just realising i accidentally made Prince Adrahil (Imrahil's father)'s family an entirely A family (Angelimir, Aerlinn, Adrahil) and I am convinced that he thought it was so trite and was like just you wait my gimmick for naming my kids is going to be so much classier *brandishes much-thumbed copy of Narn i Chîn Húrin* forgetting that every character in said tale ends up dead, doomed and/or mad.
Title: Becomes Like Armor
Characters: Boromir, Baranor, Adrahil, Denethor, Imrahil, Finduilas, Faramir
Relationship(s): Boromir & Denethor, Boromir & Imrahil, Boromir & Finduilas, Boromir & Faramir
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 4.7k
CW: Character death, blood, post-battle
Tolkientober 2025 prompt: Armor
Summary: Five times Boromir wore armor throughout his life and one time he didn't.
(Also posted on AO3)
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
"When we protect ourselves so we won't feel pain, that protection becomes like armor, like armor that imprisons the softness of the heart." - Pema Chödrön
The first time Boromir wore armor, his mother was still alive. It wasn’t full armor; only a helmet that was too big for him and a pair of mismatched gauntlets—two right hands—that he “borrowed” from the armory when he managed to sneak away from his nursemaid and slipped inside without anyone noticing. Or rather, no one attempted to redirect him or insist that he put everything back where he had found it. If any soldiers happened to see him, they might have refrained from saying anything because he had not walked off with any weapons that could injure him, and other than having difficulty seeing through the helmet, he was not endangering himself or anyone else. A few servants faltered in the corridors when they spotted him, but similarly to the guards and soldiers, they were not in a position to give him orders, and could only keep their heads down and focus on their duties or inform the Lord Steward of what his oldest son was up to.
As it turned out, Steward Denethor was holding council with the Lords of the Outlands. It had only been two years since Denethor became the Ruling Steward after the death of his father, and only the second time the lords had all come to Minas Tirith to meet with him; the first being when he took up the Steward's Rod and was recognized as the new lord of the city. So, when Boromir arrived at the council chambers, the guards on duty did not allow him entry.
“I am sorry, young lord, but the Lord Steward has given us strict orders that no one was to disturb him,” one of the guards said.
“And where did you find those? Have you been pillaging the armory?” asked the other, trying to sound serious but allowing a bit of a chuckle to slip into his voice.
“No…! I wasn’t pill… pilla… I don’t know what that means.”
Standing a few feet away was another man wearing armor adorned with roses. He approached out of curiosity, watching as the boy adjusted the over-large helmet on his small head, showing a brief glimpse of his features.
“Pardon me, but are you the oldest son of the Lord Steward?” the man asked. Boromir turned to him and tilted the helmet back so he could see.
“Yes, I am. Who are you?”
“I am Baranor, a knight of Lossarnach. I have come here with Lord Forlong.” Baranor got down on one knee so that he was not looking down at Boromir. “I have a son, Beregond, who is close to your age. A few years older, mayhap.”
“Is he here, too?” Baranor chuckled.
“No. Unfortunately, he had to stay behind in Lossarnach with his mother. But you may become acquainted with him in the future, for he wishes to become a Guard of the Citadel when he’s old enough.”
“You mean like them?” Boromir asked, pointing at the two guards posted in front of the council chamber, both wearing the winged helms and black and silver uniforms of the Citadel Guard.
“Yes, just like them. If he does join their ranks, then you might see a lot of each other.”
“You should bring him with you next time. I want to meet him!” Baranor laughed heartily.
“Very well, young lord. If I am permitted—both by Lord Forlong and by my wife—then I shall have him introduce himself to you.”
The doors to the council chamber opened, and Denethor emerged first with the other lords and his advisers filing out after him. Baranor scrambled to his feet and stepped back from the Steward’s son before bowing his head. If Denethor noticed how close he had been to Boromir, he did not react, and instead looked down at his son and heir with pride.
“All ready to lead armies into battle, my son?” Denethor asked.
He leaned forward to set his hand on the top of the helmet. Most of the lords and councilors smiled at the exchange, splitting off towards their own household guards a few seconds later. The only ones who remained were Adrahil of Dol Amroth and his son, Imrahil.
“Imrahil was already training with the Swan Knights at his age,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth. Denethor’s mouth set into a thin line, but he otherwise dismissed the comment.
“Boromir will begin his training soon. Within the year,” Denethor said, adding emphasis to the last statement.
“Really?” Boromir asked excitedly.
“Of course, my son. You must learn how to wield a sword and become the greatest warrior so that your enemies will flee in fear at your advance.”
“If you have not chosen a swordmaster for him, you will find no one better than Imrahil,” said Adrahil. His son stiffened slightly, not enough to draw attention.
“Who are you?” Boromir asked.
“This is Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth,” Denethor said matter-of-factly. “He is your grandfather.”
“But I thought my grandfather died.”
“This is your mother’s father. And her brother is here, as well.”
Boromir didn’t react when Denethor removed the helmet from his head so that he could greet the others properly. When he looked at Adrahil, Boromir gulped when he realized that he was nothing like his other grandfather. He didn’t remember much about his grandfather Ecthelion, but he did remember his booming laugh and how he always smiled whenever Boromir was in his presence. This other grandfather reminded him of the statues in the throne room—cold and emotionless.
“How old are you, Boromir?” Boromir flinched and shifted his gaze towards the young man at Adrahil’s side.
“I’m eight.”
“Is that so? You have grown a lot since the last time I saw you.”
“Imrahil. We must return to Dol Amroth,” Adrahil said in Sindarin.
“I wish to see my sister whilst we are here,” Imrahil replied in the same tongue.
“Very well. Do what you must. But do not delay our departure unnecessarily.”
“Father,” he answered with a curt nod as Adrahil turned and began to make his way toward the main doors, flanked on both sides by Swan Knights. Boromir fidgeted when he noticed how angry Denethor looked. But before he could ask his father if he was alright, Imrahil spoke, this time in Westron. “Is my sister in her chambers? I would like to see her before I return to Dol Amroth.”
“Yes. She is there.” Something about the tone of Denethor’s voice made Imrahil’s brow furrow. “She hardly ever leaves them, these days.”
“Do you mean Mama?” Boromir asked.
“I do. Could you take me to her?” At this, Boromir’s eyes lit up.
“I’ll show you the way!”
“Very well. But first, I believe you have a few things that need to be returned to the armory,” Imrahil said with a knowing smile. Boromir looked at the gauntlets that engulfed his hands and made a sheepish sound. Imrahil took the helm from Denethor, who walked morosely away to his study, his head bowed low and his back slightly hunched forward. “Come, nephew. You take the lead.”
Boromir was wearing armor when word came that his mother was near death. It was a padded light armor that he used when he was training. Since he was practicing with a wooden sword, he did not require as much equipment as the real soldiers. He also had thick gloves to protect his hands that were the proper size.
He had been about to disarm his opponent when the other boy froze and hurriedly bowed his head. The other boys and their teachers also bowed.
Boromir turned around, and just as he was about to greet his father, the smile vanished from his face, his arms falling limp as his sword and shield hung at his sides. Although his father’s expression was usually serious, something about the pallor of his face and the faint wheeze Boromir heard in his father’s breathing told him that something was wrong.
“You must come,” Denethor said between breaths. There was a strangled noise, as though he could barely force the words out. “It is your mother.”
The sword and shield clattered to the ground, and somewhere on the way to his mother’s chambers, Boromir had discarded the gloves, as well. He asked where Faramir was, and after pleading with Denethor to let him see her, they found him in his room, practicing his letters with his tutor. Boromir held Faramir’s hand the entire way there, and he was glad that he had removed the gloves beforehand, for had he not, he might have missed the way Faramir’s fingers trembled.
The room was dimly lit when they entered. Curtains had been shut at all of the windows, except for the one nearest to Finduilas’ bed. A lit candle was placed on the bedside table, and the flickering flame created eerie shadows upon her face, giving it a ghostly appearance. The occasional blink of her eyes was the only sign that she was still alive.
“Mother?” Boromir whispered. Finduilas’ eyes scanned the room until they settled on him and Faramir. An arm emerged from under the blankets and reached for them.
“My boys. My loves.” She patted Faramir’s cheek first, and then Boromir’s, which drew a slight frown from her. “Your face feels warm. And your hair is damp.”
“I have been practicing my swordsmanship.” She took his hand, and her fingers touched the developing callouses.
“I know you will be a brave soldier one day,” Finduilas said, a slight rasp in her voice. “But never forget how to be kind. Never forget how to love. You have such a big heart, Boromir. Never stop loving.”
“Yes, Mother.” A look of sadness flashed in her gray eyes. When had he stopped calling her “Mama”?
“And look after your little brother. Take care of Faramir.” Her hand slipped from Boromir’s grasp and inched towards Faramir. “Faramir, my little treasure. Keep reading and learning and never lose your sense of wonder.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Faramir scrambled up onto the bed and hugged Finduilas around her middle. Boromir sat on the edge and rested his cheek in the crook of her neck. Her hands came up, settling on their heads. After holding them there for another minute, Finduilas met Denethor’s gaze, partly hidden in shadow, and gave a single nod.
“Boromir. Faramir. It is time to go.” There was a tremor in his voice. His resolve was unraveling.
“But I want to stay here,” Boromir argued. “I want to stay with Mother.”
“I would have you remember me as you knew me in life… not after I have departed from you and this world,” Finduilas whispered. “Listen to your father. Do this for me.”
Boromir felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from his mother. He struggled and tried to remain rooted in place, but the pull was too strong. Someone else—one of the maids—had urged Faramir from the bed and towards the door. It was only after Boromir’s feet reached the floor that he realized it was his father’s hands on him, only to be passed off to another servant. The last thing Boromir saw before the door shut was his father taking his spot on the bed and cradling his mother’s hands in his own. The last curtain was pulled closed, leaving only a faint red glow from candlelight to illuminate the last moments of Finduilas.
“I saw it.” Boromir frowned and looked down at his brother. There was an expression on his young face—still maintaining some of its baby fat—that seemed too old for a boy his age. “I saw Mama die.”
“What do you mean?”
“I dreamed about it. Last night. I saw her in bed and she wasn’t moving.”
Boromir drew Faramir into his embrace, pressing his face into the padding on his armor in order to prevent him from saying more. His chest ached, both from the bruises he sustained in sword practice and from the crack that had formed in his heart, but he still held Faramir tight. He didn’t want to hear about his mother dying. He didn’t want to hear about her not being there anymore. All he wanted was to take away the fear in his brother’s voice, even if it meant he ignored his own fears and carried them all, himself.
When Boromir turned fifteen, he began to serve as his uncle Imrahil’s squire. There was only an age difference of twenty-three years between them. Although there were other noblemen who Boromir could serve—men who were much older, who had more experience in combat, and a few who were the lords of their respective fiefs—a certain prestige came with entering into a relationship with the Prince of Dol Amroth.
Denethor had not forgotten Adrahil’s suggestion that Imrahil train Boromir, nor had he forgotten the snub the Prince had inserted into his supposed helpful advice. He did not have an issue with Adrahil’s son, though he could not ignore the observations he had made that Imrahil shared much in common with his father. As much as Denethor would have liked to ruffle the Prince’s feathers by having Boromir learn from another lord, he also couldn’t deny that he would find no better mentor for his son than Imrahil. There were also no better soldiers to train alongside than the infamous Swan Knights, a well-disciplined force who could gloat about having more victories than any army in Gondor.
For his part, Boromir was pleased with the arrangement, not only excited to get to train with the Swan Knights but also to meet his cousins, Elphir and Erchirion. He missed Faramir, but if anything good came out of their separation, it was that it made Boromir want to send handwritten letters by choice for the first time in his life.
Boromir learned quickly that training with the Swan Knights was nothing like his earlier lessons with wooden swords and non-lethal strikes. The Knights showed no mercy and treated him as a man of age rather than a teenager, and none of them went easy on him or let him win just because he was the son of the Steward. He also learned that steel plate armor couldn’t be more different from the padded leather he was used to wearing. It was much heavier, harder to move in, and—with the sun’s rays beating down on him—tended to hold in more heat.
“Think of the armor as a part of your body and the sword an extension of your arm. If you continue to regard them as separate from you, then you will always be aware of them,” Imrahil had said one day while Boromir was running through the steps of one of the many routines that all Swan Knights had to memorize.
Boromir rolled his shoulders as best as he could. He also noticed that he tended to be a lot sorer after wearing plate armor than he had been with the light armor. How was he supposed to ignore something that was pressing down upon him?
As the weeks and months passed, Boromir grew more accustomed to the armor and his sword, but he still had much to work on before he could truly go toe-to-toe with the Swan Knights. They were well-known for their rigid discipline, but Boromir found their impassive expressions unsettling. Their faces barely changed when they were sparring with each other or with him. They did not even show any pride or haughtiness whenever they disarmed him; rather, it seemed to be something they expected to happen, and therefore they were not surprised by it. They also did not offer words of encouragement when he made improvements or executed a sneak attack perfectly. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he had heard any of them speak.
While he was grateful for the training and for his uncle’s guidance, there was something about how taciturn the Swan Knights were that he didn’t particularly like. If he ever became Captain-General of the Gondorian Army—which was something he greatly aspired to do—he didn’t want the soldiers under his command to feel discouraged the way he did. If someone did something worthy of recognition, he wanted to make sure they knew how proud he was of them, just as he had done for Faramir whenever he enthusiastically told him about a book he finished reading or about his progress in learning a new language.
On a few occasions, though not very often, his grandfather came out to the training yard to watch him. Prince Adrahil’s expressions were just as unreadable, or there were hints of disappointment that were easy for Boromir to read.
“You need to think with your head, not with your heart. You are allowing your emotions to get the better of you,” he had said once. “It will cause you to make foolish mistakes at great cost.”
“Yes, grandfather,” he said automatically, but it still troubled him.
Was that truly the secret to defeating an opponent? By not feeling? By not caring? And what of the promise he had made to his mother?
“Again,” ordered Imrahil.
‘No,’ Boromir thought to himself as he wiped sweat from his brow and adjusted his stance. ‘I will find a way to win without breaking my promise.’
Boromir pulled off his helmet and sucked in a full breath of air. It was filled with the stench of blood and ash. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and he could feel grainy specks of dirt that filled the frown lines on his face. Not even his armor or gloves could keep it out.
“Sir, are you well?” He looked at one of his soldiers, who appeared to be staring at the blood on his armor with concern.
“Aye. The blood is not mine.” When he glanced down at his front, he had underestimated how bad it looked. There was barely any visible silver of the plate armor, having been covered by the black blood of Orcs and the red blood of other Men—Men of the South and East who had turned against their own and chose to serve the Enemy. If asked, he could not answer how many he had killed; at some point during the battle, his body seemed to move on its own, and he struck down foes as though they were overgrown branches that had gotten in his way. “What casualties have we suffered?”
“As of now, ten are dead and a dozen wounded. There are likely to be more.”
Boromir nodded grimly and lifted a hand to wipe at his face, but he paused when he saw the dark sticky residue. He heaved a sigh and rose to his feet, tucking his helmet beneath his arm.
“I and going to check on the wounded.”
“Sir.”
Boromir returned the soldier’s nod with one of his own. He found the healers’ tents fairly quickly. The air was choked with the smell of death. He learned after his first battle that death had a scent, and at the same time realized what incense was for. Those who were fortunate enough to die at home, surrounded by loved ones, were able to pass with dignity and without the foul smell of death adding to the tragic scene. On the battlefield, however, incense was a trivial luxury that was unnecessary and unlikely to be found, and rather than improving the smell, candles were only used to be a source of light. The smell of death had become so commonplace that he barely noticed it anymore, much like the splattered blood that had dried onto his armor.
Compared to his soldiers, Faramir’s Ithilien Rangers that were being treated were much fewer in number and in far better shape. That was because the Rangers who had come from Henneth Annûn served mainly as archers to support the main force. They had been at a safer distance from the enemy army and had little engagement with them. Even so, not all of them made it out unscathed, but their wounds would heal with time.
“My lord.” Boromir’s gaze flickered over to one of the healers, who stood a few feet away with her head slightly bowed. “We lost one. Will you come to identify him?”
Boromir nodded and followed the woman, who walked with her arms clasped in front of her. He came to the soldier’s bedside and honed in on the large red stain in the sheet near his abdomen. He spoke the name before the clerk could ready his quill and parchment.
“Lagor son of Drambor,” he said evenly.
While the clerk hurriedly scribbled the name, Boromir removed his right glove and passed his hand over the soldier’s face, shutting his eyes. He reached into the man’s shirt and withdrew the chain around his neck, bearing a silver rectangle with the White Tree carved on one side and the soldier’s name etched on the other. He handed it to the healer from before, who placed it inside a wooden box with similar chains. He would be spending the next few days sending letters containing the tags to the fallen soldiers’ loved ones.
He turned and stepped through the tent flap, moving away from the opening just as the dead soldier was carried out on a litter and taken to an area for the fallen. In a few seconds, the soiled linens would be replaced and another patient laid on the cot.
Boromir tilted his head back when he felt a couple drops on the top of his head. A few drops turned to a downpour quickly, and the bustling figures turned into indistinguishable blurs. His gaze fell to the front of his breastplate. Some of the blood was starting to wash away, but it must have been so thickly caked on that it would take a while. But even if he stood out in the rain until his armor was clean, it would not rid him of the names of the dead that were tattooed on his heart or the images of their cold faces that would now haunt his slumber.
“Faramir! We need to swim!”
After losing most of his men, Boromir, Faramir, and the two remaining survivors made a last-ditch effort to prevent the enemy from fully capturing Osgiliath by destroying the last bridge erected across the Anduin, keeping the Orcs and Men in service to Sauron on the eastern side of the city.
Boromir peeled off his armor, ignoring the clatter of metal on stone. His chainmail clinked as it dropped into a pile at his feet. He looked up at the sky, searching for the black figure he had seen earlier, flinching at every shadow.
“Brother, help me. He is wounded.”
Boromir went to Faramir’s side where he was holding up one of the men. He and Faramir worked together to remove his armor and avoided touching the gash on his forehead. The soldier’s eyelids were fluttering as he struggled to stay awake. Once he was stripped of his armor and mail, the brothers lifted his arms over their shoulders and began to walk with him towards the river.
“Can you make it?” Boromir asked when he noticed the fourth man limping behind them.
“Sir, it is only my leg. I should still be able to swim across.”
Boromir met Faramir’s gaze, and a silent understanding passed between them. When they reached the water, Faramir ducked out from under the unconscious man’s arm and approached the other. He was able to make part of the distance using his own strength, despite only having one good leg, but Faramir’s aid helped him reach the other side. Boromir had tied the other man’s wrists with the strap of the Horn of Gondor and secured his arms around his neck. Faramir had to reenter the water and help Boromir when he began to sink beneath the surface under the dead weight. He coughed and spat out water before collapsing onto his side, the stones pressing into his cheek. His chest burned, but his heart was still beating, though not unscathed.
What have I done? What have I done? No, no! No, why? Why? WHY?
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He hadn’t wanted it to happen like this. All he had wanted was to convince Frodo why he should have the One Ring. Frodo had been brave to volunteer to carry it all this way, but he had no need for it. His home was still safe and untouched by war. His people were still safe and fortunate enough to not know violence or slaughter. Not so for Minas Tirith. His beloved city and his people lived under the constant threat of Mordor’s might. They could see the fires of the Enemy’s stronghold from their windows and the layers of ash that stained the white streets. Of all of the members of the Fellowship, Boromir had the most to lose, which was why he desired the Ring as ardently as he did. That was what he had wanted to convey to Frodo, but his words and thoughts became twisted. He had lost control of them and of himself.
And now…
Now…
His feet carried him in the direction of Merry and Pippin’s shouts. He drew his sword and cut down any foe who stood between him and his friends. The Horn of Gondor’s call soared over the trees and the cacophony of clashing metal and animalistic growls.
He had to keep fighting. He had to protect the little ones. He couldn’t protect Frodo from himself, but he would do this for Merry and Pippin.
The arrow’s bite felt like a physical blow, causing him to pause and stumble back. Pain flared on the left side of his chest.
Oh, he had been hit. If only he had worn his armor, then his heart might have been protected. He was doomed. He should just give up now—
No!
Merry and Pippin were staring at him with frightened eyes. He had to keep them safe. He had to keep fighting.
More Orcs charged at him, and he sliced at them with his sword, causing black blood to spray upon the dead leaves underfoot. Another arrow hit him, on the right side this time. This one did not hurt as much.
His own cries blended with the roars of the Orcs. He continued to strike at any enemy who came near enough to his sword, but his movements were becoming sluggish. His left arm hung limp at his side, while he clumsily parried with his right.
The third arrow broke the Horn of Gondor and, as it seemed, his spirit. His legs could no longer bear his weight. He was now eye-to-eye with the two hobbits, but only briefly, for they drew their own blades and ran at the enemy with battle cries.
He could do nothing as they were snatched up and carried away. He could not keep them safe. He could not keep Frodo safe. And now, with the Ring gone and his life spilling out from his wounds, he acknowledged that he could not save Gondor, either. He had failed.
“Forgive me,” he said as he looked up at a blurry image of Aragorn, tasting the tang of blood on his tongue.
Maybe his uncle and grandfather had been right. Maybe it was better to not feel, because all he could feel now was the pain in his chest. The arrow must have torn his heart in two. He realized now that even armor would not have saved him. He realized that his promise to his mother had been his downfall. He fell to the Ring because he cared too much, because he loved his country too much. His heart had grown too big and was an easy target.
‘No,’ he thought as his vision began to darken. ‘I would rather die in the defense of my friends than live without having loved at all.’
“It’s always something, to know you’ve done the most you could. But, don’t leave off hoping, or it’s of no use doing anything. Hope, hope to the last!” – Charles Dickens
(This quote ties into the next prompt... so prepare for more sads)
ooohh do you have any headcanons about Boromir's childhood?
OH... YOU KNOW... Just a few.... uwu BUT for this ask I'll use it to talk about something that recently settled for me. And... it will once again be long, I literally cannot do those bullet pointed hc posts so sorry, anyway!
So Boromir was a big baby, heavy and tricky to birth. He did not wean very quickly. As a baby he wanted to be held a lot, he like to be carried about by his parents, never be alone and strangers had to go through a very rigorous vetting period before he even liked them existing in his space, let alone be left alone with them. He actually learned to speak before he properly crawled. He had very good baby instincts. Finduilas and Denethor had no issues really with this, he was just in a sling on one of them as they went about their day, traded often but mostly with Finduilas as she was feeding him. Indeed they both really enjoyed this part of parenthood where Boromir was wide eyed and watching them and babbling and pointing and grasping for understanding, where they would talk to him as they worked.
However, Finduilas had always been plagued with various health issues and her health was something often scrutinised by family, friends and really Gondor at large. And Boromir was often quietly viewed as a burden on her. He needed her too much, was in general 'too much' in a variety of ways and the idea that he was 'making her worse' was pervasive. And this wasn't a vindictive attitude, they didn't want to shame Boromir really, all just felt 'concern' for Finduilas.
But children are naturally perceptive, even more so Boromir who grew up around incredibly complex relationships within his wider family. It was important for him at a young age to predict the emotions of his parents and especially his grandparents, all of which had VERY difficult relationships with each other that could boil over unexpectedly. So slowly, in a hundred different ways, growing wee Boromir came to the understanding that he was too much, that he needed too much and that that was hurting his mother, HE was hurting his mother. And some people were not even so covert, when he was a little older he would be taken aside during family trips or outings and told now don't hang on your mother too much Boromir, you know she isn't well, be a big boy for her today, you can do that can't you? Denethor caught an exchange like this between him and a matron of the house. He was furious.
And to add into that, there was a notable layer of... I'll call it religious to put in context, but essentially elven influenced narratives. Mothers 'giving so much of themselves to their sons that they die' was a very prominent plot thread in many tales both ancient and new in Gondor, Boromir couldn't get away from it, especially not around his faithful elven-idolising dol amrothian family. His Grandfather Adrahil in particular.
And it was confusing and frightening and knotted for Boromir, because he and his mother had a relationship of spending time together, of her loving to be with him, knowing that he loved that as well. They were a close family, he slept in their bed as a baby, regularly still crawled in with them when he was scared at night. So he did not know how to marry what his natural relationship with his parents was and what he was apparently meant to be doing to help his mother. Reassurances from his father helped, but the idea didn't go away.
And then Faramir was born. And Faramir was a small baby, he weaned quickly, he was independent and determined to walk and be about as fast as possible, often following after Boromir. He was quite happy being alone and was gregarious and excited to be the centre of stranger's attention. And all thought the comparison just adorable, it was often commented on, how oh Boromir was so much more 'shy' and 'clingy' as a baby, do you remember? It is a sentimental sweet memory they are sharing, but to Boromir the comparison was devastating and triggering. And was the beginning of his... neurosis I might call it? With his mother dying. Finduilas' health would go up and down but to Boromir he perceived it as her getting gradually worse. He feared his mother's death, not just because he would miss her, but it would be his fault in his mind.
So Boromir responded to this by withdrawing from his mother. He pulls away, he tries to need her less and gets frustrated with her efforts to come closer. To Finduilas, it felt much like Boromir was trying to distance himself from her, that he thought he was too grown up now to need his mother ("At just five years old? what a silly notion my son"). And it hurt her. There would be moments when they had made a plan to do something together they both enjoyed, Boromir would hear her coughing that morning and brush her off 'No, Boromir, come back! I said we will go today and we shall." "No, I don't want too anymore anyway." Finduilas begins pressing to spend time with him, Boromir saying he needs to practice this or that, Finduilas telling him 'Oh let me help you!' but Boromir barely pauses as he tells her he's fine and vanishes out of the door. And yet he will still take help from Denethor and she jokes (to laugh through something painful, just to say it) 'Oh, I suppose you are far too big a boy to care what your mother has to say!' But that hurts him so badly, when he wants to spend all day with her still, a queer little boy who feels so warm to know that his mother likes him. But he can do nothing but encourage that idea in her! And he's frustrated! He knows all the variables around him to such a fine tuned extent, he knows his mother's wishes, he knows his 'duties', he knows how his family works, he doesn't understand we he cant make this work, he should be able too! But he's just a baby...
Denethor, who had suspicions about Boromir's issues around this, tried to talk to him about it, tried to encourage Boromir to talk to her, tried to ask if HE could talk to her about it. But the mere idea of troubling his mother, of telling her that he was behaving this way BECAUSE she was sick (something he already knew she hated very intensely) was unbearable to him. He would become more and more panicked the more Denethor tried and in the end he had to let it be or drive Boromir further away. Attempting to tell him 'no Boromir, you are not hurting your mother by needing her, that could never be true' just falls flat when Boromir is so sure 'no you are lying, she was better before me and I can see her getting worse you are just lying to comfort me, maybe you do love me too much!' (I'm allowed to reference Gandalf's quotes about Boromir at ANY moment) Not that Boromir would have said this to his father, it manifested into panic attacks and fits that Denethor had to calm.
So instead he and Finduilas worked together to just... create ways for Boromir to interact with Finduilas that weren't pressured or centred on him, that allowed him to not feel like this burden. Often it was helping her or engaging in something she was already doing, regularly it was playing with baby Faramir. And this did help, it encouraged Boromir to become less hypervigilant around his mother. But still their relationship was never the same, it was always complex and Boromir was always pursuing a sense of independence and self reliance that quickly morphed into that well known protective eldest sister syndrome we know and love.
And then Finduilas did die. This fear that Boromir had always held onto, the thing Denethor had been trying to coax out of him, it happened! She died and it felt like his fault. His whole family near fell apart and it felt like his fault. Denethor heartbroken and alone, his grandparents and Ivriniel and Imrahil heartbroken and lashing out, Adrahil and Denethor's relationship becoming so toxic that he claimed Denethor had 'killed her by taking her away from Dol Amroth'. But Boromir knew better, it was his fault and Denethor was being blamed for it. It was all so overwhelming for a ten year old, especially coupled with Adrahil's attempting to manipulate him against his father. He lashed out and then he withdrew. Because withdrawal had been his tactic before and now Denethor was the fragile one, and the one he had hurt, Faramir too. No wonder he wanted to join the army as soon as possible.
But still, this wasn't uncombatted by Denethor. And Boromir was not unloved and alone. Crucially, people understood him. Boromir calms, he cools, he thinks, he finds a community of people, he has conversations on rooftops with people about things that have nothing to do with this, but that still make him think of it as he's walking back home through his city. And he does- with the loving foundation his parents gave him, he says no. It wasn't my fault, I was a very young child no matter how adult I felt. And I wasn't killing her. No child kills their parent by needing them.
But that still left the architecture of that belief behind, the instincts and self perceptions that were so unconscious and inbuilt in him now that it would be impossible to separate himself. Boromir has to give everything back and more. Boromir doesn't want to want, he doesn't want to need. It's not like him, it doesn't feel like him, he doesn't feel like himself when he needs. And he cannot talk about it, he cannot talk about how guilt morphed into anger and frustration, some of it at himself, because this perception made him hurt Finduilas. It robbed him of so much time with her, it made her think things about him that were so false.
But when Faramir is an angry young teenager who feels empty in a way he doesn't know how to fill, with distant memories he clings too that aren't enough and a grandfather who likes to reminisce, he says things he doesn't know are impossibly cruel. 'You had her so long, so much longer than I did, you didn't even appreciate her when she was here!' And twenty year old, already a soldier Boromir will let him. Ever Faramir's helper and protector.
Anyway, my brains literally on fire right now, I'm going crazy bananas, in short;
Anyway, thinking about Morwen of Lossarnach, as you do, and it’s like:
How long did she live? She seems to have been gone for awhile, and yet you’d expect her to have a reasonably long lifespan.
How did Morwen end up married to Thengel? Was it a love match or arranged or a bit of Column A, a bit of Column B?
What was her relationship to her cousin Adrahil and his family, if any?
According to UT, her grandson Éomer is at least 6′6″ because of her. Just how tall was she?
We know that Thengel didn’t really want to go back to Rohan and kept using a Gondorian language in Edoras, to the displeasure of some of the Rohirrim. Did Morwen feel the same way? Did she ever learn the language of the Riddermark?
What was their earlier married life like, when he was serving the Steward of Gondor before the Rohirrim summoned him home? Were they on any particular terms with the Steward’s family?
What sort of queen was she? What legacy did she leave for (in particular) the next Dúnadan queen in Rohan, her cousin’s granddaughter Lothíriel?
We know the Rohirrim admired her enough to give her the epithet Steelsheen. What did they think of her otherwise?
What was her relationship with her children like?
Éowyn is supposed to take after her to a certain extent, while simultaneously identifying strongly with the Rohirrim. How well did Éowyn know her? How does Éowyn feel about the connection in her youth, and after her marriage?
Aragorn and Eowyn are closer related than Aragorn and Arwen
Human genetics travel. They seriously get places, especially when we factor in that so elusive female line.
Eowyns maternal grandmother is a Dunedain lady named Morwen of Lossarnach, afterwards the Queen of Rohan. She is from an elite Gondorian family, the cadet branch of the Princes of Dol Amroth. The same family Denethor's wife Finduilas hails from.
Seeing that aristocratic families often marry within the same elite social circle, it is almost positive that at least royal princess married into the Dol Amroth family. Also that a Dol Amrothian lady is a direct forbear of the Gondorian line of kings.
Aragorn is descended from the Gondorian royal house from Princess Firiel daughter of King Ondoher about 14 generations ago. To put this into perspective you are 15th cousins at the least with the most distantly related member of the same ethnicity as yourself. And 50th cousins at most remove with the least related to you human on the planet.
Within Firiel is the genes of most of Gondorian aristocratic houses. It does not matter for instance if her mother was from Dol Amroth or if her grandmother was one of a pair of sisters who married into the Royal house and the House of Dol Amroth respectively. Or if Firiels first cousin was the forbear of the lords of Lebennin for instance, and a daughter would eventually wind up as Morwen's maternal or paternal foremother. Simply due to the exponentially large amount of ancestors every individual has and the massive amount of generations between Aragorn and these forbears. So that makes Eowyn and Aragorn at least 15th cousins if not closer. Their shared common ancestor probably lived 1300 years ago. Compare this to Aragorn and Arwen who's common ancestors Elwing and Earendil had their children about 6 millennia ago.
Also Faramir and Eowyn are 5th cousins at most.
Faramirs mother Finduilas, and Eowyns Grandmother Morwen are from the same family, the Princely house of Dol Amroth, though Morwen's father was not the Prince but a younger son of the line. Morwen and Faramir' grandfather Adrahil are contemporaries. The impression is they are not first cousins, but much further distant the prestige of association with the house would fade. So I would place Morwens grandfather as the you get brother of Aglahad, her father as first cousins to Angelimir. Morwen herself as second cousin to Adrahil, and their respective grandchildren as fourth cousins. Maybe fifth cousins if you want to add another generation of separation. At any rate the relationship was close enough that Prince Imrahil acknowledged Eomer as a kinsman.
[Princes of Dol Amroth] were a family of the Faithful who had sailed from Númenor before the Downfall and had settled in the land of Belfalas, between the mouths of Ringló and Gilrain, with a stronghold upon the high promontory of Dol Amroth (named after the last King of Lórien).
1. Aglahad (T. A. 2827 - 2932)
2. Angelimir (T. A. 2866 - 2977)
3. Adrahil II (T. A .2917 - 3010)
4. Imrahil (T. A. 2955 - F. A. 34)
5. Elphir (T. A. 2987 - F. A. 67)
6. Alphros (T. A. 3017 - F. A. 95)
HC - Prince Adrahil’s Effect on the Steward Family
SO! Let me tell you all about Finduilas’ dad. Adrahil is a rather complex man. On paper he was a wise ruler, a dedicated father and a loving husband, the very picture of his line’s ethereal and lofty mythology. And these things might all be true! However, he was also controlling, self-aggrandising and overly ambitious. Adrahil wanted all things in his life, land and family to be just so, and it made him an incredibly difficult father for all his children, albeit in different ways.
If you were to ask Boromir why he does not get along with his grandfather, he would tell you that Adrahil blamed Denethor for Finduilas’ death and was the cause of the rumours surrounding it. ‘Finduilas died because she was too long away from Dol Amroth’ and ‘the Lord Steward kept her too jealously’ were whispered about Minas Tirith and even further afield, and it made an already painful time even harder to bear for Finduilas’ husband and sons.
However this explanation is really only a brief overview of a far more complex issue, partly because of Boromir’s reticence, but also because he is unaware of the longer history.
Adrahil had actually been using similar rumours to try and control Finduilas long before her death. She was never quite the daughter he wished her to be and the constant push/pull of Finduilas trying to define herself, whilst Adrahil tried to reign her back in, was the most prominent aspect of their relationship. You would think that one’s daughter marrying the heir to the Stewardship would make any father proud, but Adrahil found the autonomy and independence Finduilas had away from him as a married woman infuriating. He was sure she would be worse off for being out of his control. Finduilas meanwhile was very happy, sharing her life with someone whom she understood and who understood her to a degree she had not encountered before.
And the only way Adrahil was able to exert anymore control over Finduilas was by attacking that relationship. Hence the rumours of her being stifled in Minas Tirith and being kept away from her ancestral home, taking advantage of the myths surrounding elves and the sea to enforce the point and make the gossip compelling. Adrahil had always felt that Denethor had stolen away his daughter and turned her into someone she was not, and any blame he laid at Denethor’s door after her death was just a continuation of that attitude.
Which brings us to what Boromir is being reticent about. Because there had been a period of semi-calm before Finduilas died. With his grandsons growing up and Adrahil wanting to know them, and the parents not wanting to deny their children a relationship with their grandparents, there was incentive for peace and restraint between all parties. So Boromir knew Adrahil, felt the safe attachment of a child to a kind and indulgent family member and loved him because he knew that that was what Adrahil needed from him. And Adrahil took advantage of that.
In Adrahil’s mind, if he couldn’t ‘save’ Finduilas from Denethor’s influence, he could at least keep a hold of his grandsons (and so still have control over a part of her.) And he both overestimated how much influence he had over Boromir, whilst underestimating how close he was to his father. This lead to Adrahil trying to convince Boromir of the rumours as well.
This did not go well for him, but it wasn’t a smoothly dealt with scenario either. Boromir was old enough to internally understand that something was wrong with this situation, with what his grandfather was telling him and the way he was behaving, that he was being manipulated. But he had no ability to concisely explain those feelings. And Adrahil was an adult, easily able to divert and skew conversations to his favour without really even trying. So in a time when Boromir was already grieving his mother and struggling with expressing that grief, a man he wanted to trust and rely on was actively trying to convince him that the father he loved had killed his mother.
This was the start of a period in Boromir’s childhood where he struggled to control his anger and, particularly, his frustration. Adrahil’s attempts to manipulate him ended quite abruptly when ten year old Boromir (finding nothing else worked) lashed out at him violently and left his grandfather with an ugly bruise over his cheek and nose. (Boromir having always been inexplicably strong since he was a child, something that had never been more than an amusing family curiosity until now.) But Boromir struggled with the aftermath of it for some years later, having to come up with coping mechanisms and strategies to keep himself from breaking things in fits. He asked not to see his grandfather again, a request Denethor was only too happy to oblige.
Faramir was old enough to understand that something was happening within his family, but still too young to full internalise it and was also very taken up with his own difficult grief. Hence, he maintained a fond relationship with his grandfather for the rest of his life. Adrahil was more subtle in his approach to Faramir and also truly held genuine love for him and his influence can still be seen decades later within Faramir’s attitude towards both Denethor and Boromir. The impression that Boromir is ‘un-intellectual’ and this kind of ‘only thinks with his fists’ idea either comes directly from Adrahil, or was at least heartily encouraged by him. In fact Faramir sometimes humorously reminds his brother of ‘that time you hit our grandfather’ as teasing proof of these concepts, unaware of the deeper meaning behind the incedent.
Meanwhile it wasn’t until Boromir was an adult that he re-established contact with Adrahil. It was an awkward and stiff affair, but it smoothed out as the years went by, mostly thanks to Boromir’s now fully grown and iron-clade self control. However Boromir still minimised the time he had to spend in Adrahil’s company simply because he was one of the only people that truly threatened that self control. Whilst Boromir has always been good at letting grievances go, he found his anger at his grandfather’s actions only grew as the years passed and he understood more and more how cruel and exploitative they had been.
Boromir might have never truly gone through an ‘’adolescent phase’’ as we would know it, but Adrahil was a presence that brought out that self serving and destructive yearning in him. By 18 he had decided and planned for his sexuality to never be discovered by any of his family and was absolutely married to being a master of concealment. And indeed! It was vital he did so, not only for his own position, but the Stewardship and Gondor as a whole!
And yet everytime he met his grandfather Boromir could not drown out the voice in his head that tempted; ‘You want to tell him you like dick so bad, you want to see how much more you can ruin this relationship, you want to cause family catastrophes on a massive scale. It will be horrible and you want it to be.’
And, in that moment, he really truly does, which is a disconcerting fact that Boromir tries his best to avoid and minimise as much as possible.
