#boromirweek

“Victory!”

The cry began at the front, from one of the more seasoned soldiers, as the last of the Orcish warband were slain. Years of defeats and bitter victories had crushed the spirits of the soldiers of Gondor. Yet this - a resounding victory, with hardly a man fallen. The capture of this outpost was a sharp strike against Mordor and who had led them to it, but the fresh-faced son of the Steward?

The sound spread, triumphant as flame, from them to their brothers - one man’s voice rose higher, in a secondary cry:

“Victory for Gondor! For the Captain! For the son of Denethor!”

Beneath his helm, Boromir flushed with pride. His rank was still glossy and new - untested. A younger man than most Captains, barely a man at all. He knew there was doubt among the people; he was captain only for his blood, not his skill, and while the rumours bruised his ego, he had refused to speak of them.

Words would not prove him. Action, swift and unfaltering, would. And here now was the result, the test passed, the trial faced - victory, joyously sweet.

The cry had been taken up by the whole band now, and a pair of the tallest men lifted their laughing captain onto their shoulders - for the men of the blood of Númenor grew slower than other men, and while he was tall, he had yet to fill out his frame as other warriors did. Boromir took off his helm, the white plume waving in the breeze as he held it high.

“Victory for the sons of Gondor!” he called back, earning a resounding cheer. This, he knew how to do - he drew upon his heart, his love, his youthful hope. How many times had he watched his father give speeches to crowds that loved him not? He would be different.

Beloved, brave, emboldening. Boromir, captain of Gondor, defender of Gondor, son of Gondor.

Pride swelled like a cresting wave in his heart and the young captain found his voice. It was as though the very spirit of the city had come over him, finding the words to nourish the hearts of her children, to nurture this single victory into the first of many.

“Victory, my brothers!” his voice carried in the wind, mingling with their shouts. “No less yours than mine! Your blood and sweat has been spilled in defence of your homes - our homes, our mothers and fathers, our children. Whatever honour you give me, double it upon yourselves.”

Simple words, but his men adored it, and with more chanting and cheering they carried him upon their shoulders to the gates of the city, where he was ushered through the gates to the crowd of anxiously waiting civilians. Joy spread then, so rare a sight in this ancient city, and before Boromir knew it someone had called for music, and there was dancing and singing all about him.

“Captain, come drink with us!” A soldier clapped him on the shoulder, a strange mixing of deferential address and familiar gesture. Boromir agreed swiftly - what captain was he, who would not celebrate with his men?

His men led him away towards the tavern, and Boromir glanced back up at the towering point of the citadel. There in the window, robed ever in black and grey, he glimpsed his father, and saw him smile.

Gondor’s future was in his hands now, and Boromir swore he would do it and his father proud. He would see his father at peace again.

It was a cold grey day near the end of December. The East Wind was streaming through the bare branches of the trees, and seething in the dark pines on the hills. Ragged clouds were hurrying overhead, dark and low. As the cheerless shadows of the early evening began to fall the Company made ready to set out. They were to start at dusk, for Elrond counselled them to journey under cover of night as often as they could, until they were far from Rivendell. "You should fear the many eyes of the servants of Sauron," he said. "I do not doubt that news of the discomfiture of the Riders has already reached him, and he will be filled with wrath. Soon now his spies on foot and wing will be abroad in the northern lands. Even of the sky above you must beware as you go on your way.’" The Company took little gear of war, for their hope was in secrecy not in battle. Aragorn had Andu ́ril but no other weapon, and he went forth clad only in rusty green and brown, as a Ranger of the wilder- ness. Boromir had a long sword, in fashion like Andu ́ril but of less lineage, and he bore also a shield — and one more item, which greatly intrigued the youngest member of their Company.

Young Peregrin Took, not yet of age by hobbit standards at his twenty-eight years, was known among his kin as an incorrigible rascal — the very sort of wide-eyed, reckless lad who, by some improbable twist of fate, had found himself in the middle of a grim and ancient tale. He was drawn to adventure with the same helpless fascination that a kitten feels for the flickering flame of a candle: trembling with fear and wonder, yet always stretching out a paw, spellbound by that dangerous warmth.

On many long evenings, Pippin often found himself seized by the cowardly thought of turning back — to the comfort and safety of the Shire. But each time such a thought arose, some new marvel would find him: a weathered map in Merry’s hands, examined with the gravity of a wizened librarian; the glimmering lights of Elven lanterns spilling like moonlight over Rivendell’s twilight paths; or the airy, ethereal song of birds not found in any hobbit field — a sound that stole the breath right from his chest. And always, his doubts melted away, replaced by the wide-eyed joy of a child standing at the edge of a world full of wonders.

Now, beneath the low arch of a fierce winter sky, Pippin’s gaze was fixed on Boromir’s horn.

The great, pale instrument swayed gently on a worn leather strap — a majestic relic of white, etched with curling silver patterns and ancient sigils that wound across its surface like sleeping vines. It looked, in Pippin’s eyes, like a slumbering beast — coiled and patient, as if it had lain in wait for centuries, lulled into stillness by the weight of its own silence.

In his mind, the young hobbit already heard its voice — not a hornblast, but a storm: a thunderous, deep-toned roar, shaking the very bones of the valley. His spirit longed to hear it, to touch it, to feel that magic for himself. Several times, while Boromir was deep in council and unaware, Pippin had reached out to trace the cold, smooth curve of the horn with trembling fingers. The touch sent a chill shooting up to his shoulders — and with it, a sudden doubt: What if he was wrong? What if it didn’t roar at all, but sang — high and clear, like an Elven melody?

He ran to Bilbo with this thought, half-laughing, half-worried. The old hobbit only chuckled, patted him on the back, and said with a knowing twinkle:

“It wasn’t made for music, Peregrin. It was made for war. Anyone who hears its call won’t be dancing, nor singing — I promise you that.”

Those cryptic words only stoked Pippin’s curiosity. Patience had never been a virtue prized among the Tooks. And so, seizing a moment when the rest of the Fellowship were checking straps and gear, he once again reached for the horn’s milky gleam.

But this time, a hand caught him — large, scarred, yet surprisingly gentle. Boromir’s fingers curled around his wrist like a blacksmith catching a wayward bird. Pippin’s heart dropped straight to his toes.

“Forgive me, little one. Reflex,” Boromir said, his voice low and warm, a hint of laughter dancing in his eyes. Pippin nodded with a gulp, cheeks burning scarlet, bracing for Gandalf’s inevitable “Fool of a Took!” — but to his astonishment, the wizard remained silent, seemingly absorbed in some mysterious business of his own.

“You’re curious about the horn?” Boromir asked then. His voice now carried a different tone — solemn and echoing, like footsteps in a marble hall. “It is not just a horn. It is a sacred relic of the House of the Stewards of Gondor. Let me tell you its tale.”

Pippin, the sting of embarrassment already fading, stared up at him with wide eyes, breath held.

And so Boromir told him — of Vorondil the Hunter, a great lord of the Third Age, who once hunted mighty wild oxen near the mysterious Sea of Rhûn. From one such beast, felled by his hand, this horn was carved — and from that day, it passed from father to son in the line of the Stewards, bearing through the centuries its ancient glory, through the howling of winter storms and the thunder of countless sieges. Each heir who took it up would sound it upon the path to their own deeds of honor and renown.

“And now, as the time has come to set out, my father gave it to me — that I might call for aid in a time of need, Boromir explained. “Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys of the hills and then let all the foes of Gondor flee!” 

He slowly raised the horn to his lips — and for a moment, it seemed as though the whole world held its breath.

The first note rolled out — low and mighty, like stone striking stone atop some ancient cliff, yet clear and cold as a mountain spring. A great wave of sound swept through the air, invisible and wild, crashing against the stone walls of Rivendell, echoing through the white-marble columns of Elrond’s house, and then rebounding, rolling back in thunderous ripples that touched every corner of the valley.

Something stirred in Pippin’s chest — deep and wordless — as if that solemn call had awakened a part of his soul he hadn’t known was sleeping. In the space of a single, drawn-out note, he saw visions flash before his inner eye: burning beacons atop high mountain peaks; a white city beneath a stormy sky; a thousand torch-lights flickering in the dark; mighty horses galloping into the wind — and far off, the wild crashing of waves upon ancient stone harbors.

But the bright swell of wonder was quickly dimmed by a sudden chill of dread.

Gandalf raised his eyebrows sharply, his disapproval unmistakable. Aragorn turned a cutting glance on Boromir, as keen and warning as a drawn blade. Even Merry frowned deeply, brows furrowed. Sam went pale to his roots and clutched at the worn straps of his pack. Only the Elves remained still — but even their fair faces flickered with a passing shadow, like moonlight brushing troubled water. Gimli muttered something gruff and unintelligible in Khuzdul.

Then Elrond spoke — softly, but with a calm authority that carried through the air.

“Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir,” said Elrond, “until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you.”

Pippin shrank inside himself, as though trying to curl into the size of an acorn. “It’s my fault,” he thought miserably. “I asked him to blow it…” But Boromir only spread his arms wide, as if to take the blame on his broad shoulders with ease.

“Maybe,” said Boromir. “But always I have let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night.”

He nudged Pippin gently with his elbow, a wordless gesture that seemed to say, “Chin up, little one.” The hobbit straightened, and the heavy fog of guilt melted away like morning mist. In its place rose a sharp and aching sense of belonging — to something vast and terrible and beautiful. The echo of the horn still hummed in his chest, and suddenly he understood, with stunning clarity: they were not just setting off into darkness. They were walking toward something greater.

Something that made it worth sitting by campfires, listening to old tales. Something worth gazing at Elvish lights and taking Gandalf’s legendary scoldings in stride. For somewhere ahead, in the shadowed stretch of days to come, their shared fate was already stirring.

Old Took’s Luck

The evening in Ithilien turned out warm, quiet, and, to everyone’s surprise, windless — a rare gift for this time of year. The sun was already dipping behind the dark, jagged crowns of the trees, flooding the forest with a thick, honey-golden glow. It was for this light that street painters took to the open air, hoping to capture the reborn silhouette of Osgiliath, its pale ridgeline visible on the horizon.

The company had wandered into an old pavilion from the days of stewards and kings — a round rotunda wrapped in ivy. The whitewashed columns shimmered in the halos of torchlight, thoughtfully lit by Boromir after he’d stashed away the game Pippin had brought.

As agreed, everyone had brought a board game dear to their people. Boromir took an immediate dislike to the one chosen by the hobbit: he was never fond of games where pure chance decided the outcome — and Old Took’s Luck was precisely that sort.

Gimli, on the other hand, was delighted. The moment he heard the rules, the dwarf shook his mug of ale and burst into booming laughter:

“Now this is a proper pastime! Ale in one hand, dice in the other!”

Boromir sighed heavily and exchanged a glance with his brother. The light-hearted excitement stirred memories of very different dice cast by fate — the kind that life itself seemed to throw, back when he was just a boy of five or six, and tiny Faramir had first appeared in their home.

Boromir remembered that first day — the echo of footsteps in the corridors, the soft weeping behind the door to the bedchamber, the scent of fresh wood from the cradle, carved by the finest craftsmen of Gondor. He had peeked timidly into his mother’s room: Finduilas lay half-reclined on the pillows, trembling from exhaustion and joy, while on her chest lay a tightly curled little bundle, gently snuffling in sleep.

A boy of five, almost six, Boromir had no idea what to do with such a fragile miracle. He had brought his favorite wooden soldiers — he wanted to build a fortress on the rug, to show his brother how the drums of the City beat. But the moment he made them clatter, the infant’s face scrunched up and he began to cry. His mother’s smile faded for a moment, and Boromir felt a helpless sting — as if he’d rolled the dice and thrown a bad cast.

The next day, he tried a different approach — tiptoeing to the cradle and, as he’d seen the nursemaids do, whispering ever so softly:

“Don’t be afraid, Faramir. It’s me. Your brother.”

The baby turned his head, and for a heartbeat the corner of his tiny mouth twitched — perhaps a smile, perhaps another grimace. It was just like a game of luck: would the right face appear on the dice? Sometimes Boromir got it — and joy surged through him, like he’d rolled two shining sixes; but sometimes Faramir would begin to cry, and the boy would flee, cheeks burning with shame.

And so he grew — each new day like another throw of the dice, trying to guess: would his brother smile or weep?

“Babies are fussy, my son,” their father would say. “Be patient. Stay near him.”

But Boromir couldn’t help thinking that Faramir was governed by strange, hidden rules — rules he didn’t understand. Ever since, games of chance had struck him as a cruel reflection of that childhood lottery.

That was why, now, with nearly all the tokens facedown save for the cursed “12,” Boromir’s heart beat with unease. It seemed that two sixes would seal the game in his favor — but the dice stubbornly showed a four and a six. Give up? Never. That wasn’t the way of the Guards of the White City. He rolled again — and heard Faramir chuckle quietly.

“Brother, relax. Just enjoy yourself.”

“Maybe that works in the Shire, under their soft little sun,” Boromir muttered through gritted teeth.

“I mean, look — half of my tokens are already flipped,” Pippin said with a shrug. “You’ve only got one left. That makes you the winner.”

“Winner, is it? These cursed dice are mocking me! I didn’t think such a trivial game could torment me this much.”

Faramir raised a finger toward the hobbit — the sign of their secret alliance — then snatched the dice from his brother and winked.

“For Daddy’s new boots.”

He blew on the dice and rolled. The bones danced, bounced — and landed neatly: six and six. Boromir blinked in disbelief. Pippin cheered. Faramir, grinning with satisfaction, flipped the “12” token.

“See?” he whispered, flashing the hobbit another thumbs-up. “C-oalition.”

“Or perhaps our father truly does need a new pair of boots,” Boromir muttered with a huff of laughter.

Their laughter echoed beneath the ivy-covered dome. The game dragged on for another good half hour, and in the end, it was the alliance of Faramir and Pippin that claimed victory. The coalition had worked.

Dwarven Gold

Returning to the table, Boromir noticed a new item placed before him — a tightly tied pouch of plain, unbleached cloth. Identical ones lay in front of every player. Gimli, smugly stroking his thick beard, had already begun explaining the rules:

“In each pouch is a scatter of stones. The goal: be the first to gather five gold nuggets. Draw as many as you like — but beware! The gold is identical in weight and shape to ordinary pebbles. Get greedy, and if you pull two of the same worthless stones in a turn, you lose everything you’ve drawn that round. Stop in time, and you keep your haul. There are also rare gemstones:

Emerald — lets you draw two more stones immediately.

Schorl — if you draw two black stones in a single turn, each player must give you one of their schorls.”

From the very start, luck seemed to have abandoned Pippin — his bag now clattered like a forge bellows, filled to the brim with black stones.

Boromir, convinced that fortune had already made her choice, went all in.

Faramir stuck to his cautious plan: never more than one “risky” stone per round. Each turn, he tried to coax his brother into doing the same.

“That’s enough, you already pulled one gold. Leave fate alone,” he whispered, gently catching Boromir by the elbow.

“And when am I supposed to win, then?” Boromir huffed, pointing at the single yellow nugget in his pile — while Faramir already had four. “You only need one more!”

He plunged his hand into the pouch again.

And Faramir, watching him, couldn’t help but recall how much their habits had changed since childhood.

When Boromir was eight and Faramir had just turned four, they used to stage “sieges” in the courtyard of Minas Tirith. The elder would build a fortress out of bricks, always “forgetting” one small gap in the wall so that the little “assault trooper Faramir” could find the weak spot and win. Sometimes, Boromir — playing the role of a grim commander — would order his wooden soldiers to “retreat” at the exact moment Faramir raised his stick-sword.

But as soon as his brother got older and won his first honest victory, eyes shining, he declared, “This time, you didn’t let me win on purpose!” From that moment on, Boromir only let him win when Faramir himself couldn’t yet see the path to victory. In all other cases, he played to win — so his brother would know the thrill of a true battle.

That evening, however, the memory offered no help: the temptation to take one more risk won out.

Boromir reached into the pouch for the third time — and when he opened his hand, there lay another gray stone.

“So much for luck,” Faramir said quietly, without a trace of mockery.

“Well… it was worth a try,” Boromir sighed, tossing all his stones — even the single gold nugget he had earned — back into the communal pile.

The outcome was predictable: the brothers’ cautious strategy didn’t earn them the win. Victory went to the host of the game — a roaring Gimli.

He carefully poured his five golden “pebbles” back into his pouch, nudged his mug of ale toward Boromir, and declared in his deep voice:

“Remember this, Men: gold favors the brave — but luck favors the dwarf.”

Perudo

Boromir laid out hollow bone cups on the table — one for each player — and poured out a clatter of dice: five per person. He had chosen this game without hesitation; neither he nor Faramir had played it to death yet.

He had first learned it from the corsairs of Umbar, back when he was a fourteen-year-old lad serving aboard a patrol ship guarding Gondor’s southern coasts. It had been his first long voyage, months away with a sword barely his own — while nine-year-old Faramir stayed behind, counting the days until his brother’s return. Ever since, Perudo smelled of sea salt, pitch in the hold, and the bitter tang of separation.

The rules were simple: each player rolled their dice in secret beneath their cup, then took turns announcing a bet — the total number of dice showing a certain value across the entire table. The next player had to either raise the bid (by quantity, face value, or both), or challenge it by calling “dudo!” — “I doubt it!” If they were wrong, they lost a die. If they were right — the bidder did.

Faramir hated Perudo… or rather, he hated it when he had to play against Boromir. As a child, he had grown up trusting in his brother’s unwavering honesty: Boromir had never lied to him — not about monsters under the bed, nor about wins and losses in games.

Now, sitting across from him, Faramir still believed every word — even though bluffing was half the game.

Boromir, of course, knew his brother’s weakness all too well and barely hid his grin whenever Faramir fell for the most obvious traps.

Making a bid after Boromir was torture: should he trust his innate truthfulness — or do the math, like their steward-father had taught them?

“For the love of the Valar, just count, will you?” Boromir laughed, watching his brother squirm.

“What?” Faramir lifted his cup. Only two dice remained underneath. “Why did you drag me into this? This is pure gambling!”

“Imagine if there were gold at stake,” Pippin giggled, elbowing Boromir.

“He’d explode on the spot,” Boromir agreed. “Make your call, brother — two paths: three sixes, or…”

“Two ones!” Faramir suddenly blurted, leaning back in his chair. “Just… saw it.”

The bid leapt straight to wilds — ones counted as any value named. All eyes turned to Gimli. It was his move.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the dwarf growled.

“What?” Faramir spun his cup nonchalantly. “Two ones are entirely possible.”

“Pfft. And what do I do now?”

“Don’t believe me — and call it.”

“They’re definitely there,” Gimli groaned, staring at his still-covered cup.

“Or do you think I’m bluffing?” Faramir added innocently, mimicking Boromir’s signature solemn honesty. “Tell me, friends — when have I ever lied?”

Boromir and Pippin were shaking with laughter as the dwarf squirmed, and Faramir casually tapped his cup with smug rhythm.

In the end, Gimli chose to raise the bid — and escaped unscathed.

Pippin, however, wasn’t so lucky.

Whether lost in the game or fooled by the “honest Gondorian,” the hobbit raised the bar to four ones.

There were only two on the entire table…

And both were under his own cup.

Nainë Mandë (Dice of Fate)

The evening was winding down when Faramir — flushed from ale and anticipation — shook a bag of brown velvet over the table. Something inside clattered, dry and wooden, like tiny barrel-shaped batons.

“A game where no one can argue!” he announced cheerfully, giving the bag another shake, prompting Gimli to cautiously slide his mug farther from the splash zone.

Boromir put on his most intrigued face. His brother had a talent for unearthing games that seemed known only to library mice and silver-haired aunties.

Faramir handed each of them a thin wooden board with rows of random numbers — from 1 to 90. The rules were simple: draw a number blind from the bag and mark it off if it’s on your board. First to cover them all wins.

No bluffing, no betting, no sneaky ways to sabotage your opponent — in Faramir’s opinion, the perfect “family” game.

The brothers had learned Dice of Fate from their nursemaid, old Nan. Sitting by the hearth, she’d click the little barrels against the side of the bag, handing out nutshell halves and copper coins in place of tokens. Serious-eyed little Faramir always got the “hero’s coins”; Boromir used to dream of the day when he’d earn copper too — the mark of a true man — but for now, contented himself with his humble nutshells.

Snapped out of his reverie, Boromir realized Faramir was launching into an impassioned explanation of why he’d chosen this particular game, voice brimming with earnest nostalgia.

Meanwhile, Pippin was quietly giggling, sneaking glances at Gimli.

“Seven — that’s a pickaxe, straight up!” he bellowed in his best dwarven bass and elbowed Boromir.

The ale buzzed pleasantly in Boromir’s head, and the Steward’s eldest son couldn’t resist:

“You want all of Gimli’s number associations? Easy! Thirty-three — like twin mountain sapphires, fused together…”

“And forty-four!” Pippin cried, catching on. “A pair of quartz crystals, exactly!”

They were so caught up in mocking the game boards that it took them a moment to notice Faramir had fallen silent. Lips pressed thin, he already looked like he regretted bringing his cozy little family ritual into the circle.

“If you two are quite finished mocking…” he said softly, but firmly. “Can we get back to the rules?”

“Oh — sorry, brother. You were telling a story, weren’t you? About the nutshells?” Boromir said sheepishly, raising his hands in apology.

“Nutshells?” Pippin squeaked.

Faramir’s ears flushed — a sure sign his feelings were stung.

“Not nutshells, they were— never mind. It was a sweet little tale, but who cares, right? Let’s just play.”

“Are you upset?” Boromir asked gently, leaning toward him with a guilty smile.

“Why would I be?” Faramir replied coolly, fiddling with the tokens and refusing to meet his brother’s eyes.

“Well, sorry for interrupting,” Boromir said in a conciliatory tone, touching his brother’s shoulder.

“What are you apologizing for?” Faramir snapped, jerking away and casting a sideways glare at Pippin.

“Me?!” Pippin gasped, pressing both hands to his chest in exaggerated outrage.

“No…” Faramir sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just play.”

“No, no — tell it!” Pippin pleaded, leaning in with genuine curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

“I’m telling,” Faramir said with deliberate calm, straightening his back. “The rules of Dice of Fate…”

Boromir rolled his eyes discreetly — an all-too-familiar scene.

Ever since the brothers had reached the age of “semi-legal drinking,” a certain less-than-charming trait had begun to emerge in Faramir. The moment wine shimmered ruby at the bottom of his cup, the wise, measured commander transformed into an easily offended youth. The first time it happened was at Boromir’s sixteenth birthday: by his third mug, Faramir had launched into a tirade about Sindarin verb conjugations, and when met with disagreement, went entirely silent — mentally recording the names of all “phonetic offenders.”

It had since become a family joke — though not one the subject ever found particularly amusing.

Tonight, however, things were following an unfamiliar pattern: luck danced around Boromir like a sunbeam. Every other barrel he drew matched a number on his board, and Faramir’s brow darkened by the minute. Pippin shook the velvet bag like a maraca; Gimli kept opening his mouth only to shut it again, hiding his laughter.

“Seventeen!” Faramir called, eyeing his brother’s board. Boromir, snorting, raised a hand — then immediately slapped it over Pippin’s mouth before he could burst.

“Are you serious?” Faramir sighed.

“If I could rig this, I would!” Boromir protested. “But it’s just draw and mark.”

“How many do you have left?” Faramir leaned over — then bulged his eyes. “Six?!”

“It’s not about who’s fastest,” Pippin reminded him, still jiggling the bag. “You could get stuck on one number for eternity. I’ve only marked one so far.”

“Go on, chase the champion,” Faramir muttered. “Six! I’ve only got three. All right, no questions here,” he nodded at the ever-stoic Gimli, whose board also showed six blank spots. “With hands used to pulling gold from rock, no wonder his luck’s steady. But you, dear brother — where’d you get that fortune? Sell your soul?”

“Oh, for the Valar’s sake!” Boromir laughed. “They’ll all hit seventy-seven eventually — you’ll see.” He pointed at the number on his board.

At that exact moment, Pippin drew the next barrel. His hand trembled, eyes sparkled, breath came short.

“What is it?” Faramir asked warily.

“…Seventy-seven,” Pippin whispered — and then dissolved into laughter so violent Gimli slapped the table and Boromir doubled over, wheezing.

Faramir glanced at his half-empty board, rolled his eyes toward the rafters of the pavilion, and raised his mug — not yet suspecting that he, in the end, would be the one to win this game.

The table now stood empty. On its stained surface, only drained dice cups and half-finished mugs remained, glinting faintly in the dying torchlight. The four unlikely companions — two Men, a hobbit, and a dwarf — had drifted off to their chambers, each carrying with them the quiet aftertaste of the night, and the spark of camaraderie they’d come to share.

Your day’s been carved in heavy stone

With burdens resting on your shoulders wide

But soon the evening claims the city

And daylight burns in amber tide

Together we sigh, and bid the blazing day: “Take flight.”

Each game that night had stirred some childlike memory:

Boromir and Faramir glimpsed the echoing corridors of their youth;

Gimli heard the hammer of his father ringing through stone;

Pippin saw the green hills of the Shire — and Merry, laughing beside him.

In play, they returned for a moment to simpler years, when time was counted not by hours, but by new adventures and sunburnt cheeks.

There is a hidden place we keep

Where childhood lingers, deep in the night

Where stories flow and laughter spills

In ways outsiders never get quite right

And we gather again round the table’s warm light…

Even the brief spat at the end — like old yard fights over a rag-stuffed ball — burned hot and vanished quick, leaving only shared laughter and a sharp edge of friendly rivalry.

The crackle of fire and rustling leaves

Will echo that summer we never retrieve

Of golden stripes and whispered talk

Let’s meet again, take that same walk

And into the starry sky, our voices weave…

As they parted for the night, they knew without saying: they would gather again — more than once. There would be teasing jabs, desperate rolls, and victories, fair or otherwise.

And while the stars dimmed gently over Ithilien, a chorus of fading voices could still be heard, carrying one simple promise:

Rohan had always been famed for its ale — strong, thick, and bitter, a far cry from the lighter, refined drinks of Gondor. The wines and tinctures served in the valleys of the Anduin were gentler by comparison, flowing sweetly like mead and masking their strength with deceptive smoothness. And only later — far too late — did they hit, sharp and sudden, even a seasoned warrior unaccustomed to their treacherous charm.

Boromir never returned from his homeland empty-handed. Of course, the caravans brought wine to Rohan, but he insisted on choosing each bottle himself — only then could he be sure of its quality. After all, who would dare offer the Steward’s son anything less than worthy?

He was a constant presence at the great feasts of Edoras. There, beneath the vaulted beams of Meduseld, amidst clinking cups and roaring voices, he was no outsider. He was kin — a trusted friend and now a son of Rohan by marriage. His wife, as if standing between two worlds, never left his side, her hand gently looped through his arm. In every touch, every glance, there was quiet pride: This is my Gondorian, who came to love Rohan — and especially the Rohan he sees in me.

That memorable evening, the hall pulsed with life — the Golden Hall shook with songs, laughter, and overflowing mugs of mead and ale. Near one of the carved pillars, Éomer sat slumped against the cool stone, clearly past the point of saving face.

“H-hey, Éo…” he muttered, waving a hand vaguely and missing a passing girl by a good stretch. His tongue was thick, his limbs loose — it was obvious to everyone in the hall that the young lord of the feast had met his match in the cup.

The girl, seeing his state, settled beside him with a motherly sigh. She brushed a damp strand of golden hair from his flushed brow — the same one he’d been fumbling with for several minutes.

“You’re quite the mess tonight,” she said with a fond shake of her head.

“Y-yeah…” Éomer hiccuped, exhaled heavily, and tried to pull himself together. “I just don’t get it. We drank the same amount — your husband and I — and yet I’m here like a sack of hay, and he’s still on his feet like nothing happened!”

Sure enough, Boromir was still standing where she’d left him, engaged in animated conversation with the other warriors. He laughed, spoke clearly, and somehow still held his composure — despite everything they’d consumed.

“Well,” she smirked, “consider this your lesson: never try to match a Gondorian in drinking his own tinctures.”

“But they’re weaker than our ale!” Éomer protested, attempting to sit up straight and nearly collapsing into her shoulder. “It’s that cursed trick of theirs… drinking in one gulp…”

“That’s the trick indeed,” came Boromir’s voice from behind, all too pleased with himself.

Getting Éomer off the floor was only the beginning — keeping him there was far harder. Every time she turned her back, the drunken marshal wandered off on some mysterious mission. Thankfully, he was easy to find: just follow the singing. Éomer, in his cups, had launched into a rousing (and entirely improvised) rendition of a dwarvish ballad Gimli had once taught him. The lyrics bore little resemblance to anything spoken in Khuzdul, and the melody was… unique. Not that anyone sober could sing Khuzdul properly, let alone in such a state.

As for Boromir — by then, he too had tipped into true intoxication. He looked steady — an ingrained habit of Gondor’s heir — but closer inspection betrayed him: the world tilted like a boat on waves, and his steps, once firm, now wavered.

On the way home, a sudden, undeniable pressure in his belly made him stop in his tracks. There was no dignified way to delay what was coming. Flushed and mortified, he turned to his wife and muttered:

“Wait for me, please,” before darting into the nearest patch of bushes.

“Everyone does it,” he mumbled, as if apologizing — though by now, she knew that well enough.

“Makes sense,” she smirked. “We’re in the plains, not the White City; chamber pots only exist in royal quarters.”

To him, though, the idea still felt terribly undignified. The wine blurred his thoughts, and pride kept nudging him to explain. Luckily, no one seemed to notice his oh-so-“unworthy” maneuver. And really, he wouldn’t have cared what others thought — if not for her opinion, which remained the one that mattered most.

She, of course, was used to scenes like this. In Rohan, they celebrated victories and mourned losses with equal fervor. But what always struck her heart was the sight of this stately Gondorian — his noble Númenórean heritage betrayed by the smooth, untouched skin of his cheeks, where any Rohirrim his age would have long since sprouted stubble. And so, the wine-born flush across that pale face stood out all the more.

Yet below the jaw and along his neck, a thick, dark beard grew — dense like a horse-grooming brush — and his mustache framed that bashful smile with a touch of something less ancient in his blood.

“Sorry…” he whispered, touching her elbow. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” she replied gently.

Everything about him in that moment warmed her — the way he turned his head away, insisting he smelled of wine and didn’t want to burden her; the way, moments later, he leaned into her arm anyway, like an oversized, trusting cat. He did his best to walk straight, but with each step, he tilted just a little more toward her shoulder — not out of need, but from that soft helplessness that made him all the dearer.

But what moved her most was what came later, when they finally reached their chambers after winding their way through the stone corridors of the keep. As usual on such nights, she began the slow task of untying the many ribbons of her gown — a meditative process she preferred to do alone, without the help of a maid.

The room was quiet. She barely heard a thing from Boromir — just the faint rustle of clothes and the soft murmur of someone speaking to himself. From the sounds of it, he was trying to settle in, wrestling with both his garments and the bed. Given his condition, she had no expectations — even removing boots and tunic must have felt like scaling a mountain.

When she finally turned around, the sight that met her was both surprising and deeply endearing. Boromir, swaying slightly, was carefully folding his undershirt — smoothing each crease with a diligence that defied his drunken state. His tunic lay beside it, just as neatly arranged. Even now, he clung to his innate precision, that quiet attention to detail.

But what truly caught her breath was the bed: only one pillow lay on the wide mattress. The second had been gently placed on the floor, a little to the side, as if someone had thoughtfully prepared a space to sleep — away from her.

“Why did you…?” she asked, brow furrowing.

“I smell,” Boromir muttered, already lying down, tucking the pillow under his head.

She couldn’t help but smile and shake her head. Truth be told, she didn’t smell any alcohol on him — not now, not ever. Why that was, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she’d built up an immunity over the years: in her world, warriors and farmers celebrated fiercely and mourned even harder. Her nose had long since stopped noticing.

“Come here, you fool,” she said, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Believe me — you don’t smell any worse than any Rohirrim after a feast.”

Boromir lifted his head and looked at her with that peculiar seriousness reserved for the very drunk — the kind who are trying, with all their might, to appear sober.

“I don’t want to…” he began, but she was already leaning toward him, hand outstretched.

“Either you come to bed,” she said calmly, “or I lie down here on the cold floor with you — and we’ll both wake up sore in the morning.”

At last, he relented, letting her guide him up and over to the bed. He still tried to keep some distance, but she pulled him close without another word, ignoring his half-hearted protests. It didn’t take long before he melted against her, nuzzled into her shoulder, murmured something incomprehensible — possibly yet another apology — and drifted into deep sleep.

The idyll, of course, did not last.

By midnight, the storm truly hit. The full wrath of the evening’s wine came back with a vengeance. Come morning, he would remember none of it — not how, unlike many husbands who would shamelessly collapse on the hall’s stone floor without a care for propriety (and some, in their fervor, even attempted to ravish their wives right there before passing out), he always disappeared behind a screen with a stubborn dignity, unwilling to let Eodred witness what he considered his “unworthy weakness.” Every time he stumbled back out on unsteady legs, he’d mutter apologies, as if it were shameful to be humanly vulnerable to strong drink.

By the predawn hours, the worst had passed — the nausea no longer twisted him in knots, though his head still throbbed mercilessly and his stomach churned with resentment. He lay there, cheek burning against a cool pillow, slipping in and out of shallow, uneasy sleep — shuddering now and then, letting out the occasional ragged sigh. Eodred sat by his side, gently stroking his arm from shoulder to elbow in slow, soothing motions, watching the way his tired muscles twitched beneath her hand.

She knew it was just the inevitable aftermath of revelry — but still, she continued her quiet ritual, hoping her touch might ease his suffering, even a little.

When a servant stepped silently into the chamber, Boromir barely found the strength to lift his head. One might expect him to ask for water, for herbal remedies — but not him. Even with a hoarse voice and evident misery, his first concern was:

“How’s Éomer?”

The servant suppressed a smile and gave a respectful nod.

“He’s well, my lord. Still sleeping. Took some effort to get him settled last night,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Lost his bracers — kept trying to go back for them.”

Eodred chuckled under her breath. Éomer, who had received a gift bearing the White Tree of Gondor, had put it on in his chambers and promptly forgotten about it in conversation with Boromir. Thus, one man left the tower wearing the crest of another kingdom — while the other left behind an entire cask of precious tincture, brought all the way from Minas Tirith.

Just as they reached the great hall’s doors, both men realized their mistake. But turning back through the entire keep felt unseemly — the guests were waiting, the horns were sounding, and each step of delay would echo across Edoras.

“I know what to do,” Éomer had said cheerfully, nudging him with an elbow and adjusting his borrowed bracers. “We’ll fetch something similar from our cellars — and save the real one for later.”

And so the “Gondorian” liquor became the hastily chosen brew from the depths of Meduseld, crafted by Rohirric hands. In flavor and strength, it was nearly identical. But in consequence…

Well — no one could speak to that better than Boromir himself. Assuming he regained full consciousness before noon.

Note 2:

It all happened in Marseille, at a loud, chaotic party hosted by some Brazilians. I was stone-cold sober and remember everything perfectly.

My husband and his friend Juan (who, of course, is Catalan, not Spanish — don’t mix that up) got completely absorbed in trying on a ushanka and rehearsing a dramatic entrance to Kalinka-Malinka. In the process, they completely forgot about the actual Russian vodka — and had to settle for French. Tragic.

My husband did want to go back and get the “real” bottle, but Juan declared no one would notice the difference — after all, most of the guests could barely stand.

By the second glass, Juan had turned into a full-on “sack of potatoes,” lamenting how my husband was still somehow upright (both of them are huge guys, mind you). Lifting Juan became an epic quest. Watching him was even harder: if you so much as blinked, he’d vanish — usually off somewhere singing something that vaguely resembled Kalinka-Malinka. The ushanka went missing during one of those disappearances. We never saw it again.

The trip home? A journey in itself. My husband, barely holding it together, kept giving me a half-coherent lecture on French customs (presumably to justify his escape into the bushes) and apologized constantly.

When we finally got home, convinced he reeked of booze, he carefully folded his clothes and laid himself out — on the floor.

We didn’t sleep half the night: either he was running to the bathroom or whispering apologies. At one point I genuinely got scared — I didn’t yet know he has those little earthquake-like twitches during short phases of sleep.

In the morning, the first thing he did was call Juan. No answer — but the neighbor reported he’d spent the whole night trying to stop Juan from going out to look for the ushanka.

Through the white corridors of Minas Tirith, still echoing with the hush of morning, rushed a four-year-old whirlwind — a sturdy boy for his age, with unruly chestnut curls bouncing as he ran. In his arms he clutched a book that seemed older than Gondor itself: a massive tome slipping from his grasp, threatening to wrench his small wrists, but the child only held it tighter, as if pressing it to his heart. Golden letters shimmered across the cover: ATLAS of the Flora and Fauna of Middle-earth. The first letter had already been shyly covered by a feather bookmark.

Finduilas stood by the open window, where the sweet scent of blooming honeysuckle drifted into the room, filling the air with the freshness of spring. Just half a year ago, she had devoted nearly every free moment between his lessons and training to her son — reading to him with passion the ancient tales of brave heroes, sharing stories of the first kings of Gondor, patiently teaching him to find and name strange constellations in the velvet night sky and to recognize healing herbs in the lush palace gardens.

Now, as she saw her little boy tilt his head back and look at her with those wide eyes — so clear, like morning dew — she felt something shift in her chest. Where worry had made its home in recent months, gentle wings of motherly love slowly and cautiously began to unfurl.

Boromir, breath held, silently extended the towering book toward her.

“May I?”

His dark lashes quivered, and in that gaze was everything: the thirst for discovery, a spark of awe, and a boyish fear of rejection.

“Just bring it back before supper, my love,” she whispered, brushing a hand through his unruly curls.

Oh, how sweetly those words tickled his pride! Father would never have allowed it — but Mother did. She saw the hunger in his eyes as they devoured the letters on the cover, and she couldn’t say no. A flame of heroic purpose lit up inside him — he had been entrusted with a treasure.

And, of course, he didn’t return the book by supper.

That night, he sat by an old chest, the warm glow of candlelight washing slowly across the pages. He moved his lips, forming letters into words, and in his mind entire kingdoms came alive. Somewhere between lines about tiny desert creatures, his eyelids grew heavy — the boy fell asleep with the book clutched tightly to his chest, as if afraid the letters might spill out and scatter across the stone floor.

By the third hour of deep night, sleep had wrapped him in a soft shroud. The book had slid down onto his lap, and he now leaned against the old toy chest, arms still wrapped protectively around the tome. One hand had fallen open on a page where a skilled naturalist had sketched a curious beast:

“Sometimes, on narrow ledges clinging to near-vertical walls, one might spot small groups of furry creatures known as hyracs. These small animals, no bigger than a housecat, could climb almost sheer rock faces with ease. In their mouths grew large bony protrusions resembling fangs — though some ancient scrolls hypothesized they were actually tiny tusks, linking them to the legendary oliphaunts.”*

In his half-sleep, the creatures stirred to life: one cheeky hyracs poked out a pink tongue, wiggled it up and down, and winked at him. Boromir giggled in his dreams, and a soft echo of laughter rippled through the vaulted bedroom.

By the time the sun climbed high enough to mark the midday meal, Boromir slowly opened his eyes, confused to find himself not in his soft bed, but curled on the cool stone floor beside the old oak chest. In days past, if he ever fell asleep while reading, someone would always carry him to bed — usually Mother, tucking him in with care until even the gentlest efforts began to tire her. After that, the attentive servants had taken over the ritual.

But today something was different. No one had moved him. He’d been left there on the floor, which could only mean one thing: everyone in the citadel was busy with something urgent. Even his ever-present nursemaid had merely peeked into the room without her usual fuss.

With a wisdom far beyond his years, Boromir decided not to ask. If they had left him here, then there must be a reason. He looked down with fondness at the worn book still pressed to his chest and sniffed quietly as the familiar, slightly spicy scent of old parchment wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Have breakfast in the dining hall, alright?” the nurse said, already turning to the door.

“Alright… Has Mama woken up yet?”

“Yes, she has. But… don’t go to her just yet, alright?”

His brow furrowed with worry, but he nodded. The nurse disappeared behind the door, and silence fell — trembling, uncertain silence, beneath which something stirred.

Boromir blinked the sleep from his eyes, rubbed his face with one hand, and looked back at the open atlas. The creature on the page stared right back — fluffy, tusked, and sticking out its pink tongue in the exact same way as in his dream.

Beneath the drawing — rendered in the hand of a master naturalist — ran a caption. Usually, the letters were larger than the main body of the text, as if heralding something of great importance. Every such note Boromir had encountered in the atlas before held precious information: not only population numbers and dimensions, but curious details about habits, habitats, and even legends surrounding these wondrous creatures.

But this time was different — the line stood out in an unusually small, almost hesitant script, as if the naturalist himself had been unsure whether these troubling observations should ever be committed to parchment:

“Due to the exponential rise in orc numbers, the gorge-dwelling hyracs…”

Boromir frowned deeper and leaned closer to the page, trying to decipher the next word — a word he had never seen before. He traced the letters with his finger, reading the line again and again, but the strange term remained unreadable. No matter, he consoled himself. Father will be at breakfast. He’ll know for sure — he always does.

But as he approached the elaborately carved doors of the dining hall, a sharp pang of unease struck him. Mother had only allowed the atlas until supper, and not only had he forgotten to return the book — he had dragged the hefty volume nearly all the way to the table. There would be no one to shield him — Finduilas hadn’t left her chambers in weeks.

Those rooms now lay wrapped in muffled silence. Heavy curtains softened the noise from the halls, and she spent long hours in bed, as though strength returned to her reluctantly. Once, they had run laughing through the halls together, her voice ringing like silver bells. Now, Boromir only caught rare hours beside her bed, listening to her soft, sleepy voice while her hand idly traced the folds of her gown. The servants whispered that Lady Finduilas was simply tired, and gently led him away — back to his toys, his maps, and the wondrous tales of distant lands.

His heart dropped like a stone into a deep, dark well — but it was too late to turn back. Voices were already drifting from behind the door. Clutching the atlas tightly to his chest, Boromir squared his shoulders. If he were to be caught, he would at least hold fast to his treasure.

He could neither step forward nor bring himself to flee. The boy froze on the threshold, staring at the carved stone beneath his feet, as if it might shield him from the stern gaze of the guards. One look up, and he was certain iron gauntlets would clamp down on his small shoulders — the little lord, caught red-handed.

“Your father awaits you, young master,” came a surprisingly gentle voice.

“Y-yes…” Boromir squeaked.

“Shall I hold your tome here, while you take your meal?” The guard held out his strong hands.

Boromir gratefully passed the heavy atlas to him. The book was precious — but the smell of fresh pastries and the hope of an answer from his father called even louder.

“Do you… do you know what a extirpationem is?” he asked, turning slightly.

The guard shifted his weight, but his posture remained firm.

“I’m afraid not, my lord. Never heard the word.”

At breakfast, his father was as composed — and as distant — as he had been in recent months. Each day his gaze grew heavier, the lines on his brow deeper. He ate in silence, running his finger slowly along the rim of his silver goblet, as if weighing something important he wasn’t yet ready to speak aloud.

“Father,” Boromir ventured at last, pushing aside his barely-touched plate of bread, “do you know what extirpationem means?”

Denethor looked up, meeting his son’s curious eyes — but there was no warmth in his gaze.

“Extirpationem?” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “No, son. I’ve never heard of it. Perhaps it’s an old word from the northern lands…”

He seemed about to add more, but a sudden noise from the hallway cut him off. The doors burst open, and a breathless servant rushed in, halting in panic on the threshold.

“My lord! You’re needed at once — it’s the Lady—”

Denethor’s face changed in an instant. Without a word, he rose and strode from the room, leaving Boromir alone at the table — alone with his unanswered questions, his uneaten breakfast, and a rising knot of fear in his chest.

Boromir stood still at his mother’s bedside, clutching the very same book he had expected to be scolded for — and yet, to his surprise, no one had said a word. His father seemed to have entirely forgotten his presence; all Denethor’s attention was fixed on Finduilas — and someone else Boromir could not yet see.

The boy rose up on tiptoe, stretching his neck to catch a glimpse of the precious bundle that his mother held so carefully against her chest.

In her pale, gaunt face — strangely brightened now — shone something new, something he had never seen before: a profound, all-consuming joy, mingled with tender exhaustion and quiet peace. Then, from the snowy-white swaddling in her arms, came a faint, kitten-like sound — a soft, mewling squeak — and Boromir’s heart fluttered in astonishment.

It was clear now: he had a brother.

“Faramir.” The name slipped from Denethor’s lips with a strange, unfamiliar gentleness, as though he were handling something fragile and unspeakably precious.

Boromir, staring at the tiny creature wrapped in soft white cloth, was suddenly filled with a curious mix of pride… and unease. Everything would be different now. And he had yet to learn what it truly meant — to be a brother.

“What do you wish for, my light?” Denethor asked softly, leaning close to his wife.

“Only one thing,” Finduilas replied, smiling tiredly — yet with a glint of mischief. “Do not scold our eldest”—she emphasized the new title with mock ceremony—“for devouring books faster than bread… And perhaps… a bite of something sweet, for me.”

The guard by the bed gave a barely noticeable, kindly smirk. Boromir, still holding the heavy atlas to his chest, took a careful step forward. He reached out and touched a tiny fingertip poking out from the swaddling, and in that moment, the strange word extirpation flew from his mind: the whole world had narrowed to the warmth of a baby’s hand.

“How could I be angry, when on the way here he kept pelting me with questions about some mysterious word?” Denethor chuckled. With a small nod, he beckoned his son forward and lifted the newborn into his arms.

“What word, dearest? Show me, Boromir,” Finduilas whispered.

“You’re tired,” Denethor cautioned, yet he still settled Faramir gently into the crook of his elbow, cradling him as if he were the most precious thing in all the world.

Boromir eagerly flipped open the atlas to the page with the hyracs. His mother leaned in, a curtain of fair hair falling across the parchment, and her eyes lit with warm amusement.

“Oh, that’s what it was! Not extirpation — it saysextinction. See? The ink has bled, the letter is nearly illegible.”

Boromir’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. How could I not have guessed? Such a simple word — and he had built an entire mystery around it.

“So… the hyracs is nearing extinction?” he asked quietly, looking up at his father.

Denethor nodded, his gaze fixed on the infant still gently murmuring in his sleep.

“There is much in this world on the edge of vanishing, my son,” he said hoarsely. “But as long as we remember them — as long as we read, and learn — they live on. In our hearts. On parchment. And in those who come after us.”

“Let’s not speak of sad things, my light,” Finduilas whispered, resting her head wearily on the pillows. “Tell me instead… what’s for dessert?”

Still flushed from his mistake, Boromir suddenly perked up.

“There are hyracs living in it!” he declared, in all seriousness, vividly imagining furry creatures climbing over creamy dunes of pudding and cake.

Finduilas let out a soft, silvery laugh — the kind of laugh he hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. It rang like windchimes through the quiet chamber, warming the cold stone walls.

“In the desert, sweet one — not the dessert,” she said with a smile, smoothing back his hair with a warm hand. “But if you eat more porridge and less dessert, you’ll grow strong, and tall… and one day you may see the hyracs for yourself, wherever they may be hiding.”

Boromir nodded so vigorously that a lock of hair sprang free from its clasp. And in that moment, his entire world narrowed again — to her smile, to her voice, promising adventures, if only he could be brave and patient enough.

His mother’s laughter lingered in his ears long after — gently drowning out thoughts of endangered beasts, of his father’s heavy days, and of the book that still needed returning. None of it seemed to matter, really, while she was here — alive, smiling, and warm, like a shaft of sunlight through the White City’s high windows.

***

Wandering aimlessly at first in the wood, Frodo found that his feet were leading him up towards the slopes of the hill. He came to a path, the dwindling ruins of a road of long ago. In steep places stairs of stone had been hewn, but now they were cracked and worn, and split by the roots of trees. For some while he climbed, not caring which way he went, until he came to a grassy place. Rowan-trees grew about it, and in the midst was a wide flat stone. The little upland lawn was open upon the East and was filled now with the early sunlight. Frodo halted and looked out over the River, far below him, to Tol Brandir and the birds wheeling in the great gulf of air between him and the untrodden isle. The voice of Rauros was a mighty roaring mingled with a deep throbbing boom. He sat down upon the stone and cupped his chin in his hands, staring eastwards but seeing little with his eyes. All that had happened since Bilbo left the Shire was passing through his mind, and he re- called and pondered everything that he could remember of Gandalf ’s words. Time went on, and still he was no nearer to a choice. Suddenly he awoke from his thoughts: a strange feeling came to him that something was behind him, that unfriendly eyes were upon him. He sprang up and turned; but all that he saw to his surprise was Boromir, and his face was smiling and kind.

“…And so it was,” the silver-haired narrator finished in a calm, deliberate tone. His keen yet weary eyes gleamed behind thick horn-rimmed glasses. In his neatly combed silver hair and flawlessly pressed tweed vest bearing a small university crest, it was easy to recognize Professor Tolkien himself — the experienced Game Master and renowned wordsmith.

“Boromir, Frodo,” he continued with characteristic academic composure, “you have exactly one turn left before an unavoidable combat encounter. The vanguard of the Uruk-hai has already crossed the forest boundary and is rapidly approaching your position.”

Boromir leaned forward in his chair, eyes locked on the intricately detailed topographical map spread across the table. He traced the terrain with his gaze, searching its folds and ridges as though it might yield the answer to every unspoken question. Only minutes earlier, he had delivered a passionate, well-reasoned speech, advocating for a detour to the open plains — faster, safer, and more defensible. In his fervor, he nearly elbowed the poised blond graduate student seated beside him, whose impeccable posture and refined elven grace made it clear who was playing Legolas. The elf had calmly but firmly insisted they leave the riverbank at once, relying on his “Elven Sight” ability to predict an imminent and dangerous clash.

As soon as that warning was voiced, Frodo — without hesitation — declared his intent to take the treacherous maze of Emyn Muil. Aragorn and Sam backed him immediately, their faith in the Ring-bearer unwavering. Boromir, stung, had no choice but to accept defeat in the heated debate. Silently fuming, he struggled to understand why they so stubbornly rejected the obvious path forward, one that had garnered the support of most of the table.

If Gandalf were still here, he would’ve brought that obstinate class rep to heel and ended this nonsense, Boromir thought bitterly, watching the dramatic scene unfold.

Around the massive oak table that served as their battlefield, a very particular academic hierarchy had taken root. The wise wizard — the group’s unquestioned authority — was, in real life, the department head. The noble heir Aragorn was played by a mild-mannered history lecturer from an old academic family. Gimli, all rumbling voice and booming laugh, ran the metallurgy lab. Legolas was a graceful, sharp-tongued PhD candidate. Frodo and Sam were earnest third-year philology students, while Merry and Pippin were the university’s most chaotic and irrepressible freshmen.

Boromir himself was still a newcomer. He had only recently joined the group, and the only player he truly knew was Gandalf — the very same professor who had, much to Boromir’s dismay, been called away from the session just an hour earlier due to a power outage on campus. Muttering something about “chasing away the darkness,” the old doctor of philology had hurried off, leaving his sole ally in unfamiliar company.

“Can I try once more to persuade him to move toward Gondor?” Boromir asked, adjusting his sweater and rubbing his temple. The game was dragging, but giving up wasn’t his way.

“You’ve already tried,” the Game Master said with a shrug. “No more rolls — the decision is made. But you can attempt to convince him of something else.”

Boromir frowned, eyes scanning his character sheet.

“Then I’ll try to persuade Frodo to give me the Ring,” he said, tapping the page where one motivation stood clear: To possess the One Ring. “It’s literally written in my backstory. Character development and all that.”

“Are you trying to persuade him,” the Game Master asked, raising an eyebrow, “or are you ready to use force? Statistically, you outmatch him by a considerable margin.”

“Persuasion only,” Boromir said firmly, adjusting his shirt collar. “I may have fallen to temptation, but I won’t stoop to violence against little ones.” He sighed deeply and, summoning all his resolve, rolled the twenty-sided die.

The die clattered loudly across the oak table, drawing held breaths from everyone around. When it finally came to rest — showing a natural one — a collective, muffled groan of disappointment echoed through the room. Frodo, by contrast, rolled a stunning nineteen.

“Not only do you fail,” said the Game Master in a soft but piercing tone, “you completely shatter what little trust remained. In a moment of desperation, under the Ring’s growing shadow, you… make a fatal decision to seize it by force. Roll again.”

With a trembling hand, Boromir cast the die once more. A three. Another devastating failure.

Behind the GM screen, Professor Tolkien frowned slightly, his brows knitting.

“Frodo swiftly evades your lunge, a large boulder coming between you. In a panic, he tears the chain from his neck, slips the Ring onto his finger — and vanishes from sight. You, stunned by your own actions, stumble blindly across the glade, trip over a root, and fall. The weight of what you’ve done crashes down upon you like an avalanche. You bury your face in trembling hands, overcome with guilt and tears of repentance.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by hushed whispers. In a far corner, Legolas and Gimli had drifted out of the scene, animatedly discussing specs of a new lab furnace. Aragorn, ever noble, immediately rushed after the vanished Frodo, while Sam, despite his painfully low Dexterity, scrambled after his master with steadfast devotion. Suddenly, Merry and Pippin — the ever-chaotic hobbit duo — charged into the approaching ranks of orcs with the reckless enthusiasm of true freshmen, yelling their trademark battle cry:

“Lerooooooy!”

Professor Tolkien allowed himself a quiet smile, clearly pleased that the story was unfolding along the most dramatic possible path.

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” he intoned.

The table fell silent, each player sensing the turning point ahead.

“Boromir,” said the Game Master, voice carrying a solemn edge, “your moment has come. Will you stand in defense of your young companions, knowing the price may be far too steep?”

“Do I even have a choice?” Boromir muttered with a bitter smile, gripping the die tightly before lowering it into an old ceramic dice bowl, its rim etched with runes. “I am a son of Gondor. It is my duty to protect the weak.”

But fate, it seemed, was no longer on his side. On this truly fateful day, even the noblest resolve would not escape its cruel mockery.

“You charge forward, placing yourself between Merry, Pippin, and the oncoming horde,” Tolkien declared, slowly adjusting his glasses, eyes fixed on the player. “Roll a d20 to test your Reflex.”

The dice roll, and the world holds its breath.

The twenty-sided die gleamed dimly in the lamplight, spinning slowly in the ancient ceramic bowl as if weighing the fate of a hero—until it stopped. A natural one. Fate, sealed like a verdict.

“Before the orcs complete their attack,” Boromir said quickly, scanning his character sheet with rising urgency, “I activate Horn of Gondor. I want to shift initiative order, give my allies a chance to act before the enemy.”

The professor nodded slowly, approving the tactical choice, but the orcs were already rolling. The die hit the table. A natural twenty. A perfect hit.

“The first black-feathered arrow, loosed by an Uruk-hai’s powerful arm, strikes true,” the Game Master intoned, “driving deep into your chest. But the mighty sound of the Horn of Gondor echoes through the woods, bouncing from rock to rock, calling for aid.”

A desperate saving throw. Boromir rolled. Another one. As if the gods themselves were mocking him.

“The second arrow hisses through the air and buries itself mercilessly in your side,” continued the professor. “But far off in the forest, the footsteps of allies can already be heard — Legolas and Aragorn answering the horn’s ancient call.”

One final chance to escape destiny. One final throw of the dice. Another one.

“The third arrow completes its grim work. Your fate is sealed, brave son of Gondor. But know this — your final, heroic cry was not in vain. The memory of your sacrifice will live on.”

“This is a damn conspiracy!” Boromir cried out, covering his suddenly pale face with trembling hands. “Three ones in a row? Are you kidding me?”

“The dice are fickle and cruel, my valiant friend,” said the GM, voice soft with sympathy. “But take heart — your horn was heard. Your allies will have a chance to protect the hobbits. Your sacrifice was not meaningless.”

While Legolas scrambled, flustered, to remember his healing abilities, and Aragorn frantically rushed forward with what little medicinal skill he had, Gimli slammed a fist on the table, bellowing with rage and ready to charge into battle to protect the young ones. Boromir stared down bitterly at his character sheet. He slowly crumpled it in his fist, propped his cheek on one hand, then, with unsteady fingers, took out his phone and began typing a short, despair-filled message to Faramir:

You: I take it back. Next time, I won’t fight you for the Rivendell Uni expedition slot. Seriously. I just got hit by three nat 1s in a row… Also, the pompous guy’s chubby friend just roasted me in verse like we were in a damn rap battle.

Little Brother: Well… you asked for it. You even talked Dad into sending you. What was it you said? “There are no direct routes”?

You: There weren’t! My legs are dead from all this trekking. At least I’m heading home soon. Pub night?

Little Brother: Pub night. But don’t whine and don’t make that face like you just ate the world’s sourest lemon.

The game continued. Far away, the Anduin thundered on. Birds wheeled above Tol Brandir. And a small hobbit, invisible to all mortal eyes, took his first steps toward losing himself — and saving the world.

Inspired by:

Ecthelion II had always been… particular. Not in the sense of shocking his people (though, admittedly, he did so on occasion — but only for good reason). Rather, in all things — his habits, his way of life, his views — he seemed to move quietly against expectation.

He looked every bit the noble lord: lean, silver-haired, and possessed of that quiet steel so often glimpsed in the blood of Númenor. But his daily routines? Entirely unsuitable for a man of his rank. Ecthelion hardly drank, ate sparingly, slept little — and every single dawn found him in the courtyard, clad not in finery but in a simple cloak over an old training tunic, stretching his joints as the City Guard assembled, still blinking from sleep.

The guards had long grown used to it. At first, they blushed and looked away — “awkward to admire the steward like a statue,” they’d mutter. But soon they grew accustomed, and two young recruits even began to copy the movements in secret, hoping that after a few months they too might be saluted with such respect.

Yet the true marvels happened behind closed doors. In his cedar-scented chambers, Ecthelion would kneel, close his eyes — and silence would fall. The world hushed, reduced to a soft vibration, a whisper of the Ainur’s ancient Music — the Elven hymns he once heard in Rivendell. First, the weighty thoughts of Dol Amroth’s letters would fade. Then, the northern roads lost their urgency. And deep in his mind, a warm, resonant chord would rise — like the breath of the White Tree itself.

He could sit for hours, meditating, until the candle burned down to the base and the miruvor, gathered under Lórien’s silver moonlight, shimmered in his cup like amber tears.

And in the evening — the soft glow of a milk-lamp, gentle shadow, and quiet Elvish breath-words, the kind Elrond had once taught him, back when no one yet dreamed Mordor might rise again. A single touch to the right place — and the weight of the day would slip from his shoulders, like an arrow pulled from flesh.

But who said wisdom must dwell in shadows?

This was why the courtyard saw him each morning, though he could’ve stretched in private. Ecthelion believed: example was the best herald. Let the people see their lord did not hide behind marble walls, but shared with them the chill of dew and the fresh light of dawn. And so it came to be: city boys began holding their own “Steward’s workouts,” and market vendors argued whose herbmasters could better reproduce the Steward’s tonic blend.

On that May morning, coppery with sunrise, Ecthelion stood in a pose strange to the untrained eye: right leg lifted, arms extended, spine straight as Gil-galad’s spear. He was perfectly still — like a statue.

“Grandpa…?” came a small, husky voice from the edge of the courtyard, barely breaking the morning stillness.

From behind a tall marble column etched with the ancient sigils of Gondor peeked five-year-old Boromir — tousle-haired, half-asleep, clutching a massive tome to his chest. He looked more like a runaway scribe’s apprentice than the future heir of the Steward. His linen shirt was askew, pillow lines marked one cheek, and under his eyes sat that special kind of weary injustice that belongs only to children who’ve woken too early.

“Why aren’t you at council?” Boromir blinked, clearly baffled by the sight before him: his grandfather, instead of seated in finery at the table of state, stood balancing like an acrobat from far southern lands.

“The council begins when the day blooms,” Ecthelion replied, not opening his eyes or moving a muscle. “And the day begins with balance.”

The boy stepped closer, his grey Númenórean eyes wide with wonder.

“You’ve been standing like that a—awfully long time,” he noted with suspicion, tilting his head. “Are you waiting for your enemies to fall over from exhaustion?”

The Steward smiled just slightly — a quiet, cryptic smile, like stained-glass saints whispering secrets to one another.

“No, young one. I am learning not to fall myself.”

“Oh,” Boromir nodded gravely, straightening to his full (still quite small) height. “Can I do it too?” With the solemn determination known only to five-year-olds, Boromir placed his hefty tome onto a carved stone bench — with all the gravity of an ancient ritual. Then he hurriedly kicked off his boots — one landed sideways with a dull thunk, but who cared about tidy footwear when something as vital as balance was at stake?

He planted himself beside his grandfather, arms stretching, one leg lifting in imitation of the Steward. The result… was not quite graceful. He wobbled like a sapling in the wind, head swinging as he struggled to regain equilibrium, and then straightened again with fierce resolve.

Heron Pose, as performed by young Boromir, more closely resembled the confused flailing of a newborn chick deciding whether to peck left or right at the air.

“Not bad for a first attempt,” the old man observed dryly, though a faint warmth lingered beneath his voice. “But your breath is uneven — like a spring mountain stream — and your spine curves like the bow of a Gondorian archer.”

“It’s Faramir’s fault,” the boy huffed, nearly losing his balance again. “He cried all night again. Probably ‘cause no one lets him try on real armor yet. That’s why he’s mad all the time, like a baby.”

“He’s barely learned to walk. Armor would be a bit much.”

“Well I’m not a baby anymore!” Boromir said, suddenly animated. “I even dreamed I was wearing real armor on the tallest wall in the city, and everyone was looking at me like… like at Toro—”

He squinted, his face scrunching in valiant concentration.

“Torona… Toron…”

“Thorongil,” his grandfather offered gently, still perfectly balanced, like a statue carved from stone.

Boromir lit up like a sunbeam breaking through morning mist.

“Yes! That’s it! I’ll be a great warrior one day too. Just like him. Only…”

And then the little heron, attempting a heroic pivot, flailed both arms wildly — as if trying to grab hold of the air — and landed with a soft plop on the clean stone floor.

“Grandpa, are your legs made of iron?” he asked, genuine in his bewilderment.

“No, little warrior,” Ecthelion replied. “I’ve simply lived through enough winters to know: in old age, one learns to hold the earth tighter — like an ancient tree clutching deep with its roots.”

“Well, I don’t want to hold the ground that tight just yet,” Boromir said philosophically, yawning so wide it could’ve swept half the courtyard into drowsiness. “I’d rather nap a little.”

And with that, he curled up right at the Steward’s feet, cheek pressed to his beloved tome as though it were a pillow woven from the feathers of legendary Elven swans. Three quiet breaths later, his chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of peaceful sleep, and on his lips bloomed that rare smile only found on contentedly dreaming children.

Ecthelion opened his eyes and slowly lowered his leg. The stone beneath him gave no sound — though surely it longed to sigh. He bent down, carefully lifted his grandson, and placed a gentle hand on his tousled hair.

“There. Balance,” he whispered — not to the court, nor to the guards, but to the very light of dawn that kissed the high towers of the city.

The guards they passed stood to attention, backs straight — but in their eyes flickered not formal respect, but something warmer: a quiet, almost familial pride.

And if anyone later claimed the Steward skipped half his morning routine that day, Ecthelion would only smile. Physical discipline was a noble virtue — but the strength to stoop for the small and the weary? That was the true might of Númenor.