#Boromir Warden of the Tower

[haaaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Boromir, Warden of the Tower by Yigit Koroglu

[taxusbaccata6]

[hjbirthdaywishes]

April 17, 2024

Happy 65 Birthday to Sean Bean.

[patron-saint-of-emesis]

read thru every x reader fic of my favorite character in a like two day binge. theres none left. im dying. im dying and rotting. boromir i miss u

[almostlookedhuman]

[oncloudatlas]

"There was a tall man with a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance."

Boromir, High Warden of the White Tower ( ft. @chasseusedetoiles )

[jolyneart]

This'll be a long-ish post about my The Locked Tomb themed MTG deck and how I made like 20 versions of it before I decided to build it (and how I'm still working on it).

(I want to do legit art for this card)

If you are part of the Venn diagram of these two interests, or you want to see my slow descent into madness ovear a year of trying to put cardboard together, check the spoilers below.

So, I haven't been playing Magic for too long (a bit over a year). Weirdly I have owned cards since original Ixalan, but I never bothered learning to play until a friend invited me to play commander. I just wanted them for the pretty pictures, I have always admired Magic artists and they have been a huge inspiration on my art career.

Anyways, not too long after I started to play, I got this idea into my head that I should do a Locked Tomb commander deck.

"That'd be fun!" I thought

Well

All of these are over a year old (and are not my only first attempts, but I'll talk about those later).

I had two main issues when starting to build this deck:

1- I have never been interested into deck-building before in a card game

2- I have no fucking idea of what I'm doing

The first commander I chose to lead this deck, that I still think thematically fits within TLT universe, is Ratadrabik of Urborg

This Rat of a man has given me so many headaches, I'm sure that now I'd be able to do make a half-decent deck with him in the lead, hell I do have a black/white aristocrats deck that he could command just fine.

But my issue was that I had no idea how to balance his legends theme and zombie kindred theme at the same time, in the same deck. I was just incapable. And all of my results, budget or not, were jank piles that did very little or exploded into an infinite combo with cards like Boromir, Warden of the Tower or Nazgul. It just didn't feel right and the Locked Tomb theme was barely holding on by a thread with the things I was putting in there. There were barely ANY skeletons in any of these! (this will keep happening)

Anyways, after giving up on Ratadrabik (which btw I think would make for a great Ianthe proxy) I moved on to find some other commander and color combination that'd enable something else that wasn't a pile of legendary creatures.

Queue in Varina, Lich Queen

It's a Zombie Wizard! She cares about zombies, those are kind of early skeletons! She raises the undead herself!

Well, I do think Varina is great, and in other world where I knew how to build decks back then, she might just have been my Harrow commander deck

I don't even think the decks I made for her were that bad at all, just extremely expensive. And also the zombie theme, while much better supported mechanically, I didn't feel really represented the kind of necromantic powers we see in the books at all.

Shoutout to Mikaeus, he'd make for a great Jod if anyone wants to make a deck about our lord and savior the undying emperor.

Ok, now I'm going to take a bit of a detour to talk about what I actually like playing in mtg (not just commander). I predictably really enjoy playing black and graveyard strategies, but also really love putting big idiot beaters into the field with those strategies .I know, groundbreaking. But it is what it is, two of my favourite decks do this in one way or another.

God's perfect deck, my Sauron deck, was my first precon, that has left the lands of preconstruction long ago and is my dearest possession. Is it my most powerful deck? nope. Is it unbeatable? Not really, I almost never win with this deck.

What BIG Sauron does is, in an extremely thematic way, become a problem for everyone at the table, do evil things, and have everyone beat me down for my reanimation crimes.

If you are interested, you can check out that deck here.

Anyways sorry, back to the locked tomb, SO I like the graveyard right? Wouldn't it be nice that there'd be a famous woman necromancers in mtg? What if she leaded the deck?

Well, the most that I can say is that there really can be too much of a good thing. I'm talking about swamps.

Initially I had these two running around in the Ratadrabik deck. I still stand by the idea of having these flip walkers be young Harrow/Gideon and flip them into their "First House" versions. The Gideon/Kiriona and Kytheon/Gideon thing still drives me insane.

I was too sad discarding them, so I grabbed the Lilly card and tried to make it work, I really tried, I put on a lot of effort and care. But it didn't work, it wasn't her, it was me.

I built a pretty generic aristocrat shell, but I think that type of archetype really benefits of having more colors to work with (specially white).

So, with three commanders locked in the tomb (I also tried a Gut rakdos deck but I'm not even going to talk about it), what was next? I spent months on these and still had nothing to show for it. Was I the problem? Was I cursed with bad deck dissease?

No, that cannot be. I'm building other decks while this is going on and those are doing just fine. Lae'zel//Master Chef, Gandalf Big Artifacts. The issue might be that the head of the deck is always caring for just the one thing, there was not much diversity. I kept making Necromancers but had no Cavaliers to back them up.

If there could just be a way to have two little guys up there in the command zone. Wait a minute...

So, this was truly a jank fest. Partner is an extremely strong mechanic in commander, and Tymna is specially strong as a card to have access early. So I decided to justify using these to make the biggest pile of nonsense happen.

Equipment? check. Initiative? check. Skeletons? check. Zombies? check. Graveyard? check. Lifegain? check.

While goldfishing I realized that while the commanders do a great job to sustain the rest of the deck, the ammount of themes and archetypes made this a pile of cards that I can barely call a deck. And worst of all, they enabled two pretty strong commanders, and that didn't feel that'd be satisfactory at all in actual play.

I even prepared proxies for these! Feel free to use them if you want.

Also, I tried the whole partner thing swapping out Tymna for Ikra Shidiqi. Bringing out another whole color didn't help with the theme soup I was working with.

So I wholy abandoned the idea of both partners, and maybe even making this deck.

Maybe my hopes and dreams of having a functional silly lesbians and skeletons deck were doomed (yuri) from the beginning.

Months pass, I built 3 or 4 other decks in the meantime that work, can compete and be fun, sometimes all at the same time if you'd believe it. I had completely lost faith in this deck idea.

All until one day, were I was checking out a pile of cards I had pulled from the recent MH3 set to put them into my binder. And then I see it. There he was, this fucking guy with a shovel(?), looking at me.

I read again his fairly big wall of text, what does this guy do again?

Oh, he does necromancy stuff? attacks? wait wait, he draws POWER from the GRAVEYARD?? in JUND?

He really saved it. Not only I feel this perfectly represents the dynamics of Cavalier is in charge of creating enough thanergy for their necromancer, but ALSO does the necromancer thing, and ALSO loves having like 10 power and beating down face. This was a message, the dream was still alive.

So, I make a list, I order cards, I scrounge cards from my other black decks. And there it is. It's real

The Locked Tomb Griddlehark Commander Deck

But... that's not how my list looks right now. Yeah I know this deck is cursed into being always changing I think. But, the main issue here was what I said before. It had to pull cards from multiple decks to sustain itself. And I learned quickly that I don't like having my baby, my Sauron, being not functional, and that keeping track of what cards are where and swapping them out constantly sucks tremendously.

So, I pulled back most of the cards to their original decks. What was left was a corpse, a beautiful incomplete deck. So I selected cards from my collection, lower powered ones, niche ones, weird ones, and put them in for their more powerful counterparts.

It's function is extremely simple, it fills it's graveyard quickly, ramps, and with Coram on the battlefield, you turn that self-mill into card advantage, the graveyard into a power source and bring back powerful creatures like the Resurrection Beasts (Eldrazi)

There also are skeletons in there, of course.

This deck needed to die many deaths to exist. But isn't that the theme?

I'll make sure to put up the new decklist on my moxfield whenever I get a few upgrades.

[ass-deep-in-demons]

Please don't think I'm trying to trick you into doing my homework for me, BUT... you obviously know Gondor/Men/Númenóreans much better than I do, so I come seeking headcanons and advice!

Your "Speaking Tongues" masterpiece is set in 3006, so you must have given thought to what Boromir's life was like in those years, when he was new as Captain and still in the fresh years of this 20s. Do you have any headcanons of his activities, duties, and military accomplishments in those days? Obviously there were already rising conflicts and troubles with Mordor going on, but how involved do you think Boromir was in them when he was younger? Were there any significant experiences that might have molded him?

You always seem very detailed and action oriented in your fics, so I see you as one of the best people to ask! 😊 I don't want to cause you to spoil your own fics, so please be as vague as you need to! Thank you in advance.

I ALWAYS HAVE TIME TO TALK ABOUT BOROMIR, so thank you for this ask :D

A lot of my headcanons about Boromir's upbringing have already been included in my works, but I can share a few details here :D

1. Adolescence. I headcanon that both Boromir and Faramir were knighted when they entered adulthood, and as such, had to first have been squires. In my AU, Boromir squired under his uncle the Prince of Dol Amroth, and so has formed a closer relationship with Imrahil and his family. Faramir was not afforded such honour, and istead squired in Pinnath Gaelin, where he met and befriended Lord Hirluin.

2. Courtship. It seems unrealistic to me that Boromir would remain unmarried for so long, with no efforts from the Steward to secure the line. He was an heir to a kingdom! And his dad was a control freak! So I headcanon that Boromir was previously engaged. To whom, and what became of her, would be too much of a spoiler :D

3. Titles & duties.

I based the hierarchy of Minas Tirith on the scarce information from the books and took some elements from Lord of the Rings Online.

Over the years, as the Steward gradually descended into a paranoia, Boromir was saddled with more and more official duties. At being knighted, he received the title of Captain of the White Tower (the Citadel) - in my headcanon a leader of the Steward's Knight Cavalry. This had been a title historically given to the Heir to the Throne of Gondor, and it was the title that Boromir used in the books during the introductions in Rivendell. This title also came with certain representative functions at the Steward's Court (which Boromir absolutely hated). It also granted Boromir a privileged seat in the Council of Gondor.

Later Boromir got appointed Captain-General (at the age of 28). This meant he became the leader of the five Captains of Minas Tirith, the Barons of Anorien, and the main coordinator of Gondor's armed forces. Faramir mentions this title of Boromir in Return of the King.

However, later, when Boromir was 33, he also became High Warden of the White Tower (the Burg). Again, Faramir mentions this as one of Boromir's titles in the books. I headcanon that this title gave Boromir jurisdiction over the Citadel Guard, which essentially made Boromir the chief of Minas Tirith Police.

Now that is A LOT of responsibility to saddle one person with, however, at that point Boromir was well used to working over his capacity. The reason the Steward did this was because he, forseeing the war with Mordor, wanted to consolidate power and strengthen the position of the Steward relative to the Council. By giving those titles to his son and heir, he gained advantave over the other great houses. He also did not want the control over the army and the city to go to any of the rival councillors.

(Poor Boromir needs years of therapy after dealing with all this.)

4. As for possible military campaigns and adventures, I sort of need to do further research on this myself. I try to build over canon and expand it wherever I can :D

Thank you for asking!!! I could talk about Boromir for hours! <3

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

“Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old...But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death.'

'So be it,' said Faramir.”  

-JRR Tolkien, The Return of the King, “The Siege of Gondor”

[ID: An edit comprised of six posters in shades of light brown. 1: A close-up one side of model Jeenu Mahadevan's face. He has brown skin, dark hair and eyes, and is looking to the right with a neutral expression. White text in the center reads "faramir" in all caps, and underneath in cursive, "captain of gondor" / 2: Light shining through an unseen doorway, making an arch shape on one tan wall of a room with a brown and white-tiled floor. A palm frond leans in one corner. Small white text inset into a thin frame reads "one of the kings of men born into a later time." There is a white line drawing of a stem of flowers in the center / 3: A vase of leafy branches sitting beside and a metal bowl on a shelf, framed by tan-tiled walls. Large text in all-caps reads "prince of ithilien," set into a frame surrounding more text, reading "son of the steward denethor & finduilas of dol-amroth," "younger brother of boromir, high warden of the white tower," "pupil of the wizard mithrandir," "husband to the lady éowyn, shield-maiden & princess of rohan," and "beloved of aragorn elessar & arwen undómiel his queen." All the names are in cursive / 4: Jeenu Mahdevan, half-reclining on one elbow. He is wearing a striped button-down shirt and is looking to the left. Same text as Image 1 / 5: Jeenu Mahadevan, holding one arm across his body and wearing a white shirt and black jacket. Only the lower half of his face is visible. Same text as Image 1 / 6: A citadel with tan walls, constructed in a traditional middle eastern style. A person is visible standing on a staircase. Text in the same layout as Image 2 reads "but touched with the wisdom & sadness of the eldar." The flower drawing is upside-down /End ID]

[hottpinkpenguin]

Knees - Boromir X Fem!Reader

Oneshot, word count: 3,167 Summary: You've tried to keep your feelings for Gondor's favored captain a secret, and done a damn good job. Until now. Warnings: angst, fluff, heavy steam, implied oral sex A/n: the poem in this oneshot borrows heavily from the lyrics of 'Old Gods' by Emily Scott Robinson (highly recommend her music if you enjoy Nanci Griffith, James Taylor, or Joni Mitchell)

Boromir could feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing at his temples. The din of the crowd milling around the Tower Hall was grating on his last nerve. His father had insisted on an extravagant banquet to celebrate his recent successes as the High Warden of the White Tower, but Boromir would have preferred to rest and spend the evening strolling through the streets of Gondor unbothered. Eager to get away from the crowd, Boromir strode out of the busy throne room onto the south facing balcony.

The night air was warm and smelled of jasmine. Boromir took a deep inhale, leaning his hands on the rail of the balcony and gazing out over the Pelennor Fields, the expanse of grassland that stretched out from Minas Tirith’s feet towards the banks of the Anduin. Boromir strained his eyes against the dim twilight; he thought he could make out the parapets of Osgiliath, Gondor’s first capital, now little more than a ruined river crossing. Faramir was there, as commander of the city’s garrison. Boromir had ordered his brother to oversee repairs to the old city to prepare for the coming battle. Beyond the dark smudge of Osgiliath’s long-vacant towers, an ominous blackness loomed over the land of Mordor. His thoughts turned bleak as he wondered what was stirring behind the mountains in that black land. Scouts reports had confirmed that orcs were-

Boromir jumped at the tinny clang of something metal hitting the stone floor in a darkened corner of the balcony. Instinctually, Boromir’s right hand grasped at the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it in barely more than a breath. He crouched into a warrior’s pose, his sword held out in front of him and his features steely as he looked for the source of the noise.

The quickness of his movements startled you almost as much as your clumsiness had startled him. You were glad for the darkness as you felt your face flush with embarrassment at your discovery. You hadn’t expected the High Captain of Gondor to skip out on his own banquet; in fact, you’d been counting on having the balcony all to yourself, so you’d be able to write in peace. There certainly wouldn’t be anymore of that, now that the small candelabra you’d been using for light was in two pieces on the stone floor. 

You leapt to your feet, muttering apologies and trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest. You’d never been so close to Boromir before, and certainly not alone in the dark. Your mouth went dry at the realization. 

As one of the Steward’s personal scribes, you’d spent most of your life in the Tower Hall of Minas Tirith. On occasion, your work brought you into close contact with both of Denethor’s sons. Faramir was something of a friend to you, despite the difference in your stations. You both shared a love of the written word and his quiet temperament mirrored yours, making you fast friends. But it was Faramir’s older brother, the handsome and lordly High Warden, that made you go weak in the knees. It had been that way since you’d been old enough to notice such things.

You’d always admired him from a distance and kept your desires to yourself, confiding your feelings only in the pages of your journals. Nothing would come of your infatuation, you knew; Boromir was next in line for the Steward’s role, which was the closest thing Gondor had to a king. His title required him to wed someone of noble birth, and you knew his father would have nothing but the best for his favorite son. While your family was not poor and your duties as a scribe were a great source of pride to them, you did not have the aristocratic heritage needed to be a worthy match for the High Warden. And even if you did, he’s never looked twice at you, a harsh inner voice reminded you, causing your fragile heart to crumple at the reminder.

“Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t wish to disturb you.” Your voice sounded small and pathetic, and you felt your cheeks blaze with renewed embarrassment. 

Boromir relaxed at the sound of your voice, dropping his sword and chuckling softly. 

“You shouldn’t make a habit of startling armed men, you know,�� Boromir chided you gently as he bent to pick up the fragments of the broken candelabra at your feet. He was so close that you could see the seams on his blue brocade tunic. When he stood, the candelabra in his hands, he stood almost a half foot taller than you. If you’d been bold enough to hold his gaze, you would have been forced to incline your chin up at him. But you kept your eyes fixed intently on the gray stone floor, hoping he couldn’t hear the erratic thudding of your heart in your chest. He was so close you swore you could feel the faint tickle of his breath on your temple. Your skin erupted in flames where his breath danced over it.

“I’ll make a note of that, my Lord,” you stammered in reply, barely able to keep your voice from breaking. 

“Please, Y/N, how long have you known me? Dispense with the ‘my Lord’ nonsense, I beg you. I’ve heard enough of that tonight.” The sound of your name in his voice sent a thrill running up your spine. You hadn’t realized that Boromir knew you apart from the dozens of other faces he saw on a daily basis around the halls of the Steward’s quarters. That fact, coupled with the High Warden’s closeness, scattered your thoughts like marbles on a smooth floor until you didn’t trust yourself not to press yourself against him, twine your fingers in his hair, press your lips to his, run your hands along the planes of his stomach, pant his name until you were breathless, grab his-

You audibly let out a small, breathless gasp as you tore yourself away and bid your feet to run. You knew that if you stayed that close to him for one more second you would do something irreparable and shameful. All you heard as you left, practically sprinting away into the relative safety of the well-lit throne room, was the blood pounding in your head. It drowned out the sound of the night breeze, the sounds of the party, and the sound of Boromir calling after you…

**********

Boromir watched as y/n scurried away like a frightened animal into the banquet room once again. He must have misread the signals, must have misinterpreted the tension in the air between them. Boromir wasn’t used to being rebuffed in his advances; most people were swayed by his easy charm, his skill with a sword, and his title at the very least. But y/n seemed immune to him, always preferring the quiet company of Faramir. Feeling frustrated and embarrassed, he called out after y/n, but his voice was swallowed up by the sounds of merriment in the throne room. 

“You damn fool,” Boromir cursed to himself as he ran a regretful hand through his hair. He tossed away the broken pieces of y/n’s candelabra, anger at his misstep boiling in his chest as he made to stride off. It was then that he saw it, resting precariously on the balcony’s railing. A small, leather-bound journal. 

Boromir hadn’t noticed it earlier, although he recognized it instantly. Y/n always carried such a journal. Aside from Faramir, it was y/n’s most steadfast companion. 

Boromir froze, eyeing the diary, a conflict raging within him. He knew that whatever contents the journal held were private and to open it constituted a violation of honor. The thought twisted like a knife in his gut. But, on the other hand, Boromir had always longed for a peak into y/n’s mind. For reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, Boromir knew that there was beauty there, if only he could access it. 

He hesitated for only a moment, casting a wary glance back towards the banquet hall. If y/n saw him, Boromir’s far-flung hopes would be dashed forever. No one was looking, and y/n had disappeared into the crowd. It was now or never.

Like a man dying of thirst, Boromir grabbed the journal greedily and cracked it open, his eyes roving the pages and drinking in the words. It was a journal, but so much more. There were smatterings of poetry: some of it original, Boromir deduced, but some of it copied down from y/n’s work in Minas Tirith’s library. Every so often, Boromir found a sketch. Most of it was of Minas Tirith, drawn from the vantage point of the mountains that rose up behind the city. A few horses, children, nondescript landscapes. They were beautiful renderings, detailed and delicate in the linework, incredibly lifelike. 

He continued to flip through the journal. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but in his eagerness to scour the entirety of the book he found he couldn’t focus on any one page for longer than a moment. 

Not until he found his own likeness staring out of the page up at him. 

Boromir recognized himself in y/n’s drawing immediately, although the pen-and-ink Boromir seemed finer somehow. Boromir’s heart pirouetted in his chest as he drank in the drawing, trying to decipher where it was that y/n’s drawing deviated from reality. Y/n had captured the line of his jaw perfectly, even the small scar above his right eyebrow. His hair was rough and unkempt looking, as if he’d just returned from a horseback ride, and he wore his simple fighting leathers. The eyes and lips were a perfect mirror to his own, but still there was something about the drawing… 

His eyes slid down the page to where, at the very bottom of the drawing, he saw a single line of small, impeccably neat handwriting:

A King in a long line of Stewards

Boromir felt the breath hitch in his throat. The sentiment was simple but beautiful, and it touched something very deep inside him. 

The feverish hunger to devour the journal’s contents in a single gulp from moments before slowed and dwindled to something much more tender. Boromir flipped the page slowly, the same neat handwriting covering the backside of the sheaf of paper where his portrait was drawn.

You must be a trick of the memory that the old gods are playing on me,

You travel with my love over plains, mountains and seas.

Your blue eyes are there when I close mine, 

Your voice chases me while I dream,

My heart cries out in the darkness for you,

The roots of the world shake with its scream. 

I’ll drown in this desire and choke on this need,

Say you’re mine once and I’ll fall to my knees.

Boromir read the lines more times than he could count, luxuriating in the words until he could hardly breathe. He knew y/n’s words when he heard them, although he’d never heard anything close to this. Never dared to hope that anything approximating this was in y/n’s heart. His mind danced with a misty light, his heart suffused with warmth. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, using the fading light of the banquet inside to read the lines over and over again until he had them memorized. 

At some point he surfaced from his reverie, his heart beating erratically against his ribs. He stood up from where he’d sat against the railing, smoothing the front of his tunic and the sides of his hair. With a final inhale, he strode off purposefully, weaving through the thinning crowd of Gondor’s nobility, ignoring their greetings. He didn’t hesitate until he found himself standing in front of y/n’s door. Shakily, unsure of what he was about to say, he knocked twice. 

**********

You heard two soft knocks at your door. You glanced at the moon outside, surprised that anyone would pay you a visit this late. It was nearing midnight, you guessed. There was a fluttery feeling in your chest coupled with a pit in your stomach that you hadn’t been able to soothe with either tea or a warm bath. You felt as if you were losing your mind by inches. You’d spent your entire life, more or less, in Boromir’s home and you’d crossed his path hundreds of times before. Why now were you suddenly undone like a smitten child? Your feelings for him weren’t new, so why were you abruptly unable to control them?

You tried to push those thoughts from your mind as you crossed your chamber and unlatched your door. You suspected it would be Teithand, the master scribe. On rare occasions he gave you a special assignment and made a habit of visiting your private chambers to discuss the details of these duties at all hours of the day or night. 

But the figure darkening your doorway wasn’t dressed in the long, cream robes of a scribe, but instead in the formalwear of Gondorian nobility. 

Boromir smiled at you, and the sight of him, leaning casually against your door frame and close to you set your heart ablaze again. The thoughts you’d tenuously strung together shattered and your breath hitched in your throat. 

When you saw the small journal clutched in the High Warden’s hands, however, your stomach fell into your feet. Horror and something deeper than shame consumed you in an instant. 

You hardly had time to process what was happening before Boromir stepped into your chamber confidently. He tossed your journal onto the bed behind you, his now empty hands coming to the small of your back and the side of your face as he caught your lips with his.

You froze. You’d lost all semblance of coherent thought. The whiplash of emotions had left you feeling terrified. Thankfully, your body reacted faster than either your head or your heart. 

As if you’d done it a thousand times before, your lips moved in sync with Boromir’s and your hands tangled in the thick strands of his auburn hair. You gave yourself over to instinct as your mind dissolved under the pressure of his lips. His breath washed over you - warm and ragged - as the two of you pressed your bodies against each other, eager to melt together in the quiet dark of your chamber. His hands roamed over you, tentatively at first, but faster and firmer as you responded to his touch with neediness. You heard a small, desperate groan escape from the back of his throat; the sound of it almost sent you catapulting over the edge of the logic. 

You caught yourself in the instant before you lost all control of yourself, breaking the kiss and pulling back just enough to catch his eyes. 

“Boromir, what is thi-”

“I’m yours,” he whispered back, cutting you off with his words followed by another kiss. This time his lips refused to stay contained to yours. He tipped your head back, exposing your neck to him as his mouth moved along its length. The places where his lips connected with your skin burned like a brand. You felt a heat building deep inside your core. 

“I’m yours, Y/N” he said again. This time it was him who had the sense to pull away. You were panting, and you would have been self-conscious if it weren’t for the fact that he too was on the verge of gasping. His hands came to either side of your face, framing them as his eyes bored into yours. 

“Aren’t you…” Boromir’s question died on his lips, replaced by an impish grin. He raised an eyebrow at you, his eyes moving between your face and the ground beneath your feet. Between the confusion starting to coalesce in your head (what the hell is going on? the rational part of you screamed) and your body alight with desire, you didn’t have enough wherewithal to decipher his meaning. 

“Aren’t I what?” you asked dumbly. A sliver of anxiety spliced its way into your chest… maybe what you were seeing in Boromir’s eyes was just the neediness of a lord looking at someone he knew was game for a tumble in bed, and not the mirror image of your satisfaction at the fulfillment of a long-denied devotion. 

“Going to fall to your knees,” Boromir replied, placing a soft, gentle kiss on your lips. It was almost a question, as if he were asking you. The brazenness of his request startled you, but the heat in your core blazed in response. There was also something familiar about his words…

“In your journal… you wrote, ‘say you’re mine once and I’ll fall to my knees’… I’ve said it twice now, and yet here you stand.” He chuckled softly, his lips dancing along your jaw and over your cheeks as you tried to catch up to his meaning. 

Then, like a clap of thunder, it clicked. The poem. You’d written it over a year ago, the night after Boromir had left Minas Tirith with a garrison of Gondor’s guards to ride to an outpost at the southern border. You’d almost forgotten your words - you’d written so many of them, all of them for him. 

You let you a small laugh in surprise and a hint of embarrassment.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it was rude to read another’s writings, my Lord?” You emphasized the last two words, shooting him a wicked smile as you made good on your written promise and sank to your knees in front of him. Your fingers went to work on the lacing of his trousers, the urgency of the moment rekindling between you. Boromir caught your chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to catch his gaze. He looked breathtaking, standing over you. A King in a long line of Stewards, you thought as you drank in the sight of him. 

“Call me Boromir,” he said simply. “I won’t have you calling me ‘my Lord’ for the rest of our days together.” His tone was casual, but you could hear the intention of his words. You hesitated only momentarily before returning to the task at hand. You broke into a smile, wide and triumphant, and although your attention was focused elsewhere, Boromir’s expression matched yours exactly…

[lesbiansforboromir]

@archangelsunited absolutely, I have more detailed posts about my my hc'ed specific reasons for this HERE and HERE but suffice to say Boromir's relationship to his Dol Amrothian relatives was mostly confined to whenever they visited Minas Tirith until he took up the Warden of the White Tower title and needed to maintain cordiality and familiarity with all the provinces under Gondor's jurisdiction. He and his maternal grandfather never resolved their issues and he was generally relieved when he died. Boromir was ten when Elphir was born, but it wasn't until he was 17 that they properly met and so none of the Amrothian mob has really known Boromir as a child and they've been children to him his whole life.

Members of his extended family that he's closest too would be;

Eradan, the eldest son of Denethor's eldest sister and one of few members of his family who held any kind of 'protective' attitude over him other than his father, being quite a lot older than Boromir. But, similar to his father, Eradan was very busy and the window he was allowed to remain as a supportive figure in Boromir's life was small. After Hurin of the Keys stepped down from the position of Captain-General, Boromir and Eradan found themselves competing for the title with nigh polar opposite opinions upon how the defense of Gondor needed to be lead. And, after the council was eventually persuaded in Boromir's favour, from then on Eradan was more of a combative element in Boromir's life than a reassuring one.

Collas, the youngest daughter of Denethor's second eldest sister who by contrast was an earnest supporter of Boromir's tactics and politics and whom he was close too as both child and adult. They both had a love of theatre from a young age and later Collas became a field surgeon and often worked with Boromir on campaign. However, in a disaster during the reclamation of northern fortresses in Ithilien that Boromir lead, enemies discovered an entrance through the dilapidated tower and breached the inner sanctum. They were repelled, but not until Collas and most of her colleagues had been slain. Boromir took her body back to her family himself.

Sirgon, Denethor's Mother's nephew and Lord of Lebennin as well as a great sea-captain. It was Sirgon who taught Boromir to navigate ships and boats and, though he was always a gruff and reserved man, the pair found an understanding and fierce political allyship within Gondor's courts.

And Mesgiel, Boromir's paternal grandmother, whom had never been a good mother to her children (too ambitious and motherhood too forced upon her for it) but who became very fond of Boromir in her older years, loving to hear him sing and to feed him long forgotten gossip from all the noble houses.

Other members of his family grew closer to Boromir as he grew up, but many of them were cut short, only developing properly in the final years of his life. His aunts, both maternal and paternal, had always been closer with Faramir as the named scholar of the two. Terenis (Denethor's eldest sister) in particular was dearly close to Faramir and loved him very greatly, especially for how much he reminded her of his father when he was young. It wasn't until Faramir's religious fervour began pressing against his family ties and causing strife with his relationships that Boromir and Terenis began sharing more of an understanding.

[ebaeschnbliah]

Before the travellers lay a wide ravine, with great rocky sides to which clung, upon shelves and in narrow crevices, a few thrawn trees. The channel grew narrower and the River swifter. Now they were speeding along with little hope of stopping or turning, whatever they might meet ahead. Over them was a lane of pale-blue sky, around them the dark overshadowed River, and before them black, shutting out the sun, the hills of Emyn Muil, in which no opening could be seen.

Frodo peering forward saw in the distance two great rocks approaching: like great pinnacles or pillars of stone they seemed. Tall and sheer and ominous they stood upon either side of the stream. A narrow gap appeared between them, and the River swept the boats towards it.

`Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!' ...

... cried Aragorn. `We shall pass them soon. Keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can! Hold the middle of the stream! '

As Frodo was borne towards them the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but threatening. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and still they preserved through the suns and rains of forgotten years the mighty likenesses in which they had been hewn. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kings of stone: still with blurred eyes and crannied brows they frowned upon the North. 

The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning; in each right hand there was an axe; upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom. Awe and fear fell upon Frodo, and he cowered down, shutting his eyes and not daring to look up as the boat drew near. Even Boromir bowed his head as the boats whirled by. frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Númenor. So they passed into the dark chasm of the Gates.

Sheer rose the dreadful cliffs to unguessed heights on either side. Far off was the dim sky. The black waters roared and echoed, and a wind screamed over them. Frodo crouching over his knees heard Sam in front muttering and groaning: `What a place! What a horrible place! Just let me get out of this boat, and I'll never wet my toes in a puddle again, let alone a river! '

`Fear not! ' said a strange voice behind him. Frodo turned and saw Strider, and yet not Strider; for the weatherworn Ranger was no longer there. In the stern sat Aragorn son of Arathorn, proud and erect, guiding the boat with skilful strokes; his hood was cast back, and his dark hair was blowing in the wind, a light was in his eyes: a king returning from exile to his own land.

'Fear not! ' he said. `Long have I desired to look upon the likenesses of Isildur and Anárion, my sires of old. Under their shadow Elessar, the Elfstone son of Arathorn of the House of Valandil Isildur's son heir of Elendil, has nought to dread! '

Then the light of his eyes faded, and he spoke to himself: `Would that Gandalf were here! How my heart yearns for Minas Anor and the walls of my own city! But whither now shall I go?'

The chasm was long and dark, and filled with the noise of wind and rushing water and echoing stone. It bent somewhat towards the west so that at first all was dark ahead; but soon Frodo saw a tall gap of light before him, ever growing. Swiftly it drew near, and suddenly the boats shot through, out into a wide clear light.

The sun, already long fallen from the noon, was shining in a windy sky. The pent waters spread out into a long oval lake, pale Nen Hithoel, fenced by steep grey hills whose sides were clad with trees, but their heads were bare, cold-gleaming in the sunlight. At the far southern end rose three peaks. The midmost stood somewhat forward from the others and sundered from them, an island in the waters, about which the flowing River flung pale shimmering arms. Distant but deep there came up on the wind a roaring sound like the roll of thunder heard far away.

`Behold Tol Brandir!' said Aragorn, pointing south to the tall peak. 'Upon the left stands Amon Lhaw, and upon the right is Amon Hen the Hills of Hearing and of Sight. In the days of the great kings there were high seats upon them, and watch was kept there. But it is said that no foot of man or beast has ever been set upon Tol Brandir. Ere the shade of night falls we shall come to them. I hear the endless voice of Rauros calling.'

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Great River

[wisheduponastar]

Snow is rare, but care is always (Gen, 2.9k)

For Day 2 of @tolkienfamilyweek. Inspired by the prompt : Sibling

For the first time in so long, snow comes to Gondor. Most people rejoice and are happy over the fact, celebrating the white blanket that's settled over the city. Boromir enjoys it took, except for how soaking it is... and how he has a headache... and how he seems to shiver slightly when he moves. But it will be fine, he'll continue with his duties. Until Faramir notices

Or~ Boromir comes down with something, Faramir is there to help.

TW Illness (minor) Read on Ao3

“I told you to stay in!”

In some ways it was amusing to Boromir, being told off by his little brother - but in most ways it was not. Simply Faramir’s voice, the teenager had kept it low - he despised yelling, was now too loud for him, causing him to almost wince. And inwardly, Boromir was also cursing himself for staying out so long in snow without wearing the proper clothes for it. He was supposed to be doing drills and meeting his father tomorrow for Valar’s sake.

Even though his tone had already been soothing, Faramir somehow managed to make his voice even more gentle, with more concern, as he crept closer to Boromir, “What do you need?”

“I do not need anything,” Boromir tried to prevent his voice from being snappy, “It is just a cold, Faramir.”

“I know a lot more about healing than you do,” Faramir defended, getting close again, “And so I am saying, not only as your brother, but as someone who has studied health - stay here.”

“You are thirteen Faramir, I doubt you have learnt all there is on healing,” pushing himself up slightly, Boromir found himself inwardly wincing as he contemplated moving off the bench and getting onto his feet.

“I am well learned,” there was insistence in Faramir’s voice - but as he began to raise it he quickly quieted down, looking slightly guilty, “I apologise for yelling, I am merely concerned.”

“Well, do you know what would make it up to me?” Boromir made himself grin slightly, “If you let me get back to my duties, and stop pretending that some snow has defeated me.”

“You were shivering when I found you,” Faramir sounded less than impressed, “Besides brother, everyone gets ill sometimes.”

“I’m training to become a warden of the white tower,” Boromir had made himself sit fully upwards, trying not to sniff loudly, “It doesn’t matter if a few snowflakes fall on me.”

“Like these ones?” Faramir reached out briefly, stretching upwards slightly to reach Boromir’s head, and briefly brushed his hand over his brother’s hair, before withdrawing it and showing a few snowflakes that remained in it before they melted. “Let’s at least get changed into something warmer.”

“I promise you, these clothes will do nicely,” Boromir looked down, his clothes were in fact soaking. When the outside doors to his balcony had been (forcefully) opened by him - he must admit the amount of snow there, waiting to drop on him, had surprised him. But Boromir had made it down the great hall, and crossed the courtyard into a second building - getting new freshly fallen snow on him.

“Well, maybe it’s for me,” said Faramir, shaking his also snow-covered cloak, “Under this, I am not dressed well-enough for snow.”

“Then you should go yourself.” However sneaky Faramir thought he was being, the teenager could sometimes be painfully obvious as he tried to guilt-trip Boromir into taking unnecessary precautions.

“Will you not at least walk me?” Faramir asked, smiling at his brother before looking down slightly, shuffling so the two of them ended up closer together.

Something Boromir both praised and hated was his little brother's stubbornness. But there was a part of him that wanted to get changed into something warmer, to see if that would stop his headache or slightly running nose. And knowing Faramir, he wouldn’t have put on winter suitable clothes - and someone needed to make sure he wouldn’t freeze to death.

“Fine,” then, seeing Faramir’s grin, “I will accompany you to your quarters so that you may get changed into something-”

But Boromir was suddenly cut off with a loud sneeze, he covered it with his elbow - but another one came, and for almost a minute his body was wracked with coughs. At this point, Boromir was wheezing and sucking in air - trying not to cough up what felt like all of his lungs, and was completely missing the looks of concern that his brother was showing. Eventually, the fit cleared again - and Boromir tried to clear his throat briefly (stopping as it hurt in protest) then attempted to sit up again, ignoring the almost shivering that had started.

Somehow always adept at noticing his discomfort, Faramir got up off the bench instead - holding out his arm and offering a sympathetic smile to his brother, “Here, let me help you up.”

“I will be fine.”

Both of them knew Boromir’s statement was, at this rate, slightly unlikely, but instead Faramir got closer; simply waiting for his brother to stand. Pushing his weight on his right hand, Boromir attempted to push himself up - getting most of the way there before a shivering overtook his arm again, rendering it unable to support his weight. Already ready to act, Faramir placed his hand on his brother's arm and his body between his brother’s weight and the bench.

“It wasn’t a request when I said let me help you, brother,” Faramir had a genuine, if slightly strained, smile on his face - no doubt because the thirteen year old was supporting his adult brother's weight. But, admirably, the younger refused to give in - simply stabilising Boromir until he felt safe enough to relinquish his grip on Faramir’s arm.

Well, at least Boromir tried to let go of Faramir. For a second it seemed like he was able to take his hand away, but Faramir’s hand snaked around his own - interlocking their fingers and then smiling up at his brother innocently. “I suppose we can escort each other to both of our rooms then?”

“Your’s first,” it was a small insistence, maybe even petty - but if Boromir was going to have to lean on his brothers arm and stoically walk through the halls when his head felt like it was splitting apart, or when his bones seemed to be shivering, then he would win on some of the smaller victories. Provided the inconveniences didn’t cloud his brain enough to let Faramir outsmart him. Although, as Boromir reflected, even at this young age his little brother could probably do just that if he truly tried.

The two began to walk together, slower than usual - Boromir wasn’t truly shaking, but he felt like he was - and that did not help for walking.

“Do you have any duties today?” Faramir asked, smiling and still supporting Boromir, his question both distracting and genuine.

Boromir thought for a second, before answering honestly, “No. At least not yet.”

“Then why are you so insistent about doing your duties?” Faramir briefly paused so he could move closer to his brother, then the two continued walking, “You’ve always told me there’s no shame in admitting weakness.”

“Well,” Boromir paused for a second - trying not to smile at the annoying persistence of the teenager. Of course Faramir would use Boromir’s words against him, even if he couldn’t blame Faramir. And of course it was true for his younger brother. But how would Boromir explain that it was ok for Faramir to fail, because he was still young and the second-born, yet Boromir could not.

Faramir was still staring at him, grey eyes still full of concern, and concerned curiosity. Still walking, Faramir gently said, “Boromir… please take care of yourself. Father loves you, he will understand that you cannot attend today. He cares for you Boromir, he will forgive you.”

“You sound so certain,” Boromir stated, looking just as intently into Faramir’s eyes. “Why?”

“I can just tell,” Faramir said simply, “Just like how I can tell you are ill.”

There was a mischievous glint in Faramir’s eyes, and Boromir suppressed the urge to groan - instead suddenly shivering. He scowled slightly, “I am not ill, Faramir.”

“Yes you are,” his brother rebutted, “I’ve seen you shivering this entire time. And you wince every now and then.”

“You’re not a healer Faramir, you don’t know all ailments.”

“It is common sense Boromir,” Faramir replied cheerfully, “Let me take care of you and. Now wait here while I open the door.”

“I can open the door myself,” Boromir insisted - but his brother was quicker - disentangling his arm from Boromir and making a quicker move to the doors - holding it open and smiling. Shaking his head, Boromir strode forward and to his younger brother, briefly reaching out and ruffling Faramir’s hair. “Thank you, Faramir.”

Instantly brightening, Faramir grinned as well,”Your chill will get worse once we get outside, tell me if it becomes too bad.”

“I am not ill, Faramir.”

“Then perhaps you will tell me if you feel a sudden chill?”

As he said that, Faramir pushed open the door - exposing the more bitter winter air. Snow was still falling, and now it was descending even faster than usual. It snowed rarely in Minas Tirith, and Boromir took a side-long glance at his brother - who was simply watching and smiling as the snow fell from the clouds.

The snow was high now, as well, and going almost up to Boromir’s boots. Looking away from the snow, Faramir glanced back to his brother again, “Ready?”

“I have a-” Boromir began irritably, suddenly cutting off as he realised what he’d almost said.

“A cold?” Faramir finished, looking towards the steps to the city's seventh level, “You know, the houses of healing are on this level… now would be a good time to go, if you would want to?”

“I have nothing wrong with me,” Boromir said, “And I do not need to go to the houses of healing.”

Beginning to prove his point, Boromir took the first steps out into the truly cold, almost freezing air - this time taking extra care to suppress a slight shiver, and stopping himself from sneezing. Taking a shaky but deep breath out, he watched as the vapour from his breath showed up - then disappearing as it spiralled away. 

“It is cold enough for dragon breath,” Boromir remarked, smiling slightly, “I suppose the snow may be here to settle, then.”

“All the more reason for you to dress appropriately,” said Faramir, now having joined him, before taking hold of his brother’s hand again (subtly) and beginning to drag the two of them forward in the snowstorm. Soon enough, snow had begun to pelt the two of them - sticking and melting to their clothes, along with their hair. Faramir’s curls became more prominent as the snowflakes began to melt into it. It was a subtle difference, but one that Boromir brought up as they passed through the city - talking about almost nothing in particular.

Even Boromir’s hair curled very slightly when wet, and when he was younger Faramir had delighted in holding up his older brother's hair and comparing it to his own - even though they still looked fairly different. It was a small thing, but as Faramir briefly looked back at his brother - gaze shifting slightly to his hair before smiling, both of them knew what they were talking about.

Instead, as they walked through the flurry of snowflakes, Boromir asked Faramir about his studies, and what his tutors had taught him - or what he had learnt himself, spending so long in one of Gondor’s lore halls while surrounded by books. Faramir would ask Boromir about his duties as well, or sometimes about how their father was doing. All the while, Faramir would politely not say anything, although pointedly look, at the fact Boromir was shivering slightly - occasionally coughing, or having to stop and wincing after a particular loud noise sounded from somewhere in their surroundings.

At one point, Boromir’s throat had hurt so badly during the walk up that Faramir had had to deliver the passcode to guards at the gate, and simply fill in the silence for almost five minutes. It was also at this time, while Boromir had to contend with a sore throat and a headache, that Faramir had started to subtly guide them both to Boromir’s rooms rather than his own. Of course, this was only noticed once Boromir realised they stood outside his own rooms rather than his brothers - which were almost five minutes away.

“Faramir,” Boromir chided, although his voice was still soft - both because he was not truly mad, and his throat was becoming worse by the minute.

Busying himself with opening the door, Faramir waited to respond until both of them were inside Boromir’s chambers - a fire had been lit already, and stoked by a servant earlier on. Looking around, Faramir said, “You should get change into something suitable, and I will as well. Then I’ll meet you back here?”

Even though his brother had phrased it as a question, both of them knew it was more of a statement. Because Boromir wasn’t going to leave this room. Because of two reasons, that he did not want to disappoint his little brother, and also that he felt if he tried to leave and make it down the stairs - he could just collapse. Or not be able to deal with the nobles of Gondor suitably with his illness.

“Be safe,” Boromir conceded, looking away and to the fire again; something in his soul, probably the chill his body wanted to be rid of, was drawn to it.

“I will be back soon,” Faramir promised, before the doors were quickly closed and his footsteps almost instantly disappeared as the younger began to silently go to his rooms. Knowing he was finally in a warm room, with no draughts or chilling breeze, Boromir waited for himself to warm up. But nothing happened, that same bone aching chill was still within him.

Perhaps it was his clothes? Boromir reasoned that they were damp, and although he had insisted otherwise - the clothes in his position were awful once soaked. Going to his wardrobe, he instinctively selected the warmest and thickest clothes he could find - changing quickly into richer Gondorian furs and silks before going to his chair and trying to drag it in front of the fire.

It was as though a leaden weight had appeared in his body, and for a second he almost had to strain to move the simple wooden thing nearer to the warmth. As it positioned itself comfortably, he instinctively looked around for a blanket or wrap of some kind. But there was no such thing, just the coverings of his bed - and he was unsure if he should take them. He had already neatly made his bed, and what if someone other than Faramir was to walk in - to see the Steward’s oldest son wrapped fur blankets and shivering.

Clearly, even if he wouldn’t say so to his brother, clearly ill. What would happen if that was reported back? Almost certainly nothing good, Boromir was fairly certain. Instead he tried to stave off the chill by sitting close to the fire and tugging the edges of his clothes - forcing them further to him.

For a few moments of silence, aside from the crackling of logs, it seemed as though nothing was working - before suddenly the heat hit Boromir all at once. And it was awful. The headache, this time induced by how horrifically boiling it was, had become even stronger - angrier and more aggressive. And his layers of fur were horrible, oppressive even. Instinctively he took off all his outer layers, throwing furs and layers on the floor with almost blatant disregard - just as long as they didn’t end up in the fire.

Eventually Boromir was left with just a cotton shirt, but even that seemed to be too much. He had somehow gone from freezing so badly that a fire kindled from all the woods in the world could not warm him, to being so warm that a dip in the snow banks would have been desirable. So now he was certainly ill then, without a doubt. And Faramir had known the entire time.

With the heat making everything so much worse, Boromir was overcome with even more guilt. Faramir was only a teenager, and was simply trying to look after Boromir because he couldn’t look after himself. The kind of thing that Boromir had always tried to teach him, to be kind above anything else.

There was a quiet knock, almost timid, and Boromir realised he didn’t have the vocal power to call them away. Gently, the door creaked open and Boromir recognized his brother standing there - arms laden with blankets and a basket. It almost looked as though Faramir was carrying most of his body weight in blankets, although he still had a cheerful grin on his face. Moving over to his older brother, and skillfully closing the door behind him, Faramir moved within a few feet before looking at the layers strewn across the floor, “You really are ill.”

“I am…” Boromir didn’t want to deny it any longer, “Yes, Faramir, I am. I don’t want you to get ill, so please stay back. Could you… could you alert a healer?”

“Of course!” Faramir said it with such determination Boromir half expected him to run out of the room then and there. But instead, holding up a hand to his mouth he came slightly closer with all of the blankets, dumping them next to Boromir. “For if you get cold.”

“Don’t come near,” Boromir repeated gently, “I don’t want you getting sick.”

“Covered my mouth,” Faramir replied, taking the fabric away as he spoke (a thankfully appropriate distance away), “I’m going to light a pomander in here, and find you a healer. Stay here, ok?”

Walking as fast as he could without running, he began to go to the door - only stopping briefly to turn around and say, “There’s food in the basket, and some water. If you feel hungry or dehydrated, help yourself. Just… be safe ok? Get better.”

There was fondness when Boromir looked at his brother, despite the pain behind his eyes, softly and reassuring Boromir responded, “I will.”

[fellowshipofthefics]

Boromir: A Lifetime of Moments

LeeMorrigan

Summary:

Moments in the life of Boromir, High Warden of the White Tower, Son of the Steward, member of the Fellowship of the Ring, brother to Faramir, friend to King Aragorn, and husband to Roawyn.

[iamfitzwilliamdarcy]

Well I should have written my Faramir post two nights ago when it was fresh in my head -- I have forgotten what the point would be, but I’m cobbling it together here (and it got... excessively long so read more), as it relates to Faramir and his priorities (particularly about Boromir and how anxious he is about how Boromir died-- not just physically but spiritually):

To set the stage-- Faramir meets Frodo and is super Suspicious because they’re in a Weird Place in the land of the Enemy, and, frankly, it’s pretty fair of Faramir lol. They have a brief conversation in which Frodo tells them of their mission and name-drops Boromir and Aragorn, but it is (obviously) Boromir that catches Faramir’s attention-- then Faramir goes to fight w/ the orcs and comes back and interrogates Frodo-- Sam’s POV says it looks like the Trial of a Prisoner.

Faramir is interested in all that has happened and starts probing about Isildur’s Bane(”I wish then to learn from you more of it; for what concerns Boromir concerns me”)-- but he pivots a bit to talking about Boromir-- he doesn’t initialyl reveal his relation, just that Boromir “son of Denethor was High Warden of the White Tower, and our Captain General: sorely do we miss him.” -- he doesn’t reveal the relation until he also reveals Boromir’s death.

he uses Boromir’s death a bit as a smokescreen for Isildur’s Bane-- “I broke off our speech together....because we were drawing near to matters that were better not debated openly before many men. It was for that reason that I turned rather to the matter of my brother and let be Isildur’s Bane.” 

But he uses this also to continue to seek closure-- he infers that Frodo did not part from Boromir on friendly terms and that Isildur’s Bane came between them. He also says “If it were a thing that gave advantage in battle, I can well believe that Boromir, the proud and fearless, often rash, ever anxious for the victory of Minas Tirith (and his own glory therein) might desire such a thing and be allured by it.”

So Faramir is getting close to the truth of what happened and as he does he laments -- “Alas that ever he went on that errand! I should have been chose by my father and the elders...” and again later, Faramir says “maybe it would have been better had Boromir fallen there with Mithrandir and not gone on to the fate that waited above the falls of Rauros”-- he still doesn’t know about the Ring or Boromir trying to take it, but he is clearly concerned about Boromir’s temptations-- his trial so it were- Faramir is clearly seeking not just answers on Isildur’s Bane but also.... closure on Boromir -- he also says:

Alas! it is a crooked fate that seals your lips who saw him last, and holds from me that which I long to know: what was in his heart and thought in his latest hours. Whether he erred or no, of this I am sure: He died well, achieving some good thing. HIs face was more beautiful even than in life” 

Eventually,, Sam tells him “You’ve been warm on the scent all along” and then (accidentally) reveals that Boromir coveted the ring. And Faramir’s response-- “Alas for Boromir! It was too sore a trial!” He laments again-- “How you have increased my sorrow, you two strange wanderers from a far country, bearing the peril of Men!” 

I think this is both about the Ring’s existence and... the state of Boromir’s soul. Faramir is anxious that his brother died in a state of grace-- and he gets no closure since Frodo left while Boromir was still succumbed to temptation. But he must have some comfort that Boromir redeemed himself -- that he died wellthough he knows not how and has no closure and all Faramir knows is that before he died he was tempted and failed, falling into a Grave Sin

It reminds me of Tolkien himself, of letters he wrote to his son Michael expressing concern over his children falling away from the Church and of a man with many a Protestant friend (including a good one married to a divorcee) -- ]

I am an ignorant man, but also a lonely one. And I take the opportunity of a talk, which I am sure I should now never take by word of mouth. But, of course, I live in anxiety concerning my children: who in this harder crueller and more mocking world into which I have survived must suffer more assaults than I have. But I am one who came up out of Egypt, and pray God none of my seed shall return thither. I witnessed (half-comprehending) the heroic sufferings and early death in extreme poverty of my mother who brought me into the Church; and received the astonishing charity of Francis Morgan.3  But I fell in love with the Blessed Sacrament from the beginning – and by the mercy of God never have fallen out again: but alas! I indeed did not live up to it. I brought you all up ill and talked to you too little.

and

I find it very hard and bitter, when my children stray away [from the Church]. 

I think he captures very much the true and genuine distress when someone we love dies and we do not know the state of their Soul-- when they are tempted and far from good. How well we know it in this age, how well Tolkien must have known it, even before his later years-- and how well, we see Faramir knows it.  Poor Faramir-- to know all of Boromir’s temptation and not yet of his repentance -- I haven’t gotten to my re-read of Return of the King yet, but his father’s death will not be much consolation either 

[aspenrockymountainhigh]

Frodo peering forward saw in the distance two great rocks approaching: like great pinnacles or pillars of stone they seemed. Tall and sheer and ominous they stood upon either side of the stream. A narrow gap appeared between them....

'Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!' cried Aragorn....

As Frodo was borne towards them the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but threatening. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and still they preserved through the suns and rains of forgotten years the mighty likenesses in which they had been hewn. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kings of stone: still with blurred eyes and crannied brows they frowned upon the North. The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning; in each right hand there was an axe; upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom. Awe and fear fell upon Frodo.... Even Boromir bowed his head as the boats whirled by... under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Númenor. So they passed into the dark chasm of the Gates....

Sheer rose the dreadful cliffs to unguessed heights on either side.... The black waters roared and echoed, and a wind screamed over them. Frodo... heard Sam in front muttering and groaning:... 'What a horrible place! Just let me get out of this boat...!'

'Fear not!' said a strange voice behind him. Frodo turned.... In the stern sat Aragorn son of Arathorn, proud and erect...: a king returning from exile to his own land....

'Long have I desired to look upon the likenesses of Isildur and Anárion, my sires of old.'