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ass-deep-in-demons · 1 year ago

Text

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + friends & family

Tropes: character study, prequel, love letter to the canon

Rating: G

Chapter Length: 10k

Author's Note: I wrote this because I love Boromir and I want him to have a life. Also, I love Minas Tirith and I will be moving there next summer.

✦ Chapter 1 ✦

...in which we meet Boromir, High Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor. We get to learn a little about his daily life in Minas Tirith, as he tries to make sense of Recent Events: the mundane, the unusual, and the ominous.

[AO3] [masterpost]

Minas Tirith, 1st of Nárië 3016 TA

The training grounds adjacent to the Garrison on the Third Level of Minas Tirith often attracted warriors of different provenances. Originally, the compound had been meant to merely house the troops of men-at-arms in the Steward’s employ. However, because the Training Grounds were the only swath of dirt where soldiers could freely run and spar inside the Walls, the Citadel Guards and Crown Knights would exercise there too on the regular. Boromir would come to the Garrison every morning to begin his day with a run, and there he would meet and greet many of his peers and fellow soldiers. This day was no exception.

As he jogged, answering an occasional salute, he thought about the things he needed to accomplish later that day. A pending muster of the new recruits in the Garrison, equipment inspection at the Citadel, a report from the Masons’ Guild on the state of Pelennor fortifications… just to name a few of his ordinary duties as Captain and High Warden of the White Tower. However, one particular instalment in today’s agenda weighed especially heavily on Boromir. Earlier in the morning, just as he had exited his quarters in the Citadel, the Steward’s page had handed him a note. A summons. (...) today, at your convenience, the note read. It meant his father would be waiting for him in his office in the Tower of Ecthelion; waiting to talk about… Boromir knew not what, and therein lay the problem. Yesterday, when he had seen his father during the Midsummer festivities in the Citadel, the Steward had made no indication of wanting to speak in private…

Oh, Boromir would meet with the Steward on a regular basis, naturally. Every Valarday, Lord Denethor would host a private dinner for his sons and most trusted friends. There were the scheduled reports on the Citadel Guard, which Boromir dutifully submitted in person each week; then the military strategy meetings, which he considered his primary concern; the Council sessions which usually made him bored, or furious, or both; and of course the ever hated Court audiences, which required formal wear and a great deal of posturing. Alas, as both the sons of the Ruling Steward knew well, the most tricky of all were the dreaded individual summons.

It’s not that Boromir did not love his father. He loved him dearly and revered him, as was due to his sire and his liege lord. But individual summons were serious, and a harrowing experience more often than not. Such a private audience was never without a cause, and rarely would that cause be pleasant.

“Boromir!” He heard someone call his name from the entrance to the training grounds. Only a handful of persons in the whole of Minas Tirith had the standing to address him with such informality, so it wasn’t difficult to guess who was seeking his attention. He halted and turned around to greet the newcomer. The man cut a tall figure and stood out, with his hair red like most of his Blackroot Vale kinsmen, clad in the green vestments of his house. Boromir jogged towards his friend and clasped his arm.

“Derufin! Must that my eyes deceive me! Or is this you sleepwalking?” he asked, with mocked astonishment.

“Why, aren’t your wits sharp as ever on this grey morning, my Lord,” parried Derufin tersely. “Not all of us are like to run ten leagues in full plate ere breakfast, you know?” he grumbled. Boromir would often prod him for his dislike of early rising.

“Well?” asked Boromir, “what is so important that’s got you up, then?" It was quite unusual, Boromir had to admit. Derufin was the Captain in charge of the Steward’s bowmen. Archery training would start shortly before noon on the regular, when target visibility was best. His friend hesitated to answer, too, and his expression turned even more solemn, which gave Boromir a pause. Had something happened?

“Lady Morwen is leaving,” said Derufin finally, as if he was announcing a death sentence.

"Leaving? Have done jesting, Derufin," Boromir shook his head. "I saw her just yesterday in the Citadel, in passing. She was in high spirits, enjoying the festivities."

"Aye," claimed Derufin, "and after the feast she said her goodbyes. Hallas told me she'd bid him farewell for good and that she'd already packed for her journey to Arnach."

“Bugger!” Boromir said, for all his (reportedly) sharp wits not able to come up with anything more eloquent at the moment.

“Bugger indeed,” Derufin agreed and deflated.

For a while the two of them stood there, dumb and brooding. To someone unacquainted with the lives of Gondorian peerage, Lady Morwen’s leaving might appear a trifling matter, no more than food for gossip, or a personal hardship at worst. But Boromir knew well what it signified, and he did not like it one bit.

Lady Morwen of Lossarnach, daughter of Forlong the Fat, had for some years been the favourite of the Minas Tirith’s youth, an avid attendee of gatherings, and a devoted patroness of shops and fashionable hostelries. Her love for the White City could rival Boromir’s own, albeit for vastly different reasons. It followed that if even the Lady Morwen herself was leaving the City for Lossarnach, other noble Ladies and Gentle Folk were bound to desert as well, and soon.

Boromir could plainly see the reasons for which Gondor’s nobility was abandoning the Capital and taking refuge in the western fiefdoms. The situation in Minas Tirith was gaining urgency with every passing moon. Had been for some time. As the skirmishes with orcs and Southrons grew in frequency and magnitude, more and more civilians, common and noble alike, chose evacuation. In their place, men-at-arms, masons, smiths and fletchers were flocking to the City in great numbers to seek employment in the army. The Steward encouraged and supervised these changes, and Boromir was tasked with organising the draft and the drilling of the newcomers.

“What am I to do?” Derufin finally broke the silence. “Should I go and see her…? No, that… But, what if…” His desperation was quite evident and Boromir pitied his friend. Out of all of the Lady Morwen’s astonishingly numerous admirers, Derufin was perhaps the most devoted, if also, regrettably, the least skilled in the art of romance. “Say, Boromir, will you go with me? Just to see her off?” his friend demanded, and Boromir rolled his eyes. It was entirely too early to be social. “You must! She’ll only talk to me if you’re there,” Derufin pleaded.

“You’re a major dolt, you know?” Boromir informed his friend. “She’d see you even without me, and it would serve you better. But very well,” he relented, “let’s go, lest she ride out ere you gather your wits. But I am not changing. We go as we are, and then we break fast at the Mûmakil,” he asserted, as he waved over his squire and began unbuckling his armour.

“Just hurry,” Derufin said, anxious. “We should still be able to catch her Uptown. If not, we’ll have to race her convoy to the Great Gate! It would be just like in the songs…” the redhead mused, and Boromir was, once again, privately astonished by the sentimental spirit of his airhead friend. A horse race down the Main Street, at this time of the day, would be harrowing at best, not to mention a hazard, and a public spectacle.

Boromir left his equipment with his squire, the young Huor, and the two men began their brisk climb to the Sixth Level in companionable silence. The main paved road of the White City meandered from the northern to the southern half of it and back, crossing each of the seven walls at a different point. The Main Street was buzzing with activity. Withering Midsummer decorations could be seen here and there after yesterday's Parade, which had been, on all accounts, underwhelming compared to the celebrations that Boromir remembered from his childhood. Still, on both sides of the Street the commerce was yet alive - the merchants and craftsmen were opening their shops and the air was permeated by the smell of fresh bread from the numerous bakeries of the Third and Fourth Level. To walk along the tract, up to the Sixth Level, would take the entire morning, but Boromir, a true son of the old Minas Anor, knew every narrow passage, every unofficial crossing point, and the location of a conveniently placed hidden ladder, that allowed them to scale the Fifth Wall momentarily. This way, their trek to the Uptown was over in less time than Derufin had needed to come up with what to say to the Lady.

“Better you greet her, and I follow along,” Derufin told his friend.

“She will not bite, you know,” Boromir replied quietly, as they approached the Lord of Lossarnach’s city estate. Sure enough, a carriage waited out-front, laden with numerous chests and packs. Even more baggage was being lugged from the townhouse by a flock of servants. Several horses waited nearby at the ready.

“I think I wouldn’t mind if she truly bit me…,” pondered Derufin. “Depending on the location of the biting, certainly!”. Boromir snorted and opened his mouth to retort, but then the Lady herself emerged from the door.

“Lord High Warden, Captain Derufin! I regretted not seeing more of you yesterday at the Feast,” she said by way of greeting and flashed her white teeth. "Do you already miss my dancing? Are you here to beg me to stay?" She levelled them both with her gaze playfully, but lingered on Boromir, no doubt noticing his decidedly not fresh training attire. He did not look the part of the High Warden, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Lady Morwen. Certainly the seamstresses of the Fourth Level will be grieving your departure come tomorrow,” he countered her easily. “With you goes their livelihood. We are come on their behalf to bid you a safe journey.”

Lady Morwen laughed. She was tan and plump, had a wide smile, wide hips, luscious dark bouncy curls and bouncy… other parts, and Boromir liked all of that. She was also quick witted and he liked that even more. But Boromir would never think to court her. She would likely neither understand nor agree with his warrior’s lifestyle, and, more importantly, under no circumstance would he do anything to undermine Derufin’s chance at happiness. They remained acquaintances and Boromir enjoyed their friendly banter and an occasional dance. The same could not be said of Derufin, who would become severely tongue-tied and prone to stumbling in her presence.

“Well then, you may inform the mourning seamstresses that I shall be thinking of them very fondly in Arnach, and I shall return one day for new gowns, so they better be ready for me,” she said cheerfully, but then her smile faded. “I truly am loath to depart, but I dare not ignore my Lord Father’s summons any longer.”

They fell silent at that, for there was nothing left to say. To his surprise, Boromir felt a pang of genuine sadness. He was no courtier, nor did he attend much of the noble gatherings, but even he could recognize that the White City would be diminished greatly by the exodus of its gentry. With their departure the music would die down, the parties would cease and the fine arts would be abandoned. But such were the dictates of war.

“Well then,” said Lady Morwen, ending the silence. “Unless one of you, Lords, has something to say to me, that could induce me to stay a while longer…” With these words she looked long and hard at dumbfounded Derufin. ”... I must be off.”

She then briskly entered her carriage, and once seated, looked at them one last time.

“I will be thinking of you and praying for your safety,” she said. “You are our champions and heroes, and the hearts of the people are with you. Do not forget that on the field of battle, my Lords.” Her solemnity and pathos surprised Boromir, but he detected no sign of mockery nor artifice.

“We thank you, Lady. Please, do convey our respects to your esteemed Lord in the Vale of Flowers,” he replied officially and bowed.

“I fervently hope to see you again, my Lady,” said Derufin.

“As do I, Derufin,” she said, then she tapped the roof to signal the coachman. The carriage started moving and just like that, Lady Morwen was off to Lossarnach. Both men looked after her convoy advancing on the Main Street to disappear in the Sixth Gate. Derufin uttered a heart-rending sigh.

“You truly are a dolt,” said Boromir.

“Aye, that I am,” Derufin agreed weakly, and Boromir had no heart to tease him any further.

“Come, let us go to the Mûmak and cheer ourselves up with a hearty breakfast,” Boromir ordered. “I’ve received summons from the Steward and I cannot face him on an empty stomach,” he said and grimaced. Immediately, he regretted these words, honest as they were. He should not be mentioning his liege lord in such an irreverent manner. A sign, perhaps, that his patience was wearing thin these last weeks.

But Derufin seemed to take it in stride, sympathetic to his fellow noble son’s predicament.

“It wouldn’t do, no,” he said. “I do not envy you and Your Lord, with what has been going on.”

To that, Boromir could only nod, and sigh, and then the both men were off to Midtown. Derufin was the closest friend Boromir had in the world, save of course for Faramir and perhaps for Theodred of Rohan. Derufin and his older brother Duilin, sons of the Lord Duinhir of Morthond, had come to Minas Tirith some twenty years prior, at the cusp of their adulthood, to receive military training. They had quickly formed an alliance with the Steward’s Heir, them being alike to Boromir in age and station. After two summers of training Duilin, as his father’s heir, had been summoned back to Blackroot Vale, Derufin however had received leave to remain as one of the Knights in the service of the Steward. And so he and Boromir had spent most of their youth together, sparring, chasing skirts and frequenting taverns.

The Fat Mûmakil on the Fourth Level was one such tavern, their favourite establishment, as it happened. The upper-class Sixth Level had several elegant inns with gourmet cuisine, as well as a scattering of small shops with artisanal pastries and refreshing spicy beverages from Rhûn and Harad. The Fifth Level boasted many ever-crowded dining establishments with regional dishes, which offered overpriced deals mostly aimed at tourists and travelling merchants. The Fat Mûmakil on the Fourth Level was less formal and less crowded, but still respectable. Mainly Citadel Guards and local men of trade could be met there, and that suited Boromir just fine. He even had his own favourite table, which the owner, Otto, would oft reserve for him, as Boromir was certainly his most prominent patron.

On this day the Mûmakil's main chamber was more crowded than usual, and Boromir could see many of yesterday's revellers trying to drown their hangovers in ale. No sooner were Boromir and Derufin seated at their table, as the serving girl, Gurdun, greeted them with her usual enthusiasm.

“What will it be, my Lords?” she asked. “Late breakfast or an early lunch? We have excellent fresh mutton today!”

Indeed, it was almost noon already, Boromir noted, only then realising how hungry he felt. Derufin’s failed romantic endeavours had cost them the entire morning. The Archer would be late for target practice, but that couldn’t be helped now. Not when a whiff of roasted meat, mixed with tones of sage and rosemary, had his stomach gurgling in pleasant anticipation. After a short deliberation, they decided to fogo breakfast and order the mutton, but just as they were about to place their order, they heard Otto call out from behind the bar.

“Oi! Lass! Haven’t I told you to come and fetch me if Lord High Warden showed up?” the innkeeper chastised poor Gudrun and hurried to their table. “Begging pardon, Lords!” he addressed them politely.

“What is the hurry, Master Barkeeper?” Boromir asked. This behaviour was somewhat irregular for Otto, a man of few words, who often preferred to leave his patrons in peace.

“With your permission, Lord High Warden. I am to relay to you a missive, entrusted to me by one Captain Faramir of the Rangers,” Otto declared, his tone and the expression on his pudgy face indicating utmost reverence.

“Hold on!” Boromir exclaimed and shook his head. Surely the barkeep was mistaken. “Captain Faramir is stationed in Ithilien, and will stay there for some weeks. I would know it if mine own brother was come back home.”

“That is the very thing, Lord Warden,” Otto said, exasperated. “The Lord Faramir was here this morning looking for your Lordship. He’s left this note with me.” With these words, the innkeeper produced a squarely folded letter and handed it to Boromir. “I beg your pardon, Lord! I would have passed it right away, but for this forgetful goose that calls herself a waitress.”

“Come now, surely no harm is done,” Boromir waved off the barkeep’s concerns and winked at the lass, which made her face turn even redder, if such a thing were even possible. Sure enough, the letter bore Faramir’s seal and Boromir hastily broke it to unfold the parchment.

To the most worthy Lord Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, High Warden of the Citadel, and Captain-General of Gondor, from his loving brother Captain Faramir: warmest greetings!

It has ever been my sincerest wish to see you in good health and high spirits, and for myself, to be by your side always, or at least as oft as Fate would allow. Now I rejoice, for the time of our reunion is near.

I am come back to the City this morning post haste, spurred by a most peculiar Dream. I have looked for you in the Garrison, but found you absent, and your Squire informed me you had left with Lord Derufin of Blackroot Vale. I thought you had gone to the Fat Mûmakil for breakfast; it seems I was mistaken. No matter, you are like to turn up here sooner or later. I am most impatient to reunite with you, yet there is someone I need to see first about the Dream.

I pray dearest brother, meet me in the Citadel this afternoon after the third bell.

May the Valar bestow upon you all their blessings, so wishes Yours forever loving brother,

Faramir

Boromir couldn’t help but smile, as he read the letter. So like his Faramir, to have even the most mundane of notes be a cause for shame for the professional scribes. Boromir hated correspondence and would always make it as short as possible, yet Faramir could produce artful speeches off the top of his head, even scrawling over his knee in the corner of a tavern. He would not forgo any part required for the sake of formality, which Boromir was wont to do.

Yet, formally complete as it was, Faramir’s letter posed more questions than it answered. That his brother on occasion was plagued by weird dreams, and that he ascribed to them prophetic meanings - Boromir knew, and sometimes he even dared believe it. But why was this dream so urgent to warrant abandoning his post in East Ithilien? Did his brother have some news relating to the Enemy? And who was this person Faramir was going to meet? The logical guess would be the Lord Denethor, whose insightful predictions often bordered on prophetic as well. But then why hadn’t Faramir simply written that he was off to meet their Lord Father? Surely, as Captain of the Rangers he had to report to the Steward first thing?

“And? What writes Faramir?” asked Derufin, snapping Boromir out of his musings. Both his friend and the innkeeper had apparently been waiting for his reaction, and in the latter case - for a dismissal.

“You spoke true, Otto, my brother is in the City and bids me to meet him,” Boromir said and nodded to the barkeep. “As always, I thank you for your hospitality, and for delivering this message,” he said. Otto bowed and then, seemingly relieved, retreated behind the bar.

"Friend, I've need of you," said Boromir to Derufin.

"Of course," his answer came. “Say aught and it will be done.”

"I find I cannot wait, so here is where we part. I am going to the Citadel to seek out my brother," Boromir declared, all thoughts of a meal forgotten. "When You reach the Garrison, tell Sergeant Hirgon that the muster is postponed till tomorrow. And send my Squire Huor Uptown."

Derufin raised his eyebrows.

"As you wish, Boromir. But I expect to later hear from you about all this that you are about now. Whatever the matter, it has your knickers in a twist."

"I know not the matter myself yet. Only that certain things do not add up, and I must investigate," pondered Boromir. He stood and tossed coins to the table. "Now I am off! Treat yourself to the mutton on my account. Be hale, Friend!"

"And you!" came Derufin's answer, but Boromir was already halfway to the tavern's door.

Time was of essence, so he used the hidden ladder on the Fifth Wall, which was just a short walk behind the Mûmakil. Once he reached Fifth Level, it was only a matter of following the Main Street for some two hundred yards, and he found himself crossing the Sixth Gate. He gave the obligatory password to the men at the post; it was, of course, entirely unnecessary in his case, as one would be hard pressed to find a guardsman not able to recognize the High Warden on sight. However, Boromir would personally reprimand any guard who forwent this duty, and well they knew it.

The Sixth Level did not cover a large area, and it mainly comprised the estates of the most prominent Lords and Barons. It had a couple notable points, though. On the left, Boromir passed the grand complex of the Healing Houses with adjacent Gardens. Continuing along the Main Street he reached the seventh and final of the City Gates, which was in truth more of a tunnel than a gate, hewn under the spur of rock that stemmed from the Hill of Guard. The tunnel went three-ways: it connected northern and southern parts of the Sixth Level with the Courtyard of the Citadel. Boromir could walk the path to the top with his eyes closed, without even thinking about it, this time however, something perverted his course.

Just as he was about to turn left to enter the staircase leading to the Courtyard, he felt a strange, distinct tug in his stomach. As if he was supposed to go somewhere else. A calling, of sorts. Instead of turning, he continued straight through the tunnel and emerged on the northern side of the Spur.

This part of the Sixth Level would become shadowed by the Mountain later during the day, but for now the white walls of opulent townhouses shone still in the early afternoon sun. Compared to them, the building of the Royal Archives looked nondescript, but it was the one that Boromir turned his steps towards. He could not say what sort of intuition guided him; he only had an inkling as to who might be waiting for him at his destination.

Despite the outward building of the Archives being average in size, on the inside its chambers were numerous and vast, for they continued deep into the Mountain, and the farthest, oldest halls were situated under the Citadel. There was even a secret passage between the Archives and the Tower of Ecthelion, although that was one of the better guarded secrets of Gondor, and Boromir was one of the only few, besides his father, Faramir, Warden of the Keys and the Head Archivist, who knew about it.

But right then, after entering the Archives, Boromir went not to the deep halls and the passage, but towards the airy and well lit Public Hall.

The Archives were unpopulated most of the time. The Public Hall was furnished with numerous tall rows of bookshelves, which formed a veritable labyrinth, with a few small and sparsely lit desks and workstations. As he wandered between the shelves, Boromir heard two voices speaking, of which both sounded familiar: one belonged to his brother Faramir - there could be no mistake. The other voice he could not quite place, although he was certain he's heard it before.

"... And think you truly, that this has aught to do with our Kingdom?" Faramir's muffled voice became clearer as Boromir approached a large stained-glass window. His brother and the mysterious guest were occupying an alcove in the library, fashioned in a wide, sunny embrasure. Boromir knew the spot; it had long been Faramir’s favourite hideout.

"Who can tell what fate has in store for any of us, my young friend?" answered the second voice and although Boromir recognized it then, he could scarce believe his own ears. What finally convinced him of the mystery person's identity was a generous billow of pipeweed smoke that wafted from the embrasure. Boromir halted. He was not sure of his readiness to face the guest, and he didn't want to interrupt what he knew was a long-awaited opportunity for Faramir.

"I should tell Boromir about this, later," Faramir said, "Though, he is like to make light of such matters. Yet I find I want to share with him all the news of import anyways." Hearing this, Boromir felt his heart swell with a rush of tenderness for his younger brother. He should pay more attention to the stories and dreams Faramir would recount to him, even if he did not always understand them.

"You need not wait, my young friend. You can tell him right now," the voice answered. Of course, thought Boromir, I cannot hide from a Wizard.

“Now? How…” Faramir began, but Boromir decided to wait no longer.

As his presence had been discovered, he had little choice but to step out from behind the bookcase and face both Mithrandir and Faramir; the latter quite literally, for Faramir was immediately upon him, clasping his shoulders and arms in greeting.

“Brother!” he exclaimed, his entire face alight with joy. Boromir immediately felt a tight knot in his chest unravel. He did not know how much he had been worrying for his brother until the worries dissipated at the welcome sight and new vigour surged through his veins.

“‘Tis I! And ‘tis you, and you are whole,” Boromir said and embraced his brother, overcome with emotion. “A happy day. I’ve got your note.”

“Aye! But how did you know I’d be here? The note said the Citadel, and after the third bell!” Faramir asked, furrowing his brow in that characteristic manner of his, which always amused Boromir.

“How did I know you’d be in the library? Where the books are?” Boromir laughed. “A wonder, truly. Must that you’re not the only one with prophetic abilities, little brother.” He did not want to elaborate and explain the mysterious premonition that guided him here, so he disguised it as a jest.

“Evidently not,” said Mithrandir, reminding the brothers of his presence.

On the best of days, Boromir was not too fond of Wizards. They came and went as they pleased, and seemed to know entirely too much, but they never shared their insights, unless it suited their agenda. They kept their own counsel, the Order of the Istari they called it, or what had you, and because of this Boromir was always a little suspicious about their true allegiance. Greater good they always preached, but too often they were the ones who dictated where that greater good might lay. The lore of Western Domains brimmed with tales of unfortunate mortals, who were spurred by this Wizard or the other to do something unpardonably stupid.

Or maybe he just did not like to be on the receiving end of that drilling, speculative gaze, like the one Mithrandir was currently regarding him with. It made Boromir’s teeth itch.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith, Grey Wanderer," Boromir said nevertheless and bowed politely. It was always wise to be polite to the Istari, lest they turn me into a frog, or whatever it is they do to mortals they no longer have use of, he reasoned.

"Well met, Son of Denethor," said Mithrandir. "You are much changed, since last I've seen you."

Typical wizard behaviour, Boromir thought sourly. Always implying something, but never saying it clearly. What was even more annoying, he could not say the same to the Wizard - The Grey Wanderer had not aged a day during the entirety of Boromir’s life, and also the life of his father Denethor, and his grandfather Ecthelion, if they were to be believed. He chose to ignore the Wizard’s remark.

"Long has it been since we last spoke, Lord Istar," he answered levelly. Thirteen years, to be exact, his memory supplied. Members of the Istari order would visit Minas Tirith from time to time: sometimes they were gone for a year, sometimes for five years, sometimes twenty, and sometimes two hundred years or even more. Five of the Istari were known to the people of Gondor, their deeds recorded in legends, and if there were more, they had never revealed themselves. As far as the memory of the Ruling Stewards reached, only two Wizards: Mithrandir and Curunir, had ever regaled Gondor’s rulers with their company and their advice. Of the two, Mithrandir’s name had often been associated with ill news and ill adventures, and the inhabitants of Minas Tirith generally feared and avoided him. They called him Stormcrow, the portend of doom. Fitting, that he’d turn up now of all times, Boromir thought.

"Has it?" the Wizard furrowed his comically bushy brows. "Seems to me like yesterday. I must be getting old."

You think? Boromir snarked in the privacy of his thoughts, but said nothing out loud. He did not have time for Mithrandir's antics. He came here to meet with his brother, whose absence of several months was felt by him more keenly than Mithrandir's over a decade of silence.

“Don’t let me keep you, Sons of Denethor,” said Gandalf, not for the first time making Boromir wonder if perhaps the Wizard could read minds.

“But what will you be doing now, Gandalf?” Faramir asked, seeming loath to part with the Wizard, whom, as Boromir knew, he greatly admired. In his youth, Faramir had spent many evenings in the Grey Wanderer's company in these very Archives, or in the Sixth Level’s Gardens, to the amazement of the archivists and healers, and to the Lord Steward’s eternal annoyance. Mithrandir would smoke pipeweed then, recount his many fantastical tales, and tutor Faramir in the art of interpreting dreams. Boromir knew this only because Faramir had told him, for he himself had never been present during these meetings. Faramir often spoke about Gandalf and reminisced on everything the Wizard had told him, even many years after the Grey Wanderer’s last visit to Minas Tirith.

To Boromir’s astonishment, the Wizard gave a plain answer.

“I will be searching for a certain piece of history deep in the bowels of these Archives, my young friend,” he said, with uncharacteristic sobriety. “Pray that I find it, for it will be no easy task, and much depends upon it.”

“Then I will help you!” said Faramir immediately. “This is why I am come! To be of service to you, dearest Gandalf!” Boromir could see his brother’s excitement, but privately he worried. He would hate for Faramir to get involved in one of the Wizard’s suspect schemes.

“You already serve Gondor and your Lord well, Captain Faramir, and let us leave it at that,” said Gandalf kindly. “Your present tasks are vital and appreciated. This quest must be mine alone.” In his words rang such finality, that no one in their right mind would dare contest them.

“We wish you a brief and fruitful labour, then,” Faramir acquiesced. “May you find what you came for.”

“Farewell, Faramir and Boromir. Until we meet again.” With this, Gandalf wandered off into the labyrinth of bookcases and disappeared in a billow of pipeweed smoke.

Now left alone with his brother, Boromir afforded himself the luxury of a shared quiet moment with the person he loved most. He took in the sight of Faramir, whose skin was tan and whose hair gained paler reflexes from being out in the sun, but who was safe and sound, and generally no worse for the wear, despite having faced the danger of the Enemy every day for the past near to four moons. Faramir observed him in turn. When they were both content that no harm had come to the other, Boromir spoke, almost hesitant to interrupt the silence.

“Have you seen our Lord the Steward yet?” he asked, knowing that Faramir wouldn't be too eager to fulfil this particular duty, and wanting to assist him. Or maybe it is me who doesn’t want to face the Steward alone, Boromir thought sourly. He still hadn’t answered his father’s summons.

“I have, as happens,” Faramir said, to Boromir’s surprise. “I went to him first thing, ever his faithful servant. He is up to date with the Rangers’ manoeuvres, as I’ve been sending him frequent and extensive reports. He did not want much from me, save for the recount of recent days and of my journey here. And, of course, the cause for my abandoning of my post. He did not take kindly to that, even if he could see my reasons.” Faramir’s tone was bland and formal, as it was usually when he was speaking of Denethor.

“What were your reasons for coming here?” Boromir asked.

“I’ll tell you everything, but not here. There are still respects left to pay on the occasion of my return,” said Faramir, and his eyes softened. “Will you go with me?” he asked.

“I will,” Boromir agreed, not even needing to ask where they were going.

Together, they exited the Archives into the lazy afternoon bustle of Uptown. They directed their steps to the left, where the uppermost traverse of the Main Street girded the Citadel and led straight to Fen Hollen. As the name implied, the massive gate would remain ever closed to the public, with the exception of a select few. The sons of the Steward counted among the approved visitors, of course.

“Lord High Warden, Captain Faramir!” the Portier saluted as he held the door ajar, only wide enough to let them pass.

Only once the iron gate closed behind them, could Boromir relax. He was finally alone with Faramir, in this hallowed space designated for eternal rest. Slowly, they strolled along Rath Dínen, admiring the view of the slopes of Mindolluin bathed in the afternoon sun that the path afforded. Boromir was anxious to hear his brother’s tale, yet he knew better than to press him. Sure enough, Faramir soon spoke unprompted.

“Chiefly, I came back to meet with Gandalf, although of course I did not tell that to Father,” Faramir began.

“No,” Boromir agreed. Denethor hardly needed any more reasons to be angry with Faramir, as was. “But how did you know he’d be here? There has been no news of him for over a decade.”

“I think he summoned me,” Faramir said, frowning. “Although he would not admit it. I sensed his coming, and hastened back to the City. Anyways, it was vital that I spoke both to father and to Gandalf because of a dream I had last night. I knew not what to make of the vision and seeked to consult them.”

Not with the visions again , thought Boromir. The theme of revelations and premonitions had always been pervasive in their family. After three decades of his service to the Steward, Boromir became convinced that his father had some means of clairvoyance that surpassed ordinary mortal senses. It was impossible to hide anything from Lord Denethor, and his intuition was legendary among the people of Gondor. How would his father obtain clandestine knowledge of various topics and occurrences, Boromir knew not, for the Steward confided in no one.

Boromir was, on the other hand, privy to the intimate details of Faramir’s life. Ever since childhood, his brother had suffered from mysterious dreams and spells of delirium, which even the Warden of the Healing Houses could not explain. During those states, Faramir would experience visions, often filled with symbolic topics and legendary themes. The visions were what fueled his love for history and lore. Some unsympathetic courtiers would circulate rumours that the younger son of the Steward was unsound of mind, none however would dare to repeat such slander in Boromir’s range of hearing. Mithrandir considered the visions a gift, and declared them prophetic. It was for this reason that the Wizard decided to tutor Faramir, and he visited the city regularly for a period of time during their youth. Anyone who knew Faramir could not doubt the strength of his on all accounts brilliant mind, and neither Boromir nor Lord Denethor had ever given any serious consideration to the notion that Faramir might be going insane. However, Boromir was to this day reluctant to buy into the supernatural diagnosis as given by Mithrandir.

In truth, Faramir’s condition often worried him. The visions concerned grave topics and were connected to the history and fate of their Kingdom and the world of Men. They often taxed Faramir, who was ever for his part a sensitive, introspective lad, and the dreams became the cause for his brother’s further isolation. To remedy this, Boromir would always listen to Faramir’s recount of the visions and try to lessen his burden by offering consolation, even if he himself was not entirely convinced of the origin or veracity of his brother’s clairvoyance. This time was no different.

“Will you tell me?” he asked. Faramir needed no further encouragement.

“I dreamt, and in that dream I saw a vast swathe of forest,” his brother began. “A realm older and darker than the woods of Ithilien and Anorien, if you can believe it. The sky above it was clouded and dreary, and for a long time there was silence and little else. Then suddenly the sky was rent, and a flash of blinding light appeared to permeate the entire forest. A strange and wonderful chanting filled the air, in a language unknown to me, and I was overcome by awe. Soon, as rapidly as it started, the song died down, and a great many birds took flight at once and soared to the West. The dream was not yet over then, but I missed it’s last part, because that’s when Mablung woke me, damn him. He said I was trashing in my sleep, which I probably was. But something important might have escaped me because of him. I hope I’ll dream of it again.”

Boromir hoped for the exact opposite, because Faramir’s tale filled him with a sense of supernatural foreboding, which did not sit well with him.

“What did our father make of it?” Boromir asked.

“He’s listened to my recounting of the dream, but offered no insight nor any commentary,” Faramir sighed. “You know how he is.”

“Aye,” Boromir confirmed. Denethor took interest in Faramir’s visions, true, but often offered no sympathy nor counsel for his younger son. It always angered Boromir, because, of all the people, Lord Denethor, who probably shared some of his son’s gifts, would be best equipped to relieve Faramir’s anxieties. But he never did. “And what explanation did Mithrandir give you?” Boromir asked instead of dwelling on the family conflict.

“Gandalf said that something has happened in one of the Elven realms of the North. A source of primaeval power, rarely seen in Our Age, has briefly awakened, and disturbed the peace of an Elven Queen. He himself has felt the surge of magic, and later received news of what’s happened from a friend. He also said…” here Faramir briefly hesitated, before continuing, “... that because I have dreamt of it, the event might somehow connect to the fate of Gondor. Though I do not see how, nor does he.”

As always, Boromir was in awe of how much occult knowledge the Wizard was willing to share with Faramir. Boromir himself could not get a straight answer from Mithrandir even if he asked to be shown the way to a privy. Wander and ye shall find what ye seek the old man would say, or other such nonsense, and then he’d gladly watch Boromir piss himself.

However, he had to abandon both his humorous musings of wizards, as well as the daunting mystery of Faramir’s dreams, for the brothers had at last reached the end of Rath Dínen, and entered the Houses of the Dead.

The greatest mausoleum was of course dedicated to Gondor’s Kings of yore, and its portal had been sealed ever since the funeral of King Eärnur, nearly a millennium ago. As they passed its opulent carved fronton, Boromir and Faramir’s feet took them along the familiar path to the Mausoleum of the Stewards, where, amongst the innumerable epitaphs of their kin, their mother had been laid to rest. Lord Denethor had her marble likeness placed upon her monument, and both of her sons now contemplated its cool beauty in silence. Boromir regretted not having brought any token of remembrance - a bundle of fragrant herbs, or a candle to place upon her grave. He would usually forget things like that when visiting here. There were always fresh flowers adorning the tombstone, their father saw to that personally, but it would have been nice to leave something of his own.

"Do you ever think about what she'd make of us?" asked Faramir suddenly, to Boromir's surprise. His brother rarely spoke of their mother and Boromir wasn't sure how well Faramir remembered her, given that his brother had only been in his fifth winter when she had passed away.

"She would be proud of you, I know it," he said. And she would not let the Steward estrange you thus , he added in his thoughts. She would not suffer you being sent to the forefront of a brewing war for months on end. She'd want you here, in the Capital, where your brilliance could truly shine.

If anyone ever had any influence over Lord Denethor, it had been the Lady Finduilas. Since her passing the Steward would shoulder his burdens alone. In his youth, Boromir often dreamed of finding love like the one he saw between his parents. He firmly pushed those thoughts aside. It was no time to be getting sentimental.

"She was like you, in many ways," Boromir said to his brother instead. "Having you makes me miss her less."

"Yes," Faramir agreed. "The same goes for you. Let us leave her in peace and be off."

They turned back and again strolled along Rath Dinen, this time towards the City. The sun was already leaning towards the West, bound to disappear behind Mount Mindolluin sooner than later.

Now that the heavy, intimate topics were out of the way, Boromir's thoughts drifted towards his everyday worries again. He was sorely tempted to shower Faramir with questions about the orcish warbands that the Ithilien Rangers were battling, about their numbers, their equipment, camp placements and preferred strategies, but he held back for Faramir's sake. After the first euphoria of seeing his brother in one piece had passed, Boromir saw the silent traces of bone-deep weariness in his brother. Faramir looked thinner, his eyes were shadowed and lacked spark. Boromir wondered if he in turn appeared tired to Faramir, given all the pressure he himself had been under these past months. Anyhow, he was unlikely to get out of Faramir any more than he had already learned from his brother's detailed field reports.

Instead, it was Faramir who introduced lighter topics.

"Aunt Irviniel wrote to me that cousin Elphir is to take a wife," he informed conversationally. "She sends you her best regards and regrets we cannot be present for the wedding."

Boromir snorted.

"Oh, I do doubt that!" he countered. "She may miss you, to be sure, but me and father I'd wager she could do without." There was no love lost between Boromir and his aunt Irviniel.

"Do not be like that!" Faramir chided. "I shall write to her that you send your regards as well," he added generously.

Together they returned to the Citadel, mostly trading news about their friends and extended family. When they entered the Courtyard of the Fountain, they halted to consider their next course.

“When are you heading back to Ithilien?” Boromir asked his brother, reluctant to part ways with him, but knowing he would have to.

“Father wants me back on my post as soon as possible, so I’ll be leaving on the morrow at first light,” Faramir replied.

“I will be there to see you off, then,” Boromir said, as he clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Rest now and treat yourself to a large dinner. You’re waning.”

“Do not mother hen me!” Faramir bristled. “You yourself look worn out like a bed in a brothel! You send me to dine and rest, and where will you go? Off to do more work, I’d wager.”

“Such crass words from my gentle little brother!” exclaimed Boromir, affecting shock, and then laughed. "I see the company of soldiers has been rubbing off on you! But your wits avail you, alas, I am guilty as charged," he added. He was still yet to break the night’s fast, still had High Warden duties to attend to and he still hadn’t answered his father’s call.

Having traded goodnights with his brother, Boromir went straight to his office in the Guard House. At its door he met his Squire Huor, and he immediately felt guilty for forgetting about the boy for the better part of the day.

“Huor!” he called, “had you aught in your belly since morning?” The boy shook his head. “Ha! And neither had I. Hurry off to the kitchens and bid them send us some provisions. Then fetch the ledgers and be ready to assist me.”

As Huor scurried off in his quest for sustenance, Boromir reluctantly looked at the dispatches and reports piling on his desk. There will be time to read them tomorrow , after the muster, he reassured himself. Among the papers, he found the one he’d been after: the report from the Mason’s Guild on the state of Rammas Echor. Father will be asking about this, he thought, as he unfolded the parchment to briefly familiarise himself with its contents.

After wolfing in the bread and cold cuts that the cook had sent their way, together with Huor Boromir moved to the Armory. There, they were greeted by Warden Ornendil, Boromir’s lieutenant in charge of the Second Company of Tower Guard. The man had been cataloguing the stockpiled weapons and armour pieces since morning, with the help of a small flock of scribes.

“At ease, Warden!” Boromir greeted his saluting lieutenant. “I see you have almost finished the stocktaking without us.”

“With your permission, Lord High Warden,” Ornendil replied, “we are indeed almost done with the listing.”

And so Boromir began the tedious task of examining the quality of the stockpiled weapons, and then checking his ledgers with the lists made by Ornendil’s scribes. The work took the rest of the already fleeting afternoon. In fact, when finally Boromir pressed his seal in the ledger and ordered the stockpiles of weapons moved to the storehouses in the City, it was already dark out. He’d missed dinner.

“Off with you, Huor,” Boromir dismissed the lad with a tired sigh. “Go say goodnight to your grandfather and be ready for muster at the Garrison at first bell.”

“Aye, Sir!” Huor saluted and hastened away. Huor’s grandfather was Hurin, Warden of the Keys, and Boromir only accepted the lad as his Squire out of respect for the prominent court official. He had thought tutoring Huor would be a chore, however, the boy turned out to be an adequate assistant and pulled his own weight more often than not.

Huor went off to his Lord and it is time I went to mine, Boromir thought tiredly, as he crossed the lantern-lit Courtyard and entered the Tower of Ecthelion. He passed through the magnificent Tower Hall, sparing a glance towards the dais with two thrones: one for the absent King and one for his Lord the Steward. The very top of the Tower served as his father’s private study, and everyone in the Citadel knew that the Steward ought not to be disturbed after having retreated there. Boromir knew, however, that his father would be waiting for him in his day office, situated on one of the lower condignations, likely still at work. He wasn’t wrong.

“You took your time.” Denethor’s chilled voice reached him when he ascended the stairs and halted in the office door.

“Apologies, Sire!” Boromir said and bowed deeply. “I’ve been otherwise detained, but now here I am at your service.”

“Detained by gallivanting with the Wizard and sentimental trips with your brother, I am told,” Denethor noted, his tone seemingly nonchalant, but Boromir knew better than to believe in his father's disinterest.

"They brought curious tidings," he answered carefully.

"That may be," His father said. "I suspect Faramir has shared his dream with you. Only, it was no mere dream. What he saw happened in reality. I have been informed about a magical event of some sort that occurred in the woodlands west of Dale."

Boromir was acutely aware of his father's searching gaze. He was surprised. How could the Steward be able to confirm this news with such certainty and so soon? To Boromir’s best knowledge, Gondor had not kept close diplomatic ties with Dale, and the news travelled slowly, through irregular missives sent with merchant caravans. This was one of those instances that over the years had led Boromir to surmise that his father possessed some means of divination.

“And I wonder… What did the Wizard make of it?” Denethor asked pointedly. Denethor had always been mistrustful of Mithrandir and rarely invited him to the court. However, privately, he strived to watch the Grey Pilgrim’s movements closely each time the wizard visited Minas Tirith.

Boromir could not prevent a sigh from escaping him.

“He said a… magical stirring had disturbed the peace of the woodland Elves,” he reported dutifully, albeit inwardly he winced. He was aware that Lord Steward was using him, and Faramir too, indirectly, to gain access to the Wizard’s thoughts and insights, and it sat ill with him. It felt dishonest. Alas, it could not be helped; Denethor was his liege lord and his sire, and honour demanded that Boromir withheld nothing from him. So he would not. “Mithrandir thinks some ancient source of power caused this. It could be connected to Gondor, though I know not how.”

“Interesting,” Denethor mused. “I will investigate this further, and perhaps consult Curunir…”

Boromir winced again. He could, with some reluctance, tolerate Mithrandir, because, for all of his faults, the Grey Wizard had always been kind to Faramir, and that, to Boromir, counted for a lot. He had, on the other hand, no such warm sentiments towards the haughty and cunning Saruman. Unfortunately, for as long as Boromir could remember the Lord Steward had courted Curunir’s friendship and heeded the White Wizard’s advice. I have had enough wizard-talk to last me three full moons, Boromir thought bitterly.

“Do not make such faces, Boromir,” his father admonished. “We need to be on the lookout for anything that might help us defeat the Enemy, and Curunir has been helpful with his counsel thus far. But, we mustn't forsake the mundane preparations on account of the fantastical. Tell me, what is the state of Rammas Echor?”

Boromir was prepared for this question. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the report from the Masons’ Guild, that he had commissioned a fortnight prior.

“Most of the stonework done by our Lord Ecthelion has either crumbled or been dismantled to expand the farming grounds. A palisade has been erected in its place, which is now serving as a rudimentary barrier, but it is susceptible to fire. The only stone sections that held are the ones adjacent to Causeway Forts, and a line of fortifications near Harlond, but they, too, require repairs,” Boromir reported. He laid out the parchment on the desk before the Steward. “This is the estimated cost of completing the stonework.”

His Father regarded the parchment, but initially said nothing. Boromir felt his anxiety surge. He knew he did not, and would not have enough men to defend a wooden stake wall. He needed a sound, stone defence line, so he could man it sparsely and still be able to hold the Enemy at a distance from Minas Tirith. He also hoped that completing the Rammas Echor would keep at least some of the many farmhouses scattered across Pelennor Fields from harm’s way. However…

“I worry the council will not approve of this expense,” Boromir confessed.

“‘Tis true the State can hardly afford it. But even less can we afford losing the adjacent farmlands and having the enemy cut off our supply lines. You leave the council to me, Boromir,” Denethor reassured him. “They will grumble, but they will yield. I gave you a City to defend, my son, and I would give you the means to defend it with.”

Boromir was overwhelmed with relief. He should not have doubted the Steward. He should not have worried needlessly. His Father was wise, he could see what was necessary. The councillors will bow to his will.

“Thank you, Sire,” he said, trying to convey the depth of his gratitude with his tone rather than opulent words.

“Do not thank me yet,” Denethor sobered him. “The construction, as detailed in this report, will take nigh to two years. I will evacuate the populace, and gather supplies so that the City might stand a chance. But it will take time. You must buy us that time, Boromir. ”

“Surely the situation is not so dire, Lord! According to Faramir, the Enemy’s movements have been concentrated in the North of Ithilien, near Morannon. But we have been provisioning and strengthening Cair Andros for a long time now. The island fort will hold,” Boromir said, assured of his merit. As Gondor’s Captain-General, he had been religiously studying the recent movements of the troops, both friend and foe alike, based on field reports. The situation was serious, but stable, and the constant watches, patrols and well-coordinated sorties from Cair Andros prevented the Enemy’s crossing of Anduin.

“This is precisely why I summoned you, Captain-General,” said Denethor. “It is not Cair Andros that should have you worried. The reports from our soldiers, and your brother’s among them, have been an admirable effort at intelligence, but they are incomplete.” This was news to Boromir. He raised his eyebrows. “Look here,” the Steward said, as he spread a big scroll across his desk.

Before Boromir lay a map of Ithilien, with recent troop movements marked on it meticulously. Boromir recognized his father’s precise cartography and neat handwriting.

“Observe the placement of orcish warbands, and the Haradrim camps.” The Steward pointed to the irregular blotches of red ink that dotted the forests and grassy plains between Anduin and Ephel Dúath. “Now compare this map with the one from last month,” the Steward said, as he unrolled another, similar map. “Trace the patterns of their movements, and tell me what do you mark from it.”

Boromir bent down over the maps and studied them for a while. The data presented by his father differed from the intelligence from field reports. That, or they hadn’t been reading the same reports. Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier? Boromir wondered bitterly. But his outrage soon gave way to alarm at another revelation.

“They’re encircling Osgiliath!” he exclaimed, looking at his father, flabbergasted.

“They might seem uncoordinated bands of brigands, to an untrained eye,” the Steward commented. “But when one considers all that is given, ‘tis apparent, is it not? They mean to take the Bridge, and enter Anórien right under our noses.”

“My Lord!” Boromir bit back a curse. “How came you by this knowledge? There have been no reports of these Haradrim camps!”

“Compose yourself, Boromir!” the Steward thundered. “That is not the point! What matters is that we are not yet ready to face them on the Western Bank. If they pass, the people will be slaughtered, the crops burned, and they will come knocking at our gates with battering rams ere a siege can be prepared with even a slight chance of success!” Denethor paused his angry tirade and looked out the window, from which a view of the entire Minas Tirith and Pelennor could be admired. The City’s sombre nighttime silence seemed to echo the Steward’s grave sentiments. “They cannot pass. Your men must be ready,” the Steward said with finality.

The news had somewhat shaken Boromir, but not enough to make him doubt his warriors.

“We are at your command, Sire. My men are working their very hardest. And I am, too.”

Denethor was silent for a longer while. Boromir started to think there wouldn't be any answer, and that he should prepare for a harsh dismissal. But when the Steward finally spoke, it was with an uncharacteristically thin, quiet voice.

“So you do, my son,” he said. “I know you do. A better son I could not wish for. And Gondor, for a better General.”

Boromir felt his throat constrict painfully. It were words like these from his father, few and far between as they came, that later would warm him for many a cold night spent in war encampments. And yet Boromir would much prefer to hear words of scolding, than of caress and praise. For Denethor to go soft like that, things had to be dire indeed, more precarious even than the Steward was letting on. He knew he must do everything in his power to support his father and prevent his stumbling.

Boromir kneeled before his liege and touched his right hand to his heart.

“I will not fail you, Lord,” he promised. “Mordor will not take the Bridge, this I swear to you. Do you hear? I swear it.”

“Raise, Boromir, son of mine,” answered the Steward. “Your oath does you credit, if you can but uphold it.”

Boromir stood up.

“I will do my very best. I shall dedicate everything towards this goal.”

“Again, I know you shall. And so shall I.” Denethor turned his face away from Boromir and his voice grew even quieter. “But I fear, for the first time, that our best may not be enough. It may not be enough.”

Silence struck Boromir. Never in Boromir’s near forty years of life had the Steward wavered in conviction. Never had his father’s heart given way to worry nor despair. This one sentence of doubt uttered just now by Lord Denethor marked the coming of a new, dark age for Gondor and Boromir suddenly could feel it in his bones. He said nothing, because he did not know what possible consolation he could offer to the very one that so many looked up to.

Denethor regarded his son and must have seen the concern in Boromir’s eyes, because he collected himself hastily.

“Bah! Do not look so dejected!” the Steward waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I am yet to give up. I am merely trying to face our chances squarely, meagre as they are.”

“Aye, Lord,” said Boromir, relieved that his father was able to compose himself.

“Your uncle the Prince writes that your cousin Elphir is to be wed,” his father turned the conversation to lighter topics, a little too eagerly to fool Boromir, who welcomed the change of mood nevertheless. “With the orc attacks we cannot attend to him in Dol Amroth, of course, but we will send gifts and best wishes. You should write to your cousin.”

“Aye, Lord,” Boromir replied, already wondering when would he find the time to compose the letter.

“To think Elphir is nigh ten years your junior…” the Steward began, but very pointedly did not finish the sentence.

With that, Boromir knew the time for sentiments was over and his father was back to his usual acerbic self. He took it as his cue to retreat, lest he suffer another earful about not having produced an heir to the Stewardship.

“I hear Forlong’s daughter has left for Arnach,” the Steward made another remark, seemingly unconnected, but Boromir could almost physically feel a noose tightening around his neck. “I trust you conveyed our best regards to her and to the Lord her father?”

“Aye, Lord,” Boromir confirmed, holding back a cringe.

The Steward did not relent.

“It's been nine years, Boromir…” Another unfinished remark that needed no ending to convey a clear message.

Boromir sighed. He was getting entirely too old for this.

“Might I be excused, Sire? The muster starts early on the morrow.”

✦

That night, Boromir slept and dreamt of vast woodlands, rent skies and flocks of birds.

[next chapter]

Header image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you! <3

#lotr #lotr fanfiction #boromir #lord of the rings #faramir #denethor #derufin #[arda]#[wandering birds]#ass deep in demons

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ass-deep-in-demons · 1 year ago

Text

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + friends & family,

Tropes: character study, prequel, love letter to the canon, adventure

Rating: T+

Chapter Length: ~10k

Author's Note: I wrote it because I love Boromir and I want him to have a life. Also, I love Minas Tirith and I will be moving there next summer.

✦ Chapter 2 ✦

… in which Boromir defends the Osgiliath Bridge, and we all know how it ends.

[AO3] [masterpost]

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Osgiliath, 29th of Lótessë 2018 TA

Boromir had never thought much about how the afterlife might look like. Whenever someone mentioned to him the concept of the passage of souls, he would imagine something akin to Osgiliath as a place for the eternal roaming of lost spirits.

The once splendid Ogiliath was now a labyrinth of crumbling white marble, haunted by wild cats and birds of prey. The walls were often clad in swirling wispy strands of mist wafting from the Great River.

From his vantage point, atop one of the few still standing towers on the Eastern Bank, Boromir could almost see the spirits of his soldiers roaming the shadowed stone corridors. Many of his men had fallen defending these very walls over the last score of months. And still, it all seemed to have been in vain. No matter how many orcish camps Boromir's troops had destroyed, no matter how many Haradrim convoys Faramir's Rangers had hijacked, the Enemy did manage to encircle Osgiliath at last, and now they were going to have to fight the Shadow here, in the City, to keep control over the Great Bridge.

Presently, the Gondorian army had full control of Osgiliath, however, numerous orc encampments were scattered on the surrounding grounds, and more fiends were drawing near to the City. Boromir could see the Enemy’s commandos approaching the white walls and seeking entrance, causing skirmishes. For now, Gondor’s troops were doing an admirable job at holding them off, under the command of Angbor, a mighty warrior from Lamedon.

"Still no sight of Captain Faramir?" a welcome, friendly voice inquired, breaking Boromir's morose musings.

"I'm not expecting him to be back yet. He is bound to take longer," said Boromir, affecting composure.

"I am sure you're right," Derufin said, as he joined Boromir on the vantage point.

Faramir had ridden out at first light, with a dozen of his men, when the orcs were commencing the assault on the ruined City. There remained a Ranger encampment in South Ithilien, and Faramir went to evacuate them. Boromir's present task was to keep the Enemy out of the ruined City long enough to allow the Rangers to escape before the Bridge would be overrun.

Except the Bridge will hold, Boromir firmly reassured himself . He had actually argued this very point with Faramir last night. Faramir believed the City might very well fall, and that the Gondorian army should be prepared for evacuation further West, to Causeway Forts. This is why Faramir had insisted on rescuing the Ranger Camp in South Ithilien - he thought they might be permanently cut out from their main forces after the lost battle. Boromir listened to his brother's plight and allowed this rescue mission, albeit with a heavy heart. He had also ordered the moving of the wounded and partial evacuation of stocks and equipment to the Causeway Forts. It would be unwise to ignore Faramir’s advice altogether, and they had to be ready for every opportunity.

However, privately Boromir still believed Osgiliath would hold. He had promised his Father, after all. With the crumbling outer fortifications it was impossible to keep the orc bands outside the City for long, that was true. The plan was to hold them at bay only long enough to let Faramir's men retreat through the Bridge, then lure them into the City. Boromir was prepared to let them in and then fight them on the ancient streets, among the crumbling white walls and rubble. The labyrinth-like grounds would work to Gondor’s advantage. Boromir had fortified and manned a few strongholds inside the City: the old Garrison, the Western Bridge Towers, and the Arsenal, and also prepared a few nasty surprises for the Enemy. This way, Mordor’s advantage due to greater numbers could be countered, as the ambushes that the Gondorians had set up would allow them to eliminate larger groups of foes at once. They could trap the orcs inside and finish them off, hopefully gaining a few more months until the next assault, and complete the reconstruction of Rammas Echor on time.

"My men are in positions,” Derufin reported. “Captain Aglahad and Sergeant Hirgon are on the Western Bank, supervising the setting of our traps. Master Zbylut and the pioneers are still fortifying the fords.”

The fords were in truth what it was all about. Osgiliath was the only crossing point on Anduin for many miles North and South. There were numerous fords in the City and the Enemy could use them to move an army, but Boromir’s men have rendered the fords unpassable with barricades. To cross through them, the Enemy would need to first capture the entire City and dismantle the blockades. The only remaining link between Western and Eastern Osgiliath was the massive wooden Bridge.

“I thank you, friend,” said Boromir. Truly both his brother and Derufin had been invaluable in their help with all of the war effort that had led to this point.

“If I die today, my chief regret will be never having written to Lady Morwen,” Derufin said, his cheerfulness belying his morbid words. “If we live through this day and I still won’t write to her, yours is the duty to smack me.”

“I will smack you right now, for prattling about maids when we are about to fight for our Kingdom,” said Boromir.

“Oh, loosen up, will you? Everything is in order, Boromir. Your plan will work. You are entirely too serious, and it would do you good if you, too, had a lass at home to think about.” Derufin blabbed and Boromir opened his mouth to retort, annoyed, but Derufin wouldn’t let him. “Do not try to counter me, I’m right. Even your Lord Father would say I’m right.”

Boromir sighed.

“It is the thoughts of Lord Steward that are the cause for my mood. I have made an oath to him that I will not let the Enemy have the Great Bridge. It is either victory or death for me today.”

Derufin snorted.

“That is the most laughable thing you have ever said in my presence, Boromir, and I’ve heard you compose poetry for the late Princess,” his friend commented dryly.

Boromir felt a surge of bitterness.

“Do not be mentioning the Princess now! I am in earnest! Either the Bridge holds or I die defending it. My honour demands it.”

“Damn you, Boromir! Your honour demands that you serve your liege the Steward, and you will be of no use to him dead,” Derufin chastised. “If things go badly, we will retreat to fight another day. I will personally drag you to the Causeway Forts, and I know Faramir will assist me. And the Lord your Father will thank me profusely, and decorate me!” Derufin sighed. “You will not escape this war so easily, so do not look to die a hero. Instead, think of your men, and what you owe to them.”

Boromir felt his face and neck go red with shame. Derufin was of course right. What am I, a lad of twelve? he thought. To be thinking of my wounded pride, to be jumping onto my Enemy’s sword, when my men would be left leaderless, at Mordor’s mercy. He solemnly vowed to himself that he would not be courting death on this day, and would not accept his own demise so readily as that.

But neither could he suffer to break the oath he had given to his Lord. I cannot lose Osgiliath and I cannot die today, and so that leaves only one route open.

“Then we must make sure this day is ours, no matter the cost,” said Boromir, affecting a rueful smile for the sake of his friend.

“And that is the Boromir of Gondor I know and love,” Derufin exclaimed and clasped his shoulder. “When this thrice accursed pile of crumbling stone is secure again, we shall find you a pretty lady to pine after. That will cure you of all your foolish notions of heroism right away.”

Boromir groaned.

“Must that you are in league with my Lord Father to speak so,” he complained. “I do not see you making much progress in the way of…”

“Boromir!” Derufin interrupted him. “Look there! It is Faramir’s Rangers!”

Boromir snapped his head towards the East and squinted. He could not see as far as his eagle-eyed friend the archer, but he did notice a small blot of green moving on the horizon. He immediately felt relieved. Soon Faramir would be safe again on the Western Bank, helping with the evacuation. And yet… Something else caught his eye… Something bigger, vaster, a crawling ribbon of black, that was moving behind the blot of colour they had earlier identified as Faramir’s company.

“What is that, behind the Rangers?” asked Derufin dumbfounded, and Boromir felt the hairs on his neck rise to attention. He knew the answer, and dreaded it.

“That, my friend, is a Haradrim army,” he said. “One we cannot hope to hold at bay.”

“But how…?” Derufin asked the very question that was on Boromir’s mind right then. He had received no intel about this army. The Haradrim could have hidden from Gondorian scouting teams, but they could not hide from the Lord Steward, for Lord Steward saw all… Or did he? How had they missed an entire army?

“Some foul sorcery of the Enemy, no doubt,” Boromir said bitterly. “Come! We must go down and confer with the others. We cannot hope to contain them in the City, they are too many!”

They ran down the tower stairs, mouthing quiet curses. Boromir halted near the end of the staircase, because there he spotted Huor, his young Squire, sitting on the bottom step. The boy rose up quickly once he saw his Lord.

“Captain-General!” the boy saluted, but Boromir waved him off. He had given in to the boy’s pleadings and allowed him to tag along for this campaign, not predicting that the situation could grow so dire. Now he cursed his lack of proper caution.

“Huor, you are relieved from duty, effective immediately!” he bellowed.

The boy gasped.

“But, my Lord! How…” Huor cried with the expression of utter betrayal.

“No buts, lad! This City is about to become a bloodbath, and you don't belong anywherenear it. Cross the Bridge, leave Osgiliath with the wounded and await me in Causeway Forts,” Boromir gave his orders in passing and did not even stop to see if the boy listened. “Sound the alarm!” he shouted at the nearby Sergeant. Boromir was already entering his battle frenzy, and the soldiers around him scrambled to carry out his orders. “And fetch me Captain Aglahad. Where is the Baron with our cavalry?”

“Here am I, Lord” answered Baron Hallas. The Baron and his Knights havd been stationed on the Eastern Bank in an event an operation on the field outside was needed. An event such as this.

“I need you to ride out with your Knights and secure a safe passage for the returning Rangers, Ser Hallas. They have an entire army of the Southrons on their backs,” Boromir said, and the Baron’s eyes widened in shock. “The Rangers are mounted and should arrive here soon, but they will have a hard time passing through the surrounding fields with the orc commandos pressing in on us,” Boromir said. “Bring them to safety, and then lead them through the Bridge.”

“Aye, Lord,” said Baron Hallas, and signalled to his Knights.

"Come, Derufin!" said Boromir, as he trotted towards the battlements, where the sounds of skirmish were coming from. "Let us find Captain Angbor and plan our defence."

Ser Angbor of Lamedon was Boromir’s senior by some ten years. During Boromir’s youth Angbor was considered the finest warrior of the Realm. Boromir had always looked up to the Lamedonian for his legendary fearlessness and battle prowess. Now Boromir was the commanding officer, and a seasoned warrior in his own right, but he still considered it an honour to fight alongside Ser Angbor. The Lamedonian was in command of the 2nd Company of Heavy Infantry.

They found Ser Angbor on the battlements atop Osgiliath’s Eastern Gate, already looking battle-worn, his armour soiled with black orcish ichor. The Gate was barricaded and manned with heavy-plated soldiers, to whom Angbor was bellowing commands. A division of Derufin’s bowmen assisted with the defence. The main problem with Osgiliath fortifications was that they were crumbling, and the outer wall had gaps in it. Gaps that required barricading, and now had to be defended, as the orcish commandos were constantly trying to get in through them.

“Captain-General!” Angbor saluted when he saw Boromir and Derufin ascend the battlements. “Are you seeing this? A whole army of blasted Southrons! Out of thin air no less!”

The men all looked to the East. The swaths of land below Ephel Duath were blackened with columns of marching Haradrim, and the fields surrounding Osgiliath were swarming with orc bands. Boromir’s heart rejoiced as he saw the Company of Rangers on horseback, approaching rapidly. He could see Faramir leading them, hacking at the monsters with broad slashes of his sword. Boromir’s stomach did a flip when he saw his brother deflect an arrow with his buckler. Valar preserve Faramir , he prayed. Near the battlements, the knight cavalry under Baron Hallas’ command was doing an admirable job at clearing a passage for the Rangers. Hopefully both companies would soon return to the safety of one of the sally gates.

Easy it is for our mounted knights to cleave the orc commando, for the monsters are savage, poorly equipped and undrilled, Boromir thought bitterly. The Enemy has only sent them to annoy us and wear down our defences. They are but a starter, and the main course is about to be served. Once again he looked worriedly at the marching army of Harad, which was making slow but steady progress across the plains. He could make out their banners, which appeared but blots of red over the troops from the distance.

“We need to plan an evacuation,” said Derufin.

“Aye, and then what?” Ser Angbor asked and spat over the parapet angrily. An arrow missed his head by an inch, but the warrior did not even flinch. “We retreat to the Causeway Forts, they take Osgiliath, they dismantle the barricades on the fords and then their entire army can cross Anduin freely.”

“Well, what choice do we have?!” Derufin cried. “They’re too many! They will paint this pile of stones red with our blood if we stay here!”

“What choice indeed?” said Angbor and looked to Boromir.

They were in fact both looking at Boromir, expecting an answer from him. An answer he did not have. The situation seemed impossible, but he knew he could not show weakness at that moment. If he wavered now, he would seal their doom surer than any Haradrim army ever could.

“I say the Enemy is not yet upon us,” he said, forcing his face into stillness, and his voice into calm assuredness. ”We yet have some time left. We wait for Faramir and Hallas, and then we confer about…”

“We confer about what?” Faramir’s voice came from behind and the three men turned to face him. “What will talking accomplish, when we are about to be slaughtered?!” Faramir ascended the battlement, accompanied by Captain Aglahad and Sergeant Hirgon. “I beg of you, Captain-General, prolong this madness no further. Let us retreat to Causeway Forts, like we’ve discussed, and save what life we yet can.” Boromir could see his brother’s face was determined, his leathers splashed with ichor, hair tangled by the wind from his wild ride with the Rangers. He had rarely seen Faramir in such a frenzy.

“This will not solve our problems!” Angbor countered. “If we retreat now, we’ll have to face the same army the day after tomorrow, only in the Causeway Forts, and our position will not be better, then! Need I remind you that the Rammas is still incomplete? There are farmers toiling on the Pelennor Fields! Crops growing! If we want to save lives, we’ll have to fight today, or never.”

“Oh, yes, better to have all our forces anni…” Faramir started, but Boromir cut him off mid sentence.

“Enough. We will not squabble,” he said, with all his Captain-General’s authority he could muster. “Ser Angbor, you will continue to defend the Gate, for now. Captain Aglahad, what is the situation on the Western Bank?”

Aglahad, who was pale and sweating, and catching his breath, no doubt after running the entire length of Osgiliath to answer Boromir’s summons, swallowed visibly but managed to gather his wits.

“The 1st Company of heavy plates and the 3rd’s lancers await your orders in the Garrison, Sir!” he reported. “And I still have two companies of skirmishers that have yet to see battle today. They are manning the traps, like you’ve ordered, with Captain Derufin’s archers.”

“I’m afraid the traps won’t be of much help, when the Haradrim get here,” said Boromir. “Once they start passing the Bridge there will be too many to take down.” He looked at his most trusted lieutenants, and words failed him. He did not know what to do. Do not show weakness, he told himself. You have to be strong for their sake. They deserve to die knowing that their leader held faith, and take some last solace from that at least. “I need a moment alone to think on what to do next,” he proclaimed. “Until I’m back, proceed as planned before.”

With that, Boromir turned around and descended from the battlement. All around him, across the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate, men at arms were running errands and passing weapons necessary to keep the barricades manned and supplied, and fend off the pathetic orcish assault at the walls. Boromir crossed the Courtyard and entered a small supply station fashioned in a nearby ruined building, feeling tiredness almost overwhelm him, hoping that a glass of water would clear his head. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimmnes of the storeroom, a movement in one of the corners caught his eye.

“Huor!” he thundered. “How am I to defend this City, if even my own Squire ignores my explicit commands?”

Huor came out of the shadow and straightened. The boy was trembling, but his fists were tightened and his mouth set in a determined line.

“I would not leave you, Lord,” he said simply. Boromir opened his mouth to argue, but then he heard another person enter the supply storage.

“Do not be hard on him, brother,” said Faramir. “You would have done the same in his position. He won’t leave you alone, and neither will I.”

Boromir sat down on one of the wooden benches and sighed deeply. Huor handed him a glass of water, which he downed hastily. Faramir was right. His soldiers, his lieutenants, his brother and even his young Squire, still a child on all accounts, they would not abandon him, even in the face of death. And what am I doing? Cowering in a storeroom, wasting our precious time with my indecision. Some general am I, he chided himself bitterly.

Faramir must have gleaned some of Boromir’s thoughts in that moment, for he sat on the bench beside him, and put his hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

Boromir looked to his brother.

“You’ve nearly ran into the Harad army with your Rangers, during your retreat,” he said. “We’ve watched your progress from the Eastern Watchtower, they were right behind you. Have you managed to get a closer look? Can you tell me aught about them?” he inquired, hoping that Faramir could give him something, some piece of information, anything, that could yet save this day.

“Aye,” said Faramir. “This is why I am so eager to flee, though you might call it cowardice, and you would be right. There is something evil about that army, Boromir. I am telling you! I’ve fought many Southrons over the past years, but none like those. The sheer terror they inspired when we looked upon them over our shoulders… Then there is the mystery of their sudden arrival…” Faramir shuddered. “We cannot face them.”

“We must,” said Boromir tersely, “today, or tomorrow, it hardly seems to matter.”

Faramir sighed, and hesitated, before speaking again.

“I had a dream last night, before I set off to the Ranger’s Camp,” he stated, and Boromir swallowed a groan that almost escaped him. Here we go again with the dreams, he thought. But Faramir spoke further. “It was full of pathos, and ominous, but it also carried hope. Hope for our Kingdom. I’ll tell you all about it later, but for now just…” Faramir halted his speech then, overcome with emotion.

“Hush, brother,” Boromir said and grasped Faramir’s hand. “Leave the nightly terrors for when we’re both safe and sound in the Citadel. For now let us both stay wide awake and not in the dreaming.”

Faramir shook his head.

“Let me finish, brother. Listen just this once,” he persisted. “I am sorry for putting pressure on you earlier. I do not pretend to know what we should do now, and I do not envy you the burden of command. But know this: whatever you decide, we will all stand by you. The entire army. You have always been there for me. Whatever trouble was upon me, you were always there to chase it away. And this time you will, too.”

Boromir felt the sting of tears in his eyes, to his shame and panic.

“I am not sure I can do it, brother,” he whispered, not even caring that young Huor might hear him. The Squire had been with him through thick and thin, he probably knew Boromir better than anyone at that point.

“You can,” Faramir said with conviction, his gentle touch upon Boromir’s shoulder steadying Boromir’s jumbled nerves. “And you will. You are Boromir of Gondor, and that is what you do. You save everyone.”

Boromir felt all the chaos and clamour in his head go quiet then, and instead his mind was illuminated with clarity.

“Of course! That’s it! You’re a genius, brother!” he exclaimed, feeling renewed vigour surge through his veins. “I am Boromir of Gondor. Indeed! I’m Boromir. Boromir! I have to act like Boromir! I have to do what Boromir did!”

Faramir blinked and regarded Boromir with his mouth agape, but then understanding dawned on his face.

“You mean to destroy the Bridge! Like the Steward Boromir of old!” he gasped.

It was a somewhat obscure piece of Gondorian lore, the tale of Steward Boromir I, who had defended Osgiliath against the Witch King of Angmar in the year 2475, and gotten wounded by a Morgul Blade. Although Boromir I had ultimately prevailed, he had made the hard decision to let the ancient stone Bridge fall, and with it, the splendid Dome of Stars. In fact, the entire Osgiliath had been ruined in the aftermath of that war, but at least MInas Tirith had been saved, and the Shadow had retreated to lie dormant for the next centuries. Boromir and Faramir had first heard this tale together, during one of their many history lessons in the Archives, supervised by their tutors and by the Steward himself.

“Think about it! ‘Tis our only chance!” Boromir explained frantically. “If they cannot pass through the Bridge, they cannot dismantle the barricades on the fords. We could retreat to the Western Bank and easily drive them away with archers. And then defend the fords for yet many months to come!”

Faramir looked only partially convinced.

“But the Bridge is made of solid timber,” he reasoned. We cannot dismantle it on time! And to burn it would take days.”

Boromir stood and started pacing the storage room, thinking and planning out loud, only half listening to his brother.

“The Bridge is supported by wooden beams,” he said. “If our pioneers start working on them now, they can be destroyed till noon, and then the Bridge will collapse into the Great River.”

“We do not have till noon, Boromir,” Faramir shook his head.

“Our soldiers must hold off the Haradrim,” Boromir said. There was no stopping him now. “I will lead them, and buy the men enough time.”

“It will be a bloodbath!” Faramir cautioned.

“Aye,” Boromir agreed. “We will pay with blood, but the day will be ours in the end,” he said, as he stepped out of the storage building. “Huor, to me! Everyone to me!” he bellowed at his lieutenants, who were still on the battlements, commanding the defence. They hastened to meet him upon hearing his call, but Boromir was already dictating orders to his Squire. “Now lad, you wanted to be of help, and you’ll get your wish. I’ve an important task for you! You will cross to the west side and find Master Zbylut. Tell him to wait for me on the riverbank near the Bridge, with two scores of his strongest pioneers, with axes, saws and hammers. The bigger the better!”

“Aye, Sir!” Huor smiled and saluted, infected with Boromir’s enthusiasm.

“Now, Huor, make no mistake! Once this duty is done, you are to go to Causeway Forts with our supply wagons. No tarrying this time! Is that clear?” Boromir emphasised. He would not have Huor’s death on his conscience. He could not look Hurin in the eyes if he did, as Huor was the Warden of the Keys’s only heir.

“Aye, Sir! I’ll go now, Sir!” he replied, and ran off with such energy that only the youth could muster, raising dust behind him.

“What is this commotion,” Angbor demanded, as he, Derufin, Aglahad and Hirgon trotted to where Boromir and Faramir were standing on the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate.

“Good tidings!” Boromir proclaimed. “The day may yet be saved. We are going to collapse the Bridge!” Here Boromir made a pause, to allow for the gasps and muffled curses of his surprised companions. “Yes, yes, shocking. But I’ve thought about it, and it’s the only way. How much time do we have?”

“They are not yet here, but approaching, Sir!” Hirgon reported. “I estimate the Haradrim will be upon us in about half an hour!”

“Good!” said Boromir, with more apparent bravado than he himself was feeling. But he had to buoy the men up for this plan to work. “Angbor! You have done an admirable job with our defence thus far. Think you the men can keep it up?”

“Aye! The 2nd Company will stand! I trained no cowards!” Angbor proclaimed proudly.

“Excellent!” Said Boromir. “You will receive reinforcements from the 1st Company. You will try to hold them outside for as long as you can. Groups of them are bound to get through, but pay them no heed and remain on the battlements with your men.”

“Aye, Captain-General!” Angbor saluted.

“Now for the light infantry,” Boromir continued. “Aglahad, station the pikemen just inside the gates and the breaches in the outer wall. Let them be the first to greet our friends from Mordor,” Boromir smirked viciously and Aglahad nodded. “I’ve heard that a spear to the throat means well met in Black Speech. Hirgon, lead your skirmishers to the Eastern Bank, and hide them in groups amongst the ruins. When enemy squadrons breach the outer wall, I want them engaged in fighting on the streets, away from the Bridge for as long as possible. Build a barricade on the Main Street if you have to.”

“Aye, Sir!” The old warrior Hirgon rubbed his hands with glee. “We will lure them into the narrow passages. They won’t know what hit them.” Hirgon was the best suited for this job, since the men knew and trusted him. He could navigate the labyrinth that was the crumbling City of Osgiliath.

“That’s the spirit!” Boromir commended. “Derufin,” he addressed his friend in turn, “single out your best marksmen. I want them on the Western Bridgetowers, covering the evacuation. Before the Bridge collapses, we will be retreating steadily, and we’ll get out as many as we can to the Western Bank. Know that defending the Bridge will be tricky; your archers will have to sift friend from foe and aim true.” Boromir looked straight in Derufin’s eyes to make sure the Captain understood the situation. Holding the Bridge would be crucial.

“Aye, Sir! From the Western Bank’s watchtowers my marksmen will have their pickings of anyone who attempts crossing,” Derufin assured him.

“Yes, that is our plan exactly!” said Boromir, glad they had an understanding. “The rest of your shortbows you will station on the roofs on the Eastern side, to aid the infantry. And the longbowmen will man the wall and fire at the enemy troops outside.”

When all of his lieutenants mumbled their assent, the men stood in silence for a few short moments, pondering the magnitude of what they were about to attempt. So many things could go wrong in this plan. But thinking about what could go wrong would accomplish nothing at this point. They had to do it or die trying.

Boromir addressed his brother again, then.

“Faramir, I want your Rangers guarding the Bridge and the working pioneers. When the Bridge collapses, friend and foe alike might fall into the River. Some may be injured during the fall. I want your men to finish off the enemy warriors, and fish out any survivors on our side. The Rangers are best suited to such tasks.”

“Indeed,” said Faramir. “My man Damrod will see it done.”

“What? You will not lead them?” Boromir was surprised. His brother was well known across Gondor for the close bond of comaraderie he shared with the Rangers under his command. And, Boromir was hoping that by assigning his brother a task on the Western Bank he could keep him out of harm’s way.

“And leave you to fend for yourself, and likely get yourself killed by risking your neck stupidly?” Faramir asked. “I think not.”

“Aye,” said Derufin. “I’m coming with you, too. When you feel an arrow graze your ear and strike through your enemy’s pupil, it will be me having your back.”

“Very well, then,” Boromir agreed with a sigh. “But first we must go to the Eastern Side and give orders to the troops, while Angbor holds the gate.”

With that, Boromir and his officers were off, leaving the Lamedonian in charge of the heavy infantry on the barricades. As they jogged along the Main Street to reach the Bridge, Boromir once again addressed Faramir.

“Brother, and where is Baron Hallas?” he asked.

Faramir raised his brows.

“You ordered him to lead his men and my Rangers to safety, and so that is what he did,” Faramir reported. “When we returned to the City, I left my horse with them and went to meet you, but Hallas rode off through the Bridge. They are like to be with the horses at the stables, now.”

Boromir thought about his plans. The heavy cavalry would have to ditch the horses and the lances, and go back to the Western Side again with swords and shields. We’ll need every man on the defence line to give the pioneers more time with the Bridge, the thought. He decided then, that he would lead the Knights personally. It would be symbolic. The noble houses of Minas Tirith mounting one last defence of Osgiliath.

Once they crossed the Bridge, Boromir wasted no time to clue Master Zbylut and his pioneers in on the plan. The old master craftsman, who was in charge of the Gondorian division of pioneers: smiths, masons, and woodworkers, was already waiting on the riverbank, notified earlier by Huor.

“Where are your men?!” Boromir exclaimed. He’d specifically ordered Zbylut to bring a brigade of strong craftsmen and sufficient equipment.

“With permission, Lord General,” siad Zbylut, ever grumbly, “your Squire notified us of your plans. My men are already under the Bridge, setting up scaffoldings. The water around here is too deep to work without any levelling.”

“Good! Good that you’ve not delayed the work,” Bromir said, relieved. He trotted a few paces and crouched to see under the bridge better. The workers were setting pre-made wooden frames and ladders around the Bridge’s supporting beams. “Zbylut, I am about to demand the near impossible from your craftsmen,” he said, as he looked again at the old Master. Zbylut was currently the oldest member of Gondor’s army, completely bald with white beard that he kept short. “I want you to weaken the beams so that they barely hold, and then, on my signal, I want the whole bridge to fall in one swoop. Think you that could be arranged?” Boromir asked, worriedly. When Zbylut said nothing for a longer while, Boromir grew anxious. “I know it’s a lot, but I want to make sure we rescue as many men as we can, and only once Enemy troops start crossing the Bridge do we want it to collapse.”

Zbylut waved his hand impatiently.

“Aye, Aye, Lord General, I hear you!” he grumbled. “I’m thinking. I cannot guarantee it, but we could attempt it. But we’ll need horses. We could weaken the beams in a few places, and then girdle them with ropes attached to the horses. Then once you give the signal, the horses will start and tug at the beams, break and topple them. It’s risky and there is no assurance the Bridge will fall when you mean it too. I only hope it won’t break prematurely and bury my workers.”

“Do not think I don’t appreciate what you’re doing here, Zbylut,” said Boromir. “If we get out of here alive, you’ll be hailed as heroes of this battle.”

Zbylut laughed.

“That would be a first, Lord! My men are used to working backstage,” he chuckled. “But they will appreciate a few casks of ale once the job is done.”

“Aye, you’ll get that. And the horses,” said Boromir. “I’ll go to get them now.”

“Wait, General, Sir!” Zbylut halted Boromir, who was about to leave in search of the Knights. “What will be the signal to collapse the Bridge?” he asked. Boromir thought. He planned to be fighting on the front line. The warriors on the eastern side could very well get overwhelmed. If the Enemy passed their defences and got to the Bridge, they would have to collapse it no matter who was left on the Eastern Bank. The marauders and the last line defenders would have to be sacrificed. And he needed some means to give the order no matter where he was on the battlefield at any given moment…

“The Horn,” he said to Zbylut simply. “Listen for the Horn of Gondor.”

With that, Boromir left the pioneers to their fate and directed his steps towards the Western Gate and its nearby stables. It was unfortunate that, due to his original strategy of making the entire City their battleground, he had to cross the entire length of old Osgiliath to gather all of his dispersed men, but it could not be helped. He needed his knights. All around him, the men were abandoning their earlier post and gathering under the command of Aglahad and Hirgon.

Fate had it that he did not have to go all the way to the Western gate to fetch the Knights. No sooner than he’d made it to hundred yards along Main Street, did they emerge from behind a turn, armed with broadswords and shields. Their march in full plate generated much clamour, and Boromir smiled at their sight. They were exactly what he needed. An elite team of a dozen or so noble Men of Gondor, armed to their teeth. Baron Hallas led them, brandishing a drawn longsword that was almost taller than he.

“Captain-General! Hail!” Hallas greeted. “We have delivered the Rangers and our horses to safety, as you commanded.”

“Aye! That was a well done sally, if I ever saw one, Hallas!” Boromir agreed.

“And now we are marching on to our death,” said Hallas cheerfully. “We’ve seen the Southrons. It’ll be an honour to die under your command, Lord Boromir. We’ll take as many foes with us as the Valar permit!”

“Do not be so eager to die, Hallas,” said Boromir, wincing inwardly. An hour ago he’d had a similar talk with Derufin, only then he'd been the one ready to meet his end. “We may yet get away with our necks intact. I mean to evacuate the Western Bank and destroy the Bridge before the Southrons can cross.”

Hallas uttered a colourful curse.

“You’re a clever one, General,” he chuckled. “Bordering on insane, but clever.” Boromir grimaced. Hallas was known for his sharp tongue, even towards his superiors. He let the remark slide and instead addressed the Knights. They were mostly sons of Gondorian nobility, some heirs, some spares, and some landless, who dedicated their time and skill to the service of the Steward. They were Boromir’s, he knew all of them by name, and could now recognize them by the colours and banners on their surcoats and cloaks. He knew their parents, their wives and their children. But it would have taken take too long to address each of them personally, so he spoke out loudly to the entire company.

“Hark ye! We are the noble Men of Gondor!” Boromir bellowed for everyone to hear. “We have led our men here to fight for our Homeland, and ours is the duty now to protect them! We will not abandon our soldiers to the Enemy! We are true Knights! We march East and we do not rest until the last of our men is delivered to safety! Who is with me?”

Loud cheers and voices of assent answered him, not only from the Knights but also from other men at arms gathering around on the Main Street. Boromir reached out and signalled two young men from the 3rd Company. He did not know them by names, but they certainly knew him, because they saluted instantly.

“Men, I entrust you with a special task. Go back to the stables and lead all the horses to the Bridge, to Master Zbylut. Do not stop until all of the horses are at the riverbank. You mustn't fail me” he ordered, before turning once again to the Knights. “Right! Now, we FIGHT! GONDOR!” he called, as he unsheathed his broadsword and started running towards the Bridge.

The Knights at his back did the same, and soon their whole team was crossing the Bridge, chanting Gondor! Gondor! From the corner of his eye, Boromir saw Zbylut saluting, and he knew that the team of pioneers was already working on the beams under the Bridge. Hurry up, lads! he thought. Everything depends upon you. We’re just off to buy you some precious time!

As they crossed the Bridge and entered the Eastern Bank, Boromir could see that the first mixed bands of both Haradrim and orcs had already breached the City’s outer defences. Hirgon’s men were fighting on the streets, and arrows were flying in all directions.

Boromir uttered a war cry and dived into the nearest narrow ruined street, joining the skirmish. Other Knights followed in his steps, reinforcing Hirgon’s small fighting teams. A knight in full plate on the field of battle was no small thing. The armour was heavy, expensive and constricted movement, but it also meant the warrior inside it could take heavy punishment during the assault. And Boromir knew how to take a beating. He would engage the orcs, shielding himself and the nearby men-at-arms from their blows, while the pikemen would skewer the foes from the flank. Occasionally Boromir would execute a flashy move with his broadsword, usually felling a foe or two and earning a cheer from the soldiers.

Slowly the company of Knights fought their way further and further East, though the number of enemies did not seem to lessen. More and more Haradrim were coming through. Boromir wasn’t particularly experienced with the Southrons, that would be Faramir’s province. Their fighting style was distinct from western sword art. They relied neither on strength, nor quickness of movement, but rather on precisely learned and exercised technique. They seemed to be able to parry each of his blows with little effort and without any hurry. Moreover, they came equipped with long, viciously sharp stilettos, that they would use mercilessly on armoured knights, whenever occasion arose. Boromir witnessed two of Hallas’ knights, Ciryon, and later young Hador of Halifirien, fall in the battle from well measured thrusts of such daggers - the Haradrim struck between the plates of the armour or aimed for the neck. Gondor’s finest slashed open like cattle, he thought with terror.

Only after Boromir caught the gist of Haradrim battle choreography did the fighting become any easier. Unfortunately, with time more and more of them would come through, and keeping them away from the Bridge was becoming harder and harder. Boromir and the Knights managed to fight through the entire Eastern Side, and now were approaching the Courtyard of the Eastern Gate, where the skirmish was particularly frantic.

Soon Boromir found himself having to engage with several foes at once. A quick look around confirmed that the other knights were getting similarly overwhelmed. Moreover, Boromir was starting to feel something of that feeling of hopelessness and bone-chilling anxiety, which Faramir had mentioned earlier. Is this some enemy’s magic? Or am I getting mad? He looked around. Other men under his command seemed to be faring no better, judging by their pale, sunken faces, and increasingly sluggish movements. Mayhaps we are all of us simply tired, he tried to reason with himself, but the sense of foreboding remained with him, sapping his strength. It felt like hours since he had joined the fighting.

Boromir was parrying well-measured slashes of steel delivered by two Southern fighters, and had the morose thoughts additionally occupying his attention, so when another enemy came for his head from his right flank, he noticed it too late. He saw the blade being raised, saw the Harad Man prepare the strike, but knew immediately he wouldn't be able to parry it on time. He prepared to take the blow, hoping it wouldn’t be fatal... but then the enemy jerked and fell, an arrow with green fletching sticking from his neck. The other two Haradrim uttered cries of shock seeing their comrade collapse, and another arrow went through the open mouth of one of them, killing him instantly. Boromir had the presence of mind to use the moment of confusion and slash open the third Southerner with his sword.

Having a momentary respite from oncoming attacks, he looked around to spy Derufin, and sure enough, his friend jumped off the nearby half-collapsed building.

“That was a close call! My reflexes are dulling,” he called out to the archer, raising his shield to catch an orcish arrow aimed at his heart. “Many thanks for saving my neck.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Derufin called back. “You’re not going to like this!” He then made a brief pause to fire another arrow at one of the orcs who were pestering Baron Hallas a few paces to the left. “The Haradrim are assaulting the Eastern Gate. They have some sort of a ramming device. We need to commence the retreat!”

“We don’t know if Zbytlut’s Men are ready!” This was a tough choice. If he tarried with the evacuation, the men would be slaughtered. It was only a matter of time, because they didn’t have enough force to face the army, sooner or later they’d be overwhelmed. On the other hand, if he signalled retreat too early, then Mordor’s fighters would follow them uninterrupted. If enough passed the Bridge, they could bring the fighting to the other side and threaten the entire plan.

“We need to at least pull back Angbor’s men off the battlements! The outer wall is lost as is!” Derufin cried. To that Boromir had to agree. There was no sense in manning the wall if the Gate was about to be rammed open.

They both looked to the battlement above the Gate, where Angbor was running frantically and bellowing commands. With a start, Boromir noticed that the Lamedonian was wounded - a short arrow was sticking from his arm, although he seemed to be paying it no mind. Boromir knew this kind of battle frenzy well. It made one numb to all injuries, which could lead to fatal mistakes.

“I’ll get his attention,” said Derufin and fired before Boromir could react. An arrow with green fletching embedded itself in a wooden beam that was supporting the parapet, mere inches from Angbor’s shoulder. The warrior looked to the direction the arrow was fired from, and spotted Boromir and Derufin. Boromir gave the signal then, and the first phase of their retreat began.

When the heavy infantry and longbowmen came down from the walls and joined the commotion on the courtyard, Boromir called out to Angbor and the nearest fighters.

“The Knights will hold the line! The rest of you get behind and start retreating! Steady! In order! But keep up the fighting!” He knew other officers would pass the command. He had to focus on holding the line, to give others a chance at retreat.

“Keep that shield up like we practised,” Derufin’s voice came from behind Boromir’s back. Next thing Boromir heard was a whistle of an arrow next to his ear. They would sometimes fight like this, in a well coordinated duo; Boromir would be shielding the two of them and hacking at any foes closing in, and Derufin would be firing from behind Boromir’s back, keeping the enemies at bay. One of these days he’ll put an arrow through my skull, Boromir thought with amusement. He hoped it wouldn’t be this day, because he still had work to do.

The Knights listened to Boromir’s command and aligned in a formation, serving as a barrier between the foes that were coming through the walls. As was, the way still wasn’t completely open to the Enemy, even when Angbor’s men retreated, because they still had to scale the walls and the barricades with their ladders. But that would soon change, when the Gate would be breached.

As if on command a horrible thunder shook the ground and the Gate trembled. It was made of reinforced timber, and barricaded from the inside with debris. Boromir wondered how long it would take to ram it open. Not long, judging from the loud cheering of orcs and Haradrim alike. They were waiting for the Gate to give way, and it would happen soon.

“We’re backing away from the Gate!” Boromir bellowed to the rest of the Knights. “Keep up the fight!”

Slowly, facing the East, they made their retreat towards the Bridge. Boromir had no time to turn back and check how the evacuation was going, but he hoped Angbor had it under control.

Another thunderous ram ripped the air. Boromir’s ears ached as he saw the debris barricading the Gate from the inside move a little under the impact. New vigour seemed to surge into the Haradrim. Buoyed by the battering ram’s sounds they attacked the line of Knights with double force, thrusting viciously with their stilettos. Boromir saw three more Knights fall. Farewell brothers ! Arthael of Minas Tirith , Milancar the Younger, and Hirgon the Red Face, Boromir spared a moment to remember their names, momentarily overcome with grief and terror. And he would have joined them very nearly; a Southern stiletto was about to collide with his neck, but another short blade that deflected its course.

“Hello, brother” Faramir panted. “Hogging all the glory to yourself once again?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Boromir replied, as he regained his bearings and started parrying the Southron’s frantic blows with his shield.

Faramir lunged from behind Boromir’s back and slashed the Southron’s stomach open with hisblade. This was Faramir’s preferred style during combat, one he’s learned among the Rangers: he wielded dual short swords, moved quietly and defended himself with evasion. The Southrons, who preferred light armour to heavy plate, were easy targets for his blades.

“I bring good tidings,” Faramir grunted in between his strikes. “Work under the Bridge is done.”

Boromir smiled viciously. The fight was almost over.

“This is our last stand, then, brother,” he said to Faramir, and then he shouted commands to his men. “Companies! Abandon fight and run! Save yourselves!” He heard Angbor echo his command behind his back. “Knights! Tighten the line! We hold them off as long as we can! Retreat steadily!”

Boromir felt his muscles burn with exertion, as he pushed himself to his limits. From the corner of his eye he saw another of the Knights, Ser Rennor, fall from a dagger to his neck. There remained a couple dozens of yards between them and the Bridge. Their men were running to the other side. The Knights were holding off the Haradrim horde, retreating slowly, but also dying under Southern blades one by one. To his left, Paranion of Lamedon, Angbor’s compatriot, fell from an arrow through his eye, and a group of Southrons ran over his body, giving chase to the retreating troops. Whatever foe breached their line, Boromir hoped would be stopped by Derufin’s archers patrolling the Bridge. To his right, he saw Ser Angbor join their last stand.

“The men are safe! It’s time we passed the Bridge ourselves!” Angbor shouted. They were almost upon the Bridge, but they had to keep up the fight, for fear the Enemy would pursue and strike at their backs if they turned away and ran.

“Hallas! No!” Faramir cried, and Boromir saw the Baron topple to the ground. Only three other Knights, beside Boromir, Faramir, Derufin and Angbor remained standing and holding the front line. They were slashing their swords and ramming their shields like madmen, to keep the Haradrim front at bay. Backing away slowly they reached the Bridge at last. Boromir saw another Knight, Ser Seidon fall, in the same moment as he felt an arrow pierce his thigh. He cursed, but kept his balance. The wound hurt like the fires of Angband.

Now would come the tricky part. They had to retreat through the Bridge, while fighting, and only signal Zbylut once they reached the other side, hoping that the horde of the Enemy would fall with the Bridge.

KABOOOOOOOOOM!

Boromir looked up and saw his fears confirmed in the distance: the Eastern Gate’s wings were rammed wide open. But then something unexpected happened. The Southrons ceased their assault and their horde parted to the sides, leaving a clear passage. Boromir and his comrades were left alone, in the middle of the Bridge.

Suddenly, seemingly out of thin air and shadow, a blood-chilling vision materialised before him.

Nine black horses with frothing mouths and eyes of red madness. And upon them Nine Riders in black hooded capes, their bodies seemingly made of foul shadows. The Riders were charging at them from the Gate with insane speed.

Boromir knew he had to move, but he found himself paralyzed with fear. The sheer hopelessness and terror that the Riders awakened in his heart… He’s never felt like that in his life. In that moment he fully comprehended the enemy’s might. Mordor had the power to smother all hope, and that, to Boromir, seemed worse than all the Haradrim armies in the world. There was no chance for Gondor, no matter the outcome of this battle, his country was lost. The Enemy would prevail.

Then he heard his brother’s fearful sob, and that sound sobered him a little. It was ever his most important task to keep his brother out of harm’s way, and this time was no different. Even if everything else was lost, Faramir was still breathing. The Riders would reach the Bridge in a few moments, and he had to use those moments well, for Faramir’s sake. He dropped his sword and shield, inhaled frantically, and blew the Horn of Gondor with all the might left in his lungs. Whips snapped loudly, Zbylut’s horses moved at once and Boromir felt the entire Bridge shift and shake, in the very same moment that the Riders reached it at last. Boromir did the only thing he could think of: he pushed Derufin over the Bridge’s railing, grabbed Faramir’s arm and jumped.

His stomach made a salto as he fell a dozen feet and hit the water. He felt more than saw the Bridge collapse into the River, and the resulting wave of water slammed into his body and submerged him. He didn’t know if the Black Riders made it through or not. He lost his grip on Faramir, too. Valar, let my little brother be safe, he prayed, as he fought to reach the water’s surface.

Then he felt something heavy hit his head and the world went black.

[next chapter ->]

Header image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you! <3

#lotr #lotr fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #boromir fanfiction #boromir #faramir #derufin of morthond #angbor of lamedon #osgiliath #osgiliath bridge #defense of osgiliath #ass deep in demons #[arda]#[wandering birds]

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