He supposed he was about to find out for himself just how formidable PTA moms could be.

They went to the gym where a table had been set up so they could check in and were given corsages (for the dads) and flower bracelets (for the daughters) made of fake flowers. Finduilas and Aerdis picked pink and blue ones to match their dresses, while Galuwen picked a purple one. Lollipop by The Chordettes was playing from the speakers.

“I think I see what you mean,” Faramir murmured when he noticed a group of women standing off to one side and ogling at the dads while whispering to each other and occasionally pointing.

“Ah yes, and this is their first time seeing you. Careful, brother, because they can sniff out fresh meat.”

“Must you really say it that way?”

“Just trying to look out for you.” They found a less-crowded spot and the song changed to Macarena.

“I love this song!” Finduilas squeeled. “I know all the moves!”

“I don’t,” Aerdis said with a frown.

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you Aedi. And you, too, Lu. It’s easy!” Finduilas moved the two girls so they were standing opposite her. She then turned her head. “You have to do it too, Dad, Uncle Faramir!”

“I have a feeling that this song was added to the playlist intentionally,” Boromir said to Faramir under his breath, gesturing to the PTA moms who looked mighty pleased with themselves.

“Oh my Eru… this is embarrassing. Hopefully nobody records this on their phone.”

“Just think about having fun and nothing else,” Boromir said, giving him a nudge with his elbow before shaking his hips and jumping. He couldn’t see his brother, but even without looking, he knew that the tips of Faramir’s ears were pink. The next time he turned, he spotted a familiar face across the room, badly dancing and probably doing the moves incorrectly on purpose. With him were two girls around Aerdis and Galuwen’s age. “Is that…? It is.”

“What?” Faramir asked. Boromir pointed and Faramir’s gaze followed the path of his finger. “Oh…”

Sure enough, it was Aragorn Telcontar, who Boromir knew from when he was still the captain of the Minas Tirith Capitals. Aragorn’s contract with the Annúminas Kings ended after the team won the Arda Cup, and the Capitals signed the free agent to a one-year contract. Rumors quickly spread that he would replace Boromir as the captain, as it had been many years since the Capitals had won a cup, and that caused a bit of friction between them. However, Aragorn was upfront with him, stating that he would play out this last season and then retire. Now that he had a championship ring, he wanted to spend more time with his family. They had kept some contact and saw each other when Boromir went to the All-Star Game that was hosted by the Kings, but he hadn’t realized Aragorn was living in Minas Tirith or that his children went to the same school as Boromir’s.

“Nimmy, Lothy!” Aerdis called and waved when she saw the two girls. “Dad, can I go say hi to my friends?”

“Are they in your class?” he asked.

“Nimriel is in mine and Galuwen’s class. Lothraen is in Elboron’s class.”

“I see. How about we all go over?” Aerdis and Finduilas ran across the floor, holding each other’s hands, while Boromir followed close on their heels, ensuring they didn’t get stepped on or bump into anyone. Faramir picked up Galuwen and walked at a leisurely pace. “Well, I didn’t expect to see you here, Telcontar.”

Aragorn turned at the greeting and looked a bit surprised. His mouth curved into a half-smile.

“Why, because you think I can’t dance?”

“Well, since you haven’t seemed to master the Macarena, I’d say yes. But I actually was surprised because I didn’t know your daughters went here.”

“Didn’t Anael tell you? She saw me at Back-to-School Night, though I was there with my son while Arwen brought our daughters.”

“She didn’t mention it.”

“Also, I do know the Macarena.”

“Dad just likes to be weird,” said one of the little dark-haired girls; the more serious one.

“Well, that’s just a normal dad thing,” Boromir said with a wink. While they were talking, the song ended and the next one began. It was At the Hop by Danny & the Juniors.

“I love this song!” Finduilas shouted before twirling.

“I’m a little surprised they’re playing songs that were popular when we were their age,” Faramir commented.

“Music has no expiration date,” Boromir said. He then noticed how Galuwen had her head on Faramir’s shoulder and raised a brow in question.

“She just gets a little overwhelmed in crowds,” Faramir whispered. “She’ll be alright.”

“Well, let me know if you want to leave early.” Faramir shook his head.

“You have fun. We’ll just take a walk outside if she needs to get away from the noise.”

Boromir nodded curtly and then turned back to watch his girls. Finduilas had Aerdis and one of Aragorn’s daughter’s hands and was twirling them around. The other twin, the less-serious one, was hanging off Aragorn’s arm. He was worried about his niece, but at the same time he didn’t want to deprive the others of their fun. Faramir said she would be okay, and he knew his daughter more than Boromir did. He’d just have to take him at his word.

The evening went on, with Aragorn and Boromir trading daughters every other song. Tunes like Funky Town, Dancing Queen, and Stayin’ Alive made Boromir think that he was back in high school and not a forty-year-old man, and as one song ended and flowed into the next, the more he was starting to feel his age.

At one point, Aragorn bid them goodnight, holding Nimriel in one arm and taking Lothraen’s hand with the other, both girls looking like they were ready for bed. Galuwen was asleep on Faramir’s shoulder, and Aerdis was yawning and rubbing at her eyes. Finduilas was still going strong, but she was usually an endless ball of energy; she was not so different from Boromir when he was her age.

“Alright, I think it’s time to head home,” he said.

“Noooooo! Five more minutes!” Finduilas whined. Boromir sighed.

“One more song. Alright?”

“Okay!”

Of course it had to be You’re the One That I Want.

I'm a 90s kid, and the songs I included in this fic were popular at summer camp, birthday parties, school dances, and jump rope/hula hoop day in gym class. Macarena was the staple in the 90s and then when I started middle school it changed to Cha-Cha Slide. Yes, I am aware of what Macarena is about, but it's a classic. Also, I had to put the image of Boromir, Faramir, and Aragorn dancing to it in your minds (you're welcome).

Thank you for reading!

P.S. Ayyyyy Macarena!

Finduilas sits by the embers of the fireplace as she holds a sleeping Boromir in her arms, stroking his fair hair. It shines under the moonlight, much like the ocean waves of Dol Amroth she loves so much.

She wonders if Boromir would be safe in the Fae realm, or if her mannerisms have rubbed off on him too much. Would he be rejected? Cast out? Killed? And for that matter, will they be able to retrieve her other child, or will she lose both? Her first and only pregnancy was dangerous, another one would most certainly weaken her forever.

A log snaps, pulling her out of her thoughts. Reminding herself of the late hour, she rises from the chair and lays Boromir down in the crib. She needs her rest if she is to succeed.

“I want my Ada,” Boromir declared after a few hicupp-filled-false-starts. 

The strange man looked nonplussed. “Who is your Ada?” he said stupidly. 

Boromir did try to be brave. He always tried, as well as he could manage it, but that was too much, and he began to sob again. 

The man’s eyes widened in horror. Quickly, he said, “Is he one of the Citadel guards? The ones in the black and silver?”

Boromir thought for a bit. His father always dressed in black and silver, but he was sure that Ada wasn’t a guard. What was it that Ada’s Ada had called what he did in the big tower? It was a big word, and it had something to do with soup. Nana had said so. 

“Soup?” He tried experimentally.

“He’s a cook then, in the kitchens?”

“No.” Boromir knew that, he wasn’t one year old!

“Other kind of soup?” He tried again. 

The dark-haired man sat back on his haunches and thought. “Stew?”

Boromir nodded fast. “Nana said what Ada’s going to do one day had something to do with stew.”

“What’s his name?” The man asked.

“Dunno,” Boromir said stoutly, after all, what kind of two year old knew that about his Ada?

“What’s your name?” The man said next. 

“Boromir!” Boromir shouted, excited to know an answer at last. 

“Ohhhhh,” said the man. “You mean Steward, little lordling, not stew. I will take you to your Ada. May I pick you up?”

Boromir considered all this new information. “Are you sure it’s steward?”

“Pretty sure,” the man said. “Does your Ada’s Ada sit in a big room on some steps?”

Boromir nodded. 

“Excellent,” the man said. “May I pick you up and take you to your Ada?”

This time, Boromir reached up his hands to be picked up. Then it seemed they went all sorts of places and talked to all sorts of people, and then the man asked whether he’d like to go to his Naneth instead. This he resisted strongly. He had come to see his Ada, and his Ada he would see. 

“Very well,” the man said with a sigh. 

Then they went on walking for another very long time and then the man talked to another man for a while in whispers, and then two doors were thrown open and somebody shouted much too loudly, “The Lord Boromir to see the Lord Denethor!”

The man who was carrying him bowed a little over Boromir and said, “Forgive me, my Lord Ecthelion, I found the Lord Boromir in one of the armory corridors and he insisted on seeing his Adar.”

“IT’S ADA!” screamed Boromir at the top of his lungs. 

Quickly, someone stood up from the group of the men around the table and hurried over. It was his Ada!

“Down, please,” he said to the man and he was promptly set on his feet. He did not notice his Ada’s Ada saying to the man who had rescued him, “Never mind, Captain Thorongil, we must make excuses for the needs of our little Boromir. Join us. My son, do you return Boromir—”

“Can I stay, please?” Boromir rushed in as his father picked him up.

“You are over-young, beloved one,” said his Ada’s Ada.

“And you are in need of a nap,” his Ada said. 

“I’m alright,” Boromir insisted. 

His Ada’s Ada sighed and waved his hand in assent, and his Ada squeezed him tight and murmured, “Be good, my little jewel,” in his ear. 

He didn’t make it through the whole council, though, because he fell asleep, but he surfaced for the end of the meeting. All the men talked at each other, back and forth and back and forth. His Ada and his friend that rescued him seemed to talk most though, and afterwards others stopped talking. Then everyone got up and started towards the door. He pulled his Ada’s sleeve and whispered loudly, “Who’s the man I came in with?”

“That would be Captain Thorongil,” his Ada said.

“Can I thank him?”

He felt his Ada sigh, but he called Captain Thorongil over to him and then nudged Boromir. 

Boromir, sitting in his Ada’s lap, said seriously to the Captain, “Do you think you could shrink a bit? I can’t talk to you up there.”

Obligingly, Thorongil knelt down beside him. 

“How may I serve you, little lord?” he asked gently.

“I wanted to thank you for finding me my Ada, Captain Thorongil! Please and thank you!” Boromir announced grandly.

Thorongil smiled. “Anytime, my lord Boromir. Though you should not wander about in that place, for there are sharp things there that might hurt your lordship.”

“He is quite right, Boromir,” his father said chidingly. “You could have been hurt badly. You mustn’t go there without me, do you hear?”

“Yes, Ada,” Boromir said quickly. “I won’t go there or get lost again, Captain Thorongil!”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Thorongil. 

Boromir smiled happily and looked at his Ada. “Is it dinner time now?”

“I should think so, child. Shall we go to your mother and eat with her?” Ada said. 

“Please and thank you!” Boromir shouted once again. 

“You may get up and go, Captain Thorongil,” said Ada’s Ada. “It is not only Boromir that needs to eat after all.”

Boromir’s Captain regained his legs and bowed from the waist. “Yes, my lord, thank you. My lord Denethor,” he acknowledged, inclining his head and looking at Boromir’s Ada, before he turned and left. 

“So that’s your name, Ada!” Boromir put in as the door closed. 

His Ada looked surprised. “Why yes, child, didn’t you know?”

Boromir shook his head. “It was quite difficult not knowing. Next time could you tell me?”

The realm of the Fae is hot compared to the mountain's chill, boasting greenery that could only bloom in Gondor's southernmost lands. In front of them lies a dirt path leading into a dark forest. Even though she is entranced by the sight of oranges and lemons, a rare treat from Harad, Finduilas does not forget what she aims to achieve.

Finduilas and Thorongil rest for a moment just before the forest's entrance to readjust their clothing for the heat and taking care of Boromir, who is no longer squalling but is still upset.

Once Boromir is calm, they follow the path and step inside the forest, managing a few steps before thorny shrubbery bursts out of the ground behind them to block the entrance. Finduilas bite back a cry of surprise, holding Boromir even closer to her chest, staring at the thorns until Thorongil gently presses his hand over hers. The bravery in his eyes bolsters her own, and her breathing is soon under control as they walk forward hand in hand.

A thick fog gathers they carry onwards for what seems to be several hours, obscuring roots that aim to trip and separate them, carrying voices that try to trick them into answering to their detriment, but Finduilas and Thorongil hold the other’s hand tightly and refrain from speaking. Boromir is silent, eyes squeezed shut as he curls into his mother’s tight embrace.

More and more bright pairs of eyes appear in the fog, watching the two newcomers.

When they have walked long enough to make Finduilas’ legs tremble, a voice more grandiose than the rest carries itself on the leaves. “Hand over the child in your arms, lay him in the bush, and we will listen.”

Finduilas complies with a heavy heart, heeding her learnings about openly disobeying the fey, and places him on a rose bush as tall as her shins. Boromir reaches his pudgy little arms towards her and babbles happily, but the foliage quickly covers him from view.

Thorongil’s hand still holds hers, giving it a squeeze of reassurance.

“Well done,” the same voice rings out from around them. “Now propose your bargain.”

Finduilas deliberately and carefully lays out her words, saying nothing more and nothing less than she’s practiced. “I have come to take back the child that was stolen from me five years and five months and five days ago. I will play a game of skill where luck is not a major component, and the gameplay does not balance to the favour of either player. If I am successful in the game, the child that was stolen from me will be returned to me safe, healthy and with no magic affecting him, either to his detriment or benefit, and as a good parent would want him to be.”

After a few moments of deliberation, another voice speaks from out of sight. “A game it shall be, then. But your friend will not help you win.”

The forest in front of them fades, revealing a clearing with two cribs side by side. A gust of wind blows through the clearing, and twin wails pierce the hearts of Finduilas and Thorongil.

The first voice tells Thorongil and Finduilas to approach. When they do, they find what they feared — one infant in each crib, identical down to their freckles, each wrapped in their own identical blanket.

A third voice speaks. “Examine them both as you wish, then choose wisely. The child you claim as your own will return with you, and the child you do not claim will live here.”

Finduilas had known her decision from the start, and her hesitance was only a matter of word-smithing.

A familiar voice, wizened and afraid, rises from the depths. “Keep it secret. Keep it safe.”

There is no knowing how long Boromir stays underwater, the only measure being the gathering of information.

He knows that he must travel west towards the open sea, knows that he will carry Gondor's doom, knows that terrible things will happen wether or not he carries out this divinely ordained mission.

Even in this dream, Boromir cannot help but be bitter at the Valar and Eru. Why him? Why not Faramir, the more pious one? Why extend their aid now, after all these years of unanswered prayers and pleads for help? Why haven't they, in all their might, acted already themselves? The bitterness resides in his chest, simmering, growing until it reaches up his throat and strangles him.

Boromir gasps as he wakes up in a cold sweat, thrashing at the tangled sheets before calming himself and walking to his balcony.