"A wintry night (And a hearth of three)" - Boromir Week 2025
Have you ever thought "Boromir needs a hug"? Well, I have just the right fic for you, featuring a tormented Boromir before the events in Moria, and sleepy cuddles from his found family hobbits Merry and Pippin!
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So, somehow, I started writing a Boromir-centric fic just on time for this year's Boromir week, which you can read below. Usually I just post the link to the ao3 post, but I think that the initiative to bring back this event is neat, so I wanna show support by posting the fic on tumblr too, though here's the link if you'd prefer to read it there and maybe drop a word or two on the comments box in your way out 💜
Without further ado:
Shivers travelled under the shroud of his fur cloak. It was a far too cold night, and the chilly touch of the breeze spread within his bones, reaching far under the undeterred layer of sweat coating his brows. Yet, it was not the uncaring weather that kept Boromit wide awake, nor the gelid fingerstrokes of the wind on earth and flesh. It was the visions.
Running tongues of fire laid outstretched in front of him. Distance was nought but a feverish illusion, for there was the white tree, burning before his very eyes. Wide chains of smoke rose from the escharred branches, fading into the grey sky above in an unheard cry. Debris fell on the fortress, and with it, the white city's last defenses. Screams of terror and agonized wails filled the streets as the drums of Mordor threatened to drown out all that once was dear and pure. A sibilant voice stood out over the mayhem, whispering words of doom and betrayal, and all he could do was watch as the blazing eye of Sauron scorched Minas Tirith to its last pillar, eating away the blood-stained corpses of his elders and his men, of his women and children, of his own father brother until there stood nothing but ruin. Gondor was no more.
…Take it…
The rustle of the voice kept spilling forth treacherous utterances, while his body laid still, petrified in abject fright.
…It is but a matter of time before the end…
…It is but a moment of hesitation…
Boromir held onto his sword, unable to quell the shuddering of his limbs. He shrunk into himself, curling against the shield his eyes could not aprehend, for the voice numbed him to all but the scent of ash and smoke.
Without warning, the creaking of leaves became present and prominent. Creeping steps and snapping twigs shook him into drawing out his sword. Its mirrorlike surface glimmered dangerously under the moonlight as that insidious voice retreated into the tense, heavy silence that lingered at the tip of his blade.
Instead of the dusty countenance of a deadly orc, a pair of wide eyes stepped back, staying away from the weapon leveled at their equally defenseless figures.
"Uh…" Pippin swallowed, gaze fixed on the tip of the sword. At his side, Merry hesitated before deciding to make himself heard.
"…Is this a bad moment?"
A hefty sigh left Boromir as he drew back his hand and proceeded to sheath his sword with quivering hands. "No, no, I…"
His voice wavered with a disoriented cadence, a hand coming to sweep his dampened bangs back in shame.
"Pardon me. It's not willingly that my sword was aimed at innocent companions. It was foes I feared." Under his palm, his eyebrows wrinkled in discomfiture, eyes lost in shadow.
"Well, we can be quite sneaky, right Pip?" Merry replied, figuratively and literally handwaving the unease hanging in the air between them with a hand gesture. "It was not meant to startle, but we are especially stealthy, even for hobbits."
"Right," Pippin replied, quick to agree. "We were just trying to make a query. It's quite cold, and…"
"…We were wondering if you had a nice, warm cape like that one to spare," Merry completed, gesturing with his chin at the rich vastness of warm, lightly colored fur drapped over Boromir.
Pippin nodded vehemently. "I'm freezing." For emphasis, he adjusted Merry's cloak, which he had tightly fastened over his own.
Cloak-less Merry stood frozen on his side, as he stared expectantly at Boromir. Pippin added, "it would come in handy tonight."
Glancing away from the confused, far gone look over Boromir's weary features, Merry rolled his eyes at his younger cousin. "Well, why don't you take his as well?"
Pippin's mouth hung down speechlessly, for Merry shoved him towards Boromir before he could conjure any reply. Such mischief did not go unpunished, as Pippin clung to Merry in a desperate attempt to keep his balance, managing only to drag both of them down. With loud yelps from everyone involved, they fell on a writhing heap over Gondor's most well-renowned captain.
"Pip!" Merry exclaimed chidinly, trying to quickly disintangle himself from their messy bundle of limbs and cloaks.
Pippin unearthed his nose from Boromir's chest to rub it with a little hand and a bigger whimper. "You started it!"
"And you followed!"
"It wasn't on purpose!"
"Doesn't matter! Move!"
"Wait! Your elbow is in my- Ouch!"
"Ack! Pippin! Look where you put your foot!"
"Sorry!"
The constant squirming on top of him had Boromir helplessly scouting his surroundings for help from the fellowship members within view. Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, Gimli's sleep seemed completely undisturbed by the loud bickering of the hobbits, while Gandalf simply shook his head from his sitting position before huddling under his hat and cloak. With no help coming, Boromir had no option but to pull the two halflings apart himself.
"Oh, that wasn't my foot after all!" Pippin exclaimed. He received a jab on the side from Merry, who apologetically looked at Boromir as he shushed his cousin.
At the identical, nervous glances he received, Boromir finally felt as if he was coming into himself. The couple of hobbits quivered on his lap, reticent to move away, and he realized he could not simply bid them goodnight in these conditions.
"I do not have more to offer, but this very cloak. Nonetheless, I am confident that it will suffice for the three of us."
The hobbits blinked at each other. Pippin was the first one to accept, making his curls bounce as he nodded an enthusiastic yes and began to slide under the fur. His little body melded against Boromir, considerably warm for such a small being.
Merry hesitated, but a swift dash of chilly breeze over the camping spot made him reconsider, and he hurried to find refuge on the opposite side to Pippin's, timidly snuggling up against Boromir's solid frame.
Boromir could feel both hobbits' bodies unclench as they pressed further against him, almost uncomfortably so, but he kept quiet and still, gloved hands crossed over his chest as he tried to follow their example and let himself breathe easily. He could not recall having slept this close to anyone since the times when Faramir was just a young boy…
Faramir. He was only a child at that time, yet to learn of the bitter taste of iron and bloodshed. Back then, he would sneak out of his bed to ask for an extra blanket, but Boromir saw the truth in his eyes. Thus, he would make space for him under his covers, dismissing their father's insistence on avoiding what he considered "pampering" the youngest. His little brother would wrap his short arms around his waist, barely able to look him in the eye from that far below. Neither of them had known yet that those would be their warmest nights from the many to come.
Although, it was certainly warm now.
Letting out a breath he did not realize he was withholding, Boromir tucked the fur cloak tightly around his companions. To make sure that they would not get bared in their sleep, he pulled them closer, placing his arms around their teeny bodies. From his left, Pippin's hold tightened around his torso, and on his right, Merry failed to contain a pleased hum.
"This is a very comfortable cloak," he commented, hiding his cheeks under the material.
Pippin nodded along; only the top of his head was visible from Boromir's view. "It's perfect for bedding. Makes me forget we're sprawled on the ground."
Merry went on, emboldened by the silent chuckle reverberating on Boromir's chest.
"You know what I'm thinking of, Pip? I could fancy getting Gondorian garments imported to the Shire. They would make for prized merchandise in Buckland. This golden fur looks like nothing we have there yet."
"The Shire… Is that whence you come, Master Hobbits?"
Boromir's enquiry was strange to his own ears, for it was unbecoming of his station in life to pry; however, it could not be such a sensitive matter if it was so freely spoken about in his presence. Indeed, both halflings unburrowed their little noses from the fur to direct beaming looks at him, as if his interest was utmost flattery.
"Certainly," Merry confirmed. "There is nothing quite like it anywhere outside of its borders. Beautiful as the home of elves is, I dare say that The Shire is the most generous and green land in all of Middle Earth."
"Although we have not seen the great kingdoms of Men yet," Pippin added with humility. "But one will never be left wanting for a good drink or smoke, no matter where in The Shire they set foot."
"We have amazing ale," Merry emphasized proudly, "as well as the best pipe weed any land can provide, and plenty of food. The Shire has it all. Not to mention the beautiful sight of the hills stretching west from the Brandywine River amidst forests and fields, down to the old vineyards in The Far Downs. It is a country rich with hobbitish comforts and history. We have lived peacefully for centuries, thanks to that very land."
As Merry expounded on the value of The Shire, Boromir found himself entranced by the sight of an unmarred expanse of evergreen. A place where the people worked in peace and quiet, unbothered by the echoes of the East, and all could roam without fearing the faraway tales of orcs swarming their defenses. It resembled the bed stories of times more prosperous than their own he had told Faramir many times, never thinking them more than imaginative children's fairy tales.
"I see that the troubles of Men are as small in those provinces as Men's awareness of them is," Boromir pondered somberly. For so long, had his people bled to defend themselves and their neighbours, but now, did it set in how much more their sacrifices had defended. How much more there was to lose.
He turned his gaze to the hobbits. These were the sons of a people that had been spared of the effects of war, only because the efforts of his own kin had kept the forces of evil away from them… And yet, here they were, these small creatures, set on completing the same quest as him, when no one had asked it of them.
The hobbits did not notice the slight tightening of Boromir's hold on their shoulders.
"Well," Merry said, a humorous shine in his eyes, "we have Big Folk east of The Shire, there in Bree. But they hardly visit our side of the river; I think we intimidate them."
"I was told they cannot find their way through The Shire," Pippin observed.
"Now, Pip, that is simply because there is no one for them to ask directions to. Everyone shuts themselves inside their hobbit holes when they see the Big Folk around. Well, most of them. Us, Fallohide stock, on the other hand," Merry looked especially for Boromir's gaze in that moment, "are much more likely to give them a tour through the longest path to The Water. All in good fun, of course."
Compared to Merry's cheeky expression, Pippin gave Boromir a rather contrite look. "Though they did not seem to find it much fun."
Merry cleared his throat. "It is hobbitish courtesy to share a good chat about the goods delivered to The Water through the Brandywine while taking a detour through the fields. It builds rapport with the Big Folk. Just not that one."
Boromir could imagine the situation as clearly as if he had been there. As if he would be there, some day. Having the two hobbits take him on a long walk through their homeland, talking about the local culture and economy, doubtlessly quipping and laughing along the way, just to find out they had led him through an unprompted stroll… "Men tend to move with haste, but it is a most delightful welcome that you narrate, little one."
Merry gave Pippin a smiling tilt of his head, as if saying "see? Told you so!"
With feigned modesty, he rushed to respond. "Well, thank you. It is called a de-tour for a reason, after all. There is no shortage of facts to share about The Shire, or of hobbit children running around and picking up flowers for our visitors. It'd be a shame for any traveller to miss on that."
"Such is the hospitality of hobbits. And I assume," Boromir smiled faintly as he spoke the next words, "from your account, that there is also no short supply of mischief amongst your kin."
Merry shrugged a shoulder.
"It keeps things lively."
Nodding in agreement, Pippin took the chance to make his own aside. "That is, as long as we are not caught."
"That is interesting in its own right," Merry rebutted, inflating his own sense of courage for show, but then he rushed to assure Boromir. "Not that it happens often."
With a tiny yawn, Pippin huddled even closer, if it was possible. "Only when our legs give out. Or we trip and fall rolling down a hill. Or when Farmer Maggot's dogs tackle us to the ground-"
"I think he gets the picture already, Pippin."
The tightly wound coil within Boromir had gradually come undone, and now, warmth swept through its remaints. Though not forgotten, the ailments of his heart laid in repose, soothed by the idea of a far, distant place where children could run about without a care past their earliest youth, unbound from duty, vigilance, and service, while having only to respond to the fond exasperation of their elders. No sword to master, no arrow to aim, but only the necessities of everyday life to attend to.
"It is a most foreign picture…" he breathed out.
Merry's gaze turned astray, downcast. He rummaged underneath the fur, fixing the safety pin of Pippin's cloaks. His hand remained on the other's shoulder afterwards, with his voice tracing a soft murmur in the otherwise cold air, a little flicker from a distant fireplace he carried with him even in these inhospitable terrains. "It is home."
That laconic utterance prompted Boromir's hand to land gingerly over the tousled blonde heads on his chest. "That, I know now. And under any possible duress or time of need, Gondor will provide your homeland with aid for the wellfare of your people. I will personally see to it. Once this shadow is vanished and past, there will be fraternity and fellowship between Mankind and Hobbitfolk, in a scale such as there has never been before."
It was an oath akin to the words of encouragement he would decorate his men with before the hardfought battles to ensue day after day. He had said things he did not feel to be true many times. Promises of better days he could not see on the horizon, and instigations to fight and die with courage that he did not consider himself entitled to from his weary soldiers and grief-stricken people. But just like then, he now held onto those words like an inborn faith. He needed to, for his belief brought forth the belief of them all. Thus, belief he would choose.
For once, what followed was only silence. The halflings kept still, to the point that Boromir wondered if they had not fallen asleep and missed all that he had proclaimed. Perhaps it was as unrealistic of a supposition as he initially had thought. But, if only for these two hobbits—brave and guileless, guilty of nothing but their warmth and goodness—he wanted to hope against all odds.
"I'd like that."
Not in spite of his usual gaiety, but along with it, Pippin's affirmation sounded solemn, although not devoid of the kind lilt his every word possessed. He looked up, eyes set in an affectionate curve, like his lips.
"Aye, we would," Merry agreed, and something told Boromir, in spite of the darkness only faint glimmers of moonlight could relieve, that his cheeks were darker than before. "Who would have thought?" We set out to aid our Shire friends… And now we are friends of Gondor… And of Lord Boromir, its Captain."
Something in Boromir gave way at such pure-hearted awe. He sucked a breath in, stirred from within by a tidal wave of emotion almost forsaken, for he had not been reciprocated with fealty, or allyship, but friendship.
Grufish as he sounded, he searched for proper words to give in the face of such effortless generosity, but the lucent formality of his manner was becoming more challenging to hold onto. "You bestow upon us… Upon me, the highest regard, little ones of The Shire. I intend to uphold this vow of friendship and peace, whether by sword or by shield."
A sheepish spark glinted in Merry's eyes, and he hid the smile turning up the corners of his mouth under Boromir's cloak. "What we hobbits lack in combat, we make sure to compensante for with plenty of merry-making for our friends."
Pippin piped up, though his slurred speech was barely intelligible. "And banquets. Ale, cake, fresh fruit, toast and marmalade, honey and cheese, and homemade bread… Bacon and ham…"
His voice faded at the same time as his stomach grumbled. Merry chuckled. "Don't worry Pippin, we shall have a great banquet upon our return home. With a new friend as our guest of honor, naturally."
Pippin grunted. "Yes, with… Chicken wings… Beef and salted pork…"
Despite the mock-exasperated shake of his head, Merry whispered. "Good night, Pip."
"…'Night, Sir Boromir…"
"I'm Merry! Merry, your first and third cousin, remember?"
While he protested to an already fast asleep Pippin, Merry could not help exchanging a complicit look with Boromir, which prompted muffled laughs from the both of them.
Boromir adjusted his position, trying to find a non-sore spot for his back to rest on. Even so, the ground did not feel as cold or hard anymore. The tension he had shouldered for longer than he could recount was catching up to him, and his body was quickly turning his slumbrous, and his mind, laggard. When he finally closed his eyes, he found himself seeing nothing but quiet, comforting darkness.
"Good night, my friends."
