#denethor

(Boromir & Denethor, Rated G, >1000 words, @boromir-week)

A poem for Denethor

Tagging @boromir-week I’m so excited to be part of this! Thanks for running this!

Mettare with the Fellowship—Boromir (2515 words) by TearfulNienna Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Boromir & Denethor II | 26th Steward of Gondor & Faramir (Tolkien), Boromir & Faramir (Tolkien) Characters: Boromir (Tolkien), Faramir (Tolkien), Denethor II | 26th Steward of Gondor (Tolkien), Mentioned Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Mentioned Mardil the Good Steward Additional Tags: Good Sibling Boromir (Tolkien), Nerdy Faramir, Bad Parent Denethor II | 26th Steward of Gondor (Tolkien), Young Faramir (Tolkien), Proud Boromir, Fluff and Angst Series: Part 1 of Mettare with the Fellowship Summary: Boromir comes home from a winter patrol to struggle with family dynamics and remind his little brother that he is loved.

He was exhausted to the very depths of his being. Long ago his second wind had come and flitted away, leaving his every step as a strenuous exercise of the will. Still, he was determined never to admit his aching limbs and heavy tread, so he stabled his own horse and shouldered his pack for the long climb to his chambers. Slowly, he climbed the time-worn steps to the upper floors of the citadel. He arrived at his door panting for breath, and opening the door, cast his pack on the floor and allowed himself to sprawl onto the bed. Silence at last. It was an unusual thought for him, he supposed idly; usually it was Faramir or even his Father that breathed out that sentence after a long day.  

A knock sounded on the door, and a voice told him that “My lord Boromir’s bath is prepared.” 

Boromir thanked the voice and smiled in surprise; it came to him that he had not been addressed as ‘My Lord’ since he left to command his company. His men called him Captain Boromir, or simply Captain, never ‘my lord’ as the servants of the Citadel did. As he washed his hair, he reflected that at times it was like being two people: one captain of Gondor, the other heir to the Ruling Steward. I wonder, does Faramir ever feel the same? Perhaps not, as he has yet to join the army. He smiled to himself at the thought of Faramir in the army—he would excel, even if he hated every moment of his time—but he was distracted by his bath, and the thought washed away like the grime on his body. It felt good to be truly clean again and the bath revived his flagging endurance. As he dressed, his vitality returned to him, pulsing through his veins as new life through the veins of a sapling after long awaited rain. Lying on the bed, as he ran a towel through his hair, he wondered where his father and brother were. Usually one of them was there, waiting for him, or at least would have greeted him before now. And tonight was in some way more special, for Boromir was home for Mettare, home until the weather once again made warfare practical. Sighing, he rolled off the bed and went across the hall to Faramir’s bedchamber. Finding no sign of him, he strolled down the passage and investigated the school room. He was highly unlikely to still be there, but sometimes the tutor kept Faramir late, and had kept Boromir himself late, for rather trivial misdemeanors. Sure enough, that room also was empty. 

“Only the library left now, I suppose.”

He had left it until last, not because it was the least likely place for his brother to be, but because it was an rambling warren filled with places to lose oneself in. Then too, Boromir’s favored method of finding anyone was to shout their name, and as the old lore master that kept the place looked askance at loud noises in his domain, it was difficult to find people. For once, his brother was visible upon entry. Faramir was sitting at one of the reading tables, absorbed in a leather covered tome. Five years the younger at fifteen, Faramir was a slight boy, cast in a very different mold than his broadly built brother, and yet there were similarities also: the black hair, the gray eyes, the slight twist of the mouth when amused. Boromir noticed that his brother looked weary and rather thin.

“Faramir, do you care so little for your brother that you neglect to greet him when he comes home?” Boromir called softly and not without sarcasm. Faramir turned around quickly and shot his brother a smile that seemed to have the sun behind it. 

“Good day to you as well, brother,” Faramir smirked. “They said you would arrive after midnight, so I buried myself in here that no one might order me to bed before I had seen you with my own eyes. But then, I suppose, you stole a march on me and arrived some time ago.“ 

Boromir slung his arm over his his brother’s shoulders. “Well, well, little brother, you have put a great deal of thought into seeing me tonight. What is that?”

Faramir, used to his sibling’s abrupt changing of the subject, caught on quickly, and looked down at the book in his hands.

“It is called The Account and History of the House of the Stewards by Belecthor II. It’s quite fascinating.” 

Boromir smiled, his brother’s love of lore was rather a mystery to him. He would most certainly have fallen asleep if he had so much as attempted to read The Account and History of the House of the Stewards. 

“Where is Father?” he asked, in lieu of having to ask Faramir more about the House of the Stewards. 

“He is in council, finishing affairs that cannot wait until after Mettare.” Faramir answered. There was a slight tension in his voice and a control that was palpable, though Boromir thought that it was not meant to be so. 

“How has it been, with you together?” Boromir asked tentatively, half not wanting to ask, yet needing to know.

“Alright. There were no obvious disasters.” Faramir tried to sound amused, but his elder brother was not fooled. Their father’s general indifference for his second son hurt Faramir more than he cared to admit. Boromir squeezed his brother to him and only let go when he felt Faramir cozy into him. 

“And your campaign, it was a success?” Faramir asked, turning the conversation from his tense relationship with his father to the one topic certain to animate his elder brother.

“In some ways, yes. We put a few bands of orcs to the sword but also put ourselves at the mercy of one of the worst frosts every recorded in Gondor’s long history. Even in the darkest corner of my mind, I never imagined being so cold! The snow was up to my knees! Faramir, I can put it no plainer, it was numbing.”

“Would you like to see a healer?” Faramir questioned.

“Why?” Boromir inquired, looking at his brother in confusion.

“Usually,” Faramir explained, though now Boromir saw humor in his eyes. “I ask you about your campaigns, and you relate a moment by moment account of every skirmish, battle, and minor happening. Today, you give me a flowery account of the weather patterns in Anorien. I wondered if the cold had gone to your head.”

Boromir laughed heartily. “I fear the frigidness was the sole distinguishing feature of a rather dull patrol. There was nothing much to notice otherwise; no casualties, no disastrous strategic errors, nothing except a few cases of frostbite. Come on, let us find Father and then some food, for I am famished.”

Faramir nodded, rose and replaced the volume on one of the many bookcases in the library, and the two went in search of their father. They knocked on his study, and were requested to enter. 

The Ruling Steward of Gondor, Denethor son of Ecthelion, inspired a respectful fear, almost an awe of one far removed from the ignorant masses, even in his sons. In truth, he loved his children, though his mind was much taken up with the political matters of Gondor, but he himself was often unaware of the high place his two sons had in his heart, especially when it came to Faramir. Too much perhaps, Faramir was drawn to the love of lore and history, a trait Denethor himself possessed. Moreover, Denethor had seen that popular opinion did not value such things in a society dominated by war. Thus he sought to quash it in his son. Perhaps he still irrationally blamed this second son of his for the weakening and demise of his wife, Finduilas. Perhaps even, he feared to be reminded of the love of his life, who had given much of her mood of gentleness to Faramir, lest he appear weak in his lasting grief. Of any love that he made plain in these days, the greatest was for Boromir, his firstborn and heir, the light of his eyes and radically different from himself. In his turn, Boromir made up for the lack of outward affection bestowed on Faramir by giving a great deal of his time to the care of his little brother.

Today, their father was in an especially gracious mood, Boromir thought. At least he was whistling to himself as he organized the last leaves of logistical planning for Gondor’s government, for even the government stayed its steel cogs for a few days at Mettare.

He looked up and smiled. “Welcome home, Boromir!” He crossed the room and embraced his son, praising him for his devotion to his duty. After some time the object of all this praise managed to get a word in. 

“I wonder if we might have something to eat? I am sorry to interrupt you, Father, but I could at this moment eat a horse at one sitting.”

“Of course.” Denethor answered, “The day-meal will be ready. Come.”

Faramir followed his father and brother, unperturbed, but pained by his father’s complete disregard for his presence.

During the day meal, Denethor turned the conversation ever back to the exploits of Boromir. Denethor’s firstborn swelled inwardly with pride. He knew that no one was so valiant for Gondor as he. It was he, was it not, that had reversed the tide of battle, taking command, and at the tender age of eighteen been victorious? He who was the greatest man of prowess in Gondor? However, as the long litany of his triumphs rambled on, Boromir ceased to feel proud and began to feel slightly guilty, for he knew quite well that he had done nothing, at least on this patrol, to merit such praise. Also, he became painfully aware that his father had not yet so much as inquired into his brother’s day. But still, he was enjoying this praise, though his conscience told him that if indeed he was a great man he ought to draw Faramir into the conversation. As it happened, he was saved from this dilemma by Denethor, who seemed to have run out of praises for his elder son. 

“Faramir, your tutor said you expressed interest in the study of astronomy and that you would like to stop studying, what did you say? 

“I was hoping you would let me give up wrestling, Father.”

“And what good do you suppose astronomy does, young man?” Without waiting for an answer from his son he continued. “You will continue with your wrestling and you will improve! Your wrestling instructor has spoken to me of your shameful incompetence in his area, and I am surprised that you would dream of suggesting giving up on it. Your brother was always very competent in wrestling. I do not want to hear any more about it, is that clear? In fact it would perhaps be better if you did not say anything at all. Boys were made to be seen—not that they are much to look at—and not heard. They are far too enamored with the sound of their voice, not knowing that they would learn wisdom if they listened.”

“Yes, Father.” Faramir’s face was a blank, unreadable, but tense and rigid. Boromir heard his own voice hollow and empty, saying, “It’s very cold for the time of year, is it not?” He felt a icy lump in his throat. Why could he not of been truly bad at something physical, if only to make Faramir’s road a little easier?

Later Boromir wandered up to Faramir’s chamber and knocked on the door. He went in, sat down, and put his feet up on the mantlepiece, knocking off several volumes of Mardil the Good Steward’s Ethics and Gentility. 

“You read this ancestor of ours?” Boromir enquired in horror.

“Actually, no, I do not. But the aunts have a desire for me to read and enjoy it. They seem to buy me a copy once a year. Pointedly, they always underline the entirety of the chapter about the conduct of younger sons of the Steward.” 

Boromir removed his feet from the mantlepiece and leaned forward nearer his brother.

“Can I do something, little brother?” he asked with concern.

Faramir shook his head. 

“The wrestling, what made you bring it up? Surely you knew that Father’s reaction would be something like it was? I do not want to hurt you, but it does seem a little inevitable.”

“Of course I knew, but, Boromir, wrestling is awful. I simply do not have the body weight for it; I give it my all every day and yet I cannot stay on my feet for more than a few minutes. That tutor supposes that I am purposely ignoring his advice, and the rest of the boys think I am a weakling because I cannot hurl someone to the ground by rubbing against them. Father agrees with both parties, it seems.”

“Well, they are wrong. You are no weakling, Faramir son of Denethor, and you know it!Boromir exploded. “After all, you are proficient with sword and bow, especially for your age.” 

Faramir nodded weakly. “I am better with a bow, but yes, I am thought surpass most of my peers in the practice ring.” 

He lapsed into silence again, lacing and unlacing his fingers nervously. Boromir leaned forward and said softly, “So—what has got you tying yourself in knots?”

“Do you think I speak too much, Boromir?” Faramir asked in a rush, looking imploringly up at his big brother. 

Boromir joined Faramir on the bed. “No, I do not believe that you are inordinately fond of your own voice, Faramir. In fact, as you hardly ever string more than twenty words together as it is, if you speak less, you might as well take a vow of silence and become a hermit,” Boromir’s mouth twitched in amusement at his joke. 

“Forget about it for tonight, and tomorrow, I will take you down to the practice yards, and teach you to use your build to your advantage. I am afraid that it will do little good in wrestling, but in a real fight, or even in sparring, you will be deadly when I’m finished with you. In the meantime, take some rest.” 

Faramir threw himself into his brother’s arms with wild abandon. “Thank you, thank you, Boromir!”

The elder laughed and tousled Faramir’s hair, and squeezed him before getting up. Before he quite reached the door, he turned, and said,“I love you, Faramir, and Father does, even when he is rough.”

To Boromir’s great relief, a real smile lighted Faramir’s face. “I love you too, Boromir. I’ve missed you so awfully.”

Ndani-tháro (Denethor) of the Nandor never saw sunlight as he was born and died before the First Sunrise. But he would have loved the fresh green of the forests in spring and summer.

Cosplay & edit: Foedhrass

A woman pretty enough to mother Boromir and Faramir bc they 100% did not get their good looks from their dad.