#baranor

The first time Boromir wore armor, his mother was still alive.  It wasn’t full armor; only a helmet that was too big for him and a pair of mismatched gauntlets—two right hands—that he “borrowed” from the armory when he managed to sneak away from his nursemaid and slipped inside without anyone noticing.  Or rather, no one attempted to redirect him or insist that he put everything back where he had found it.  If any soldiers happened to see him, they might have refrained from saying anything because he had not walked off with any weapons that could injure him, and other than having difficulty seeing through the helmet, he was not endangering himself or anyone else.  A few servants faltered in the corridors when they spotted him, but similarly to the guards and soldiers, they were not in a position to give him orders, and could only keep their heads down and focus on their duties or inform the Lord Steward of what his oldest son was up to.

As it turned out, Steward Denethor was holding council with the Lords of the Outlands.  It had only been two years since Denethor became the Ruling Steward after the death of his father, and only the second time the lords had all come to Minas Tirith to meet with him; the first being when he took up the Steward's Rod and was recognized as the new lord of the city.  So, when Boromir arrived at the council chambers, the guards on duty did not allow him entry.

“I am sorry, young lord, but the Lord Steward has given us strict orders that no one was to disturb him,” one of the guards said.

“And where did you find those?  Have you been pillaging the armory?” asked the other, trying to sound serious but allowing a bit of a chuckle to slip into his voice.

“No…!  I wasn’t pill… pilla… I don’t know what that means.”

Standing a few feet away was another man wearing armor adorned with roses.  He approached out of curiosity, watching as the boy adjusted the over-large helmet on his small head, showing a brief glimpse of his features.

“Pardon me, but are you the oldest son of the Lord Steward?” the man asked.  Boromir turned to him and tilted the helmet back so he could see.

“Yes, I am.  Who are you?”

“I am Baranor, a knight of Lossarnach.  I have come here with Lord Forlong.”  Baranor got down on one knee so that he was not looking down at Boromir.  “I have a son, Beregond, who is close to your age.  A few years older, mayhap.”

“Is he here, too?”  Baranor chuckled.

“No.  Unfortunately, he had to stay behind in Lossarnach with his mother.  But you may become acquainted with him in the future, for he wishes to become a Guard of the Citadel when he’s old enough.”

“You mean like them?” Boromir asked, pointing at the two guards posted in front of the council chamber, both wearing the winged helms and black and silver uniforms of the Citadel Guard.

“Yes, just like them.  If he does join their ranks, then you might see a lot of each other.”

“You should bring him with you next time.  I want to meet him!”  Baranor laughed heartily.

“Very well, young lord.  If I am permitted—both by Lord Forlong and by my wife—then I shall have him introduce himself to you.”

The doors to the council chamber opened, and Denethor emerged first with the other lords and his advisers filing out after him. Baranor scrambled to his feet and stepped back from the Steward’s son before bowing his head. If Denethor noticed how close he had been to Boromir, he did not react, and instead looked down at his son and heir with pride.

“All ready to lead armies into battle, my son?” Denethor asked.

He leaned forward to set his hand on the top of the helmet. Most of the lords and councilors smiled at the exchange, splitting off towards their own household guards a few seconds later. The only ones who remained were Adrahil of Dol Amroth and his son, Imrahil.

“Imrahil was already training with the Swan Knights at his age,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth. Denethor’s mouth set into a thin line, but he otherwise dismissed the comment.

“Boromir will begin his training soon. Within the year,” Denethor said, adding emphasis to the last statement.

“Really?” Boromir asked excitedly.

“Of course, my son. You must learn how to wield a sword and become the greatest warrior so that your enemies will flee in fear at your advance.”

“If you have not chosen a swordmaster for him, you will find no one better than Imrahil,” said Adrahil. His son stiffened slightly, not enough to draw attention.

“Who are you?” Boromir asked.

“This is Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth,” Denethor said matter-of-factly. “He is your grandfather.”

“But I thought my grandfather died.”

“This is your mother’s father. And her brother is here, as well.”

Boromir didn’t react when Denethor removed the helmet from his head so that he could greet the others properly. When he looked at Adrahil, Boromir gulped when he realized that he was nothing like his other grandfather. He didn’t remember much about his grandfather Ecthelion, but he did remember his booming laugh and how he always smiled whenever Boromir was in his presence. This other grandfather reminded him of the statues in the throne room—cold and emotionless.

“How old are you, Boromir?” Boromir flinched and shifted his gaze towards the young man at Adrahil’s side.

“I’m eight.”

“Is that so? You have grown a lot since the last time I saw you.”

“Imrahil. We must return to Dol Amroth,” Adrahil said in Sindarin.

“I wish to see my sister whilst we are here,” Imrahil replied in the same tongue.

“Very well. Do what you must. But do not delay our departure unnecessarily.”

“Father,” he answered with a curt nod as Adrahil turned and began to make his way toward the main doors, flanked on both sides by Swan Knights. Boromir fidgeted when he noticed how angry Denethor looked. But before he could ask his father if he was alright, Imrahil spoke, this time in Westron. “Is my sister in her chambers? I would like to see her before I return to Dol Amroth.”

“Yes. She is there.” Something about the tone of Denethor’s voice made Imrahil’s brow furrow. “She hardly ever leaves them, these days.”

“Do you mean Mama?” Boromir asked.

“I do. Could you take me to her?” At this, Boromir’s eyes lit up.

“I’ll show you the way!”

“Very well. But first, I believe you have a few things that need to be returned to the armory,” Imrahil said with a knowing smile. Boromir looked at the gauntlets that engulfed his hands and made a sheepish sound. Imrahil took the helm from Denethor, who walked morosely away to his study, his head bowed low and his back slightly hunched forward. “Come, nephew. You take the lead.”

Boromir was wearing armor when word came that his mother was near death. It was a padded light armor that he used when he was training. Since he was practicing with a wooden sword, he did not require as much equipment as the real soldiers. He also had thick gloves to protect his hands that were the proper size.

He had been about to disarm his opponent when the other boy froze and hurriedly bowed his head. The other boys and their teachers also bowed.

Boromir turned around, and just as he was about to greet his father, the smile vanished from his face, his arms falling limp as his sword and shield hung at his sides. Although his father’s expression was usually serious, something about the pallor of his face and the faint wheeze Boromir heard in his father’s breathing told him that something was wrong.

“You must come,” Denethor said between breaths. There was a strangled noise, as though he could barely force the words out. “It is your mother.”

The sword and shield clattered to the ground, and somewhere on the way to his mother’s chambers, Boromir had discarded the gloves, as well. He asked where Faramir was, and after pleading with Denethor to let him see her, they found him in his room, practicing his letters with his tutor. Boromir held Faramir’s hand the entire way there, and he was glad that he had removed the gloves beforehand, for had he not, he might have missed the way Faramir’s fingers trembled.

The room was dimly lit when they entered. Curtains had been shut at all of the windows, except for the one nearest to Finduilas’ bed. A lit candle was placed on the bedside table, and the flickering flame created eerie shadows upon her face, giving it a ghostly appearance. The occasional blink of her eyes was the only sign that she was still alive.

“Mother?” Boromir whispered. Finduilas’ eyes scanned the room until they settled on him and Faramir. An arm emerged from under the blankets and reached for them.

“My boys. My loves.” She patted Faramir’s cheek first, and then Boromir’s, which drew a slight frown from her. “Your face feels warm. And your hair is damp.”

“I have been practicing my swordsmanship.” She took his hand, and her fingers touched the developing callouses.

“I know you will be a brave soldier one day,” Finduilas said, a slight rasp in her voice. “But never forget how to be kind. Never forget how to love. You have such a big heart, Boromir. Never stop loving.”

“Yes, Mother.” A look of sadness flashed in her gray eyes. When had he stopped calling her “Mama”?

“And look after your little brother. Take care of Faramir.” Her hand slipped from Boromir’s grasp and inched towards Faramir. “Faramir, my little treasure. Keep reading and learning and never lose your sense of wonder.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Faramir scrambled up onto the bed and hugged Finduilas around her middle. Boromir sat on the edge and rested his cheek in the crook of her neck. Her hands came up, settling on their heads. After holding them there for another minute, Finduilas met Denethor’s gaze, partly hidden in shadow, and gave a single nod.

“Boromir. Faramir. It is time to go.” There was a tremor in his voice. His resolve was unraveling.

“But I want to stay here,” Boromir argued. “I want to stay with Mother.”

“I would have you remember me as you knew me in life… not after I have departed from you and this world,” Finduilas whispered. “Listen to your father. Do this for me.”

Boromir felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from his mother. He struggled and tried to remain rooted in place, but the pull was too strong. Someone else—one of the maids—had urged Faramir from the bed and towards the door. It was only after Boromir’s feet reached the floor that he realized it was his father’s hands on him, only to be passed off to another servant. The last thing Boromir saw before the door shut was his father taking his spot on the bed and cradling his mother’s hands in his own. The last curtain was pulled closed, leaving only a faint red glow from candlelight to illuminate the last moments of Finduilas.

“I saw it.” Boromir frowned and looked down at his brother. There was an expression on his young face—still maintaining some of its baby fat—that seemed too old for a boy his age. “I saw Mama die.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dreamed about it. Last night. I saw her in bed and she wasn’t moving.”

Boromir drew Faramir into his embrace, pressing his face into the padding on his armor in order to prevent him from saying more. His chest ached, both from the bruises he sustained in sword practice and from the crack that had formed in his heart, but he still held Faramir tight. He didn’t want to hear about his mother dying. He didn’t want to hear about her not being there anymore. All he wanted was to take away the fear in his brother’s voice, even if it meant he ignored his own fears and carried them all, himself.

When Boromir turned fifteen, he began to serve as his uncle Imrahil’s squire. There was only an age difference of twenty-three years between them. Although there were other noblemen who Boromir could serve—men who were much older, who had more experience in combat, and a few who were the lords of their respective fiefs—a certain prestige came with entering into a relationship with the Prince of Dol Amroth.

Denethor had not forgotten Adrahil’s suggestion that Imrahil train Boromir, nor had he forgotten the snub the Prince had inserted into his supposed helpful advice. He did not have an issue with Adrahil’s son, though he could not ignore the observations he had made that Imrahil shared much in common with his father. As much as Denethor would have liked to ruffle the Prince’s feathers by having Boromir learn from another lord, he also couldn’t deny that he would find no better mentor for his son than Imrahil. There were also no better soldiers to train alongside than the infamous Swan Knights, a well-disciplined force who could gloat about having more victories than any army in Gondor.

For his part, Boromir was pleased with the arrangement, not only excited to get to train with the Swan Knights but also to meet his cousins, Elphir and Erchirion. He missed Faramir, but if anything good came out of their separation, it was that it made Boromir want to send handwritten letters by choice for the first time in his life.

Boromir learned quickly that training with the Swan Knights was nothing like his earlier lessons with wooden swords and non-lethal strikes. The Knights showed no mercy and treated him as a man of age rather than a teenager, and none of them went easy on him or let him win just because he was the son of the Steward. He also learned that steel plate armor couldn’t be more different from the padded leather he was used to wearing. It was much heavier, harder to move in, and—with the sun’s rays beating down on him—tended to hold in more heat.

“Think of the armor as a part of your body and the sword an extension of your arm. If you continue to regard them as separate from you, then you will always be aware of them,” Imrahil had said one day while Boromir was running through the steps of one of the many routines that all Swan Knights had to memorize.

Boromir rolled his shoulders as best as he could. He also noticed that he tended to be a lot sorer after wearing plate armor than he had been with the light armor. How was he supposed to ignore something that was pressing down upon him?

As the weeks and months passed, Boromir grew more accustomed to the armor and his sword, but he still had much to work on before he could truly go toe-to-toe with the Swan Knights. They were well-known for their rigid discipline, but Boromir found their impassive expressions unsettling. Their faces barely changed when they were sparring with each other or with him. They did not even show any pride or haughtiness whenever they disarmed him; rather, it seemed to be something they expected to happen, and therefore they were not surprised by it. They also did not offer words of encouragement when he made improvements or executed a sneak attack perfectly. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he had heard any of them speak.

While he was grateful for the training and for his uncle’s guidance, there was something about how taciturn the Swan Knights were that he didn’t particularly like. If he ever became Captain-General of the Gondorian Army—which was something he greatly aspired to do—he didn’t want the soldiers under his command to feel discouraged the way he did. If someone did something worthy of recognition, he wanted to make sure they knew how proud he was of them, just as he had done for Faramir whenever he enthusiastically told him about a book he finished reading or about his progress in learning a new language.

On a few occasions, though not very often, his grandfather came out to the training yard to watch him. Prince Adrahil’s expressions were just as unreadable, or there were hints of disappointment that were easy for Boromir to read.

“You need to think with your head, not with your heart. You are allowing your emotions to get the better of you,” he had said once. “It will cause you to make foolish mistakes at great cost.”

“Yes, grandfather,” he said automatically, but it still troubled him.

Was that truly the secret to defeating an opponent? By not feeling? By not caring? And what of the promise he had made to his mother?

“Again,” ordered Imrahil.

‘No,’ Boromir thought to himself as he wiped sweat from his brow and adjusted his stance. ‘I will find a way to win without breaking my promise.’

Boromir pulled off his helmet and sucked in a full breath of air. It was filled with the stench of blood and ash. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and he could feel grainy specks of dirt that filled the frown lines on his face. Not even his armor or gloves could keep it out.

“Sir, are you well?” He looked at one of his soldiers, who appeared to be staring at the blood on his armor with concern.

“Aye. The blood is not mine.” When he glanced down at his front, he had underestimated how bad it looked. There was barely any visible silver of the plate armor, having been covered by the black blood of Orcs and the red blood of other Men—Men of the South and East who had turned against their own and chose to serve the Enemy. If asked, he could not answer how many he had killed; at some point during the battle, his body seemed to move on its own, and he struck down foes as though they were overgrown branches that had gotten in his way. “What casualties have we suffered?”

“As of now, ten are dead and a dozen wounded. There are likely to be more.”

Boromir nodded grimly and lifted a hand to wipe at his face, but he paused when he saw the dark sticky residue. He heaved a sigh and rose to his feet, tucking his helmet beneath his arm.

“I and going to check on the wounded.”

“Sir.”

Boromir returned the soldier’s nod with one of his own. He found the healers’ tents fairly quickly. The air was choked with the smell of death. He learned after his first battle that death had a scent, and at the same time realized what incense was for. Those who were fortunate enough to die at home, surrounded by loved ones, were able to pass with dignity and without the foul smell of death adding to the tragic scene. On the battlefield, however, incense was a trivial luxury that was unnecessary and unlikely to be found, and rather than improving the smell, candles were only used to be a source of light. The smell of death had become so commonplace that he barely noticed it anymore, much like the splattered blood that had dried onto his armor.

Compared to his soldiers, Faramir’s Ithilien Rangers that were being treated were much fewer in number and in far better shape. That was because the Rangers who had come from Henneth Annûn served mainly as archers to support the main force. They had been at a safer distance from the enemy army and had little engagement with them. Even so, not all of them made it out unscathed, but their wounds would heal with time.

“My lord.” Boromir’s gaze flickered over to one of the healers, who stood a few feet away with her head slightly bowed. “We lost one. Will you come to identify him?”

Boromir nodded and followed the woman, who walked with her arms clasped in front of her. He came to the soldier’s bedside and honed in on the large red stain in the sheet near his abdomen. He spoke the name before the clerk could ready his quill and parchment.

“Lagor son of Drambor,” he said evenly.

While the clerk hurriedly scribbled the name, Boromir removed his right glove and passed his hand over the soldier’s face, shutting his eyes. He reached into the man’s shirt and withdrew the chain around his neck, bearing a silver rectangle with the White Tree carved on one side and the soldier’s name etched on the other. He handed it to the healer from before, who placed it inside a wooden box with similar chains. He would be spending the next few days sending letters containing the tags to the fallen soldiers’ loved ones.

He turned and stepped through the tent flap, moving away from the opening just as the dead soldier was carried out on a litter and taken to an area for the fallen. In a few seconds, the soiled linens would be replaced and another patient laid on the cot.

Boromir tilted his head back when he felt a couple drops on the top of his head. A few drops turned to a downpour quickly, and the bustling figures turned into indistinguishable blurs. His gaze fell to the front of his breastplate. Some of the blood was starting to wash away, but it must have been so thickly caked on that it would take a while. But even if he stood out in the rain until his armor was clean, it would not rid him of the names of the dead that were tattooed on his heart or the images of their cold faces that would now haunt his slumber.

“Faramir! We need to swim!”

After losing most of his men, Boromir, Faramir, and the two remaining survivors made a last-ditch effort to prevent the enemy from fully capturing Osgiliath by destroying the last bridge erected across the Anduin, keeping the Orcs and Men in service to Sauron on the eastern side of the city.

Boromir peeled off his armor, ignoring the clatter of metal on stone. His chainmail clinked as it dropped into a pile at his feet. He looked up at the sky, searching for the black figure he had seen earlier, flinching at every shadow.

“Brother, help me. He is wounded.”

Boromir went to Faramir’s side where he was holding up one of the men. He and Faramir worked together to remove his armor and avoided touching the gash on his forehead. The soldier’s eyelids were fluttering as he struggled to stay awake. Once he was stripped of his armor and mail, the brothers lifted his arms over their shoulders and began to walk with him towards the river.

“Can you make it?” Boromir asked when he noticed the fourth man limping behind them.

“Sir, it is only my leg. I should still be able to swim across.”

Boromir met Faramir’s gaze, and a silent understanding passed between them. When they reached the water, Faramir ducked out from under the unconscious man’s arm and approached the other. He was able to make part of the distance using his own strength, despite only having one good leg, but Faramir’s aid helped him reach the other side. Boromir had tied the other man’s wrists with the strap of the Horn of Gondor and secured his arms around his neck. Faramir had to reenter the water and help Boromir when he began to sink beneath the surface under the dead weight. He coughed and spat out water before collapsing onto his side, the stones pressing into his cheek. His chest burned, but his heart was still beating, though not unscathed.

What have I done? What have I done? No, no! No, why? Why? WHY?

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He hadn’t wanted it to happen like this. All he had wanted was to convince Frodo why he should have the One Ring. Frodo had been brave to volunteer to carry it all this way, but he had no need for it. His home was still safe and untouched by war. His people were still safe and fortunate enough to not know violence or slaughter. Not so for Minas Tirith. His beloved city and his people lived under the constant threat of Mordor’s might. They could see the fires of the Enemy’s stronghold from their windows and the layers of ash that stained the white streets. Of all of the members of the Fellowship, Boromir had the most to lose, which was why he desired the Ring as ardently as he did. That was what he had wanted to convey to Frodo, but his words and thoughts became twisted. He had lost control of them and of himself.

And now…

Now…

His feet carried him in the direction of Merry and Pippin’s shouts. He drew his sword and cut down any foe who stood between him and his friends. The Horn of Gondor’s call soared over the trees and the cacophony of clashing metal and animalistic growls.

He had to keep fighting. He had to protect the little ones. He couldn’t protect Frodo from himself, but he would do this for Merry and Pippin.

The arrow’s bite felt like a physical blow, causing him to pause and stumble back. Pain flared on the left side of his chest.

Oh, he had been hit. If only he had worn his armor, then his heart might have been protected. He was doomed. He should just give up now—

No!

Merry and Pippin were staring at him with frightened eyes. He had to keep them safe. He had to keep fighting.

More Orcs charged at him, and he sliced at them with his sword, causing black blood to spray upon the dead leaves underfoot. Another arrow hit him, on the right side this time. This one did not hurt as much.

His own cries blended with the roars of the Orcs. He continued to strike at any enemy who came near enough to his sword, but his movements were becoming sluggish. His left arm hung limp at his side, while he clumsily parried with his right.

The third arrow broke the Horn of Gondor and, as it seemed, his spirit. His legs could no longer bear his weight. He was now eye-to-eye with the two hobbits, but only briefly, for they drew their own blades and ran at the enemy with battle cries.

He could do nothing as they were snatched up and carried away. He could not keep them safe. He could not keep Frodo safe. And now, with the Ring gone and his life spilling out from his wounds, he acknowledged that he could not save Gondor, either. He had failed.

“Forgive me,” he said as he looked up at a blurry image of Aragorn, tasting the tang of blood on his tongue.

Maybe his uncle and grandfather had been right. Maybe it was better to not feel, because all he could feel now was the pain in his chest. The arrow must have torn his heart in two. He realized now that even armor would not have saved him. He realized that his promise to his mother had been his downfall. He fell to the Ring because he cared too much, because he loved his country too much. His heart had grown too big and was an easy target.

‘No,’ he thought as his vision began to darken. ‘I would rather die in the defense of my friends than live without having loved at all.’

“It’s always something, to know you’ve done the most you could. But, don’t leave off hoping, or it’s of no use doing anything. Hope, hope to the last!” – Charles Dickens

(This quote ties into the next prompt... so prepare for more sads)

Thank you for reading!

(And sorry for the sads)

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