#denethor son of ecthelion

[theghostofloganroy]

Once in a while I like to remind people that Denethor II Son of Ecthelion Lord and Steward of Gondor, was canonically hot.

[sesamenom]

found something interesting in the appendices, wherein denethor's favoritism issues as well as his aragorn-issues become a great deal more interesting:

aragorn was denethor's dad's favorite child.

[bretwalda-lamnguin]

saw you post this ask game and blacked out briefly. 🐅 💖 💛 talk to me about denethor….

🐅(characterisation): Lore and history has always been Denethor’s joy. It became common early in his rule for people to bring family heirlooms or tales of their ancestors, to seek the truth behind them. This frustrated Denethor’s counsellors, but was a welcome break from the tedium of mediating disputes and stress of planning for war. He later banned this, as it became too distracting once the war became more serious and demanded more of his time.

💖 (romantic relationships): Finduilas and Denethor’s marriage was a political one, but not in the usual sense. They were drawn to each other because of their beauty and their shared yet different strangeness (Denethor being very Númenorian, Finduilas very elvish). But both also agreed that cooperation between Minas Tirith and the coast was essential in the coming crisis, and saw the other as their perfect political partner. Denethor is all cunning, a brilliant administrator and military planner, but his forcefulness and brusqueness tends to ruffle more than a few feathers. Finduilas was a master of public relations and diplomacy, building and keeping the coalition that Denethor puts to work. Her death was a massive blow-personally and politically.

Thorongil (I know you’re waiting for this!): It’s such a fraught thing, not just between them but the triangle they form with Ecthelion as well. It is such an underrated ship, though I go back and forward on if it was consummated (maybe only once?).

The awful dynamics. They look like close kin, the absolute narcissism of it. Yet under all of that they agree on almost everything. They’re fighting this terrible battle of wills in the narrowest of margins. I do think part of this is Denethor’s relationship with his own father (I’m going to post something about that soon don’t worry!) It’s a proxy battle as well, Denethor vs Ecthelion, Ecthelion doesn’t want to depend on his son, and so turns to Thorongil. Denethor is therefore faced with a choice, defeat Thorongil or claim him for himself. I think in the end Thorongil manages to disentangle himself from this a little bit, and it’s part of the reason he leaves when he does. I also think Finduilas resembles Arwen (I think Arwen is called Finduilas in a draft?) and seeing Denethor and Finduilas marry is a big thing for Thorongil in many ways, but it is also part of his cue to get out.

💛 (familial relationships): I’ve talked quite a lot about Denethor and his sons, and I’m currently finalising a post about his relationship with his father, so lets go for his sisters! We know he had two older ones.

The eldest (Andreth) I imagine as being quite like him, scholarly, stern and proud. Denethor in youth followed her into the guild of loremasters. She was one of three referees on his entry. Any rumours of nepotism were quickly snuffed out-she proved by far the strictest, saying that Denethor’s lore was merely ‘passable’, though the others were highly impressed. To Denethor though, this was the highest praise he had ever been given. The two did grow much closer after this, and she was one of the pillars of Denethor’s life. Between them they wrote much, particularly on the history of the Húrinionath. She never married and was evacuated with the other women and children before the Battle of the Pelennor fields, much to her fury. She never returned to Minas Tirith.

The younger (Nimloth) was more adventurous. It was she who first took Boromir climbing in the White Mountains, though in youth Denethor and Andreth had often joined her. Friendly enough, not nearly as intimidating as her siblings, but not usually sociable, preferring her own or very close company. Was actually quite close with Thorongil for a time, some speculated they would marry (though in truth she had no interest in men). She died during an expedition early in Denethor’s rule. Her body was never recovered (Denethor forbade Boromir, and Andreth forbade Denethor), but Denethor and Andreth both had visions of her death.

[emilybeemartin]

Boromir Week Day 3: Son of Denethor, Paternal Family, Thorongil

Here is what we know: When Denethor was a young man, Aragorn served as a captain in Gondor under the name Thorongil. He was so skilled and wise that he soon became invaluable to Steward Ecthelion, which made Denethor jealous.

So here's today's headcanon: Ecthelion wants to keep Thorongil close while Denethor is constantly trying to edge him out, which means Aragorn is just constantly around. And Finduilas, as we know, is very, very lonely. She's alone in a world of grim, older military men, she dreads being so close to Mordor, and her husband has no emotional fluency. So when Thorongil speaks kindly to her and holds genuine conversations with her, it's one of the only friendly anchors she has. She sees him as closer to her in age--though he's not--and feels like he actually values her for more than just being a quiet, dutiful wife--because he does. He's there throughout her first pregnancy and when she goes into labor with Boromir.

Meanwhile, Denethor's attention has been on being valuable to his father. He's been hoping and praying this baby will be a son, because he thinks it will be what he finally needs to wrest Ecthelion's favor away from Thorongil and back to himself.

But while Ecthelion adores his grandson, he still relies on Thorongil's skills and leadership, and Denethor only grows more jealous. Recognizing this, and perhaps also recognizing that he's become a wedge between Finduilas and Denethor, Aragorn surprises everyone by making that abrupt decision not to return to Minas Tirith after the battle of the Corsairs.

TO BE CLEAR, I don't hc that Boromir and Faramir's parentage is anything other than what's laid out in canon. I'm just saying THERE'S A LOT OF MATERIAL TO WORK WITH HERE.

@boromir-week

[outwither]

gandalf is smacking the phone out of your hand and cracking the tv screens and raging at you

have you learned nothing from the examples of the lord denethor and saruman the wizard? have you not realised that to look in these glass boxes for knowledge is not always wise, for unless you are of strong will, stronger even than aragorn son of arathorn who wrested the gaze of the orthanc stone from the dark lord, unless you claim that strength of will and more, you cannot see beyond that which the enemy chooses. and he will show you only darkness, and his terrible strength of arms and he will allow you to see naught that is fair and lovely, and it will lead you to despair as it did the steward of gondor. heed the warning of the son of ecthelion and do not let the designs of the enemy into your mind though this glass or through fox news. you do not control them, and thus will they master you. and the darkness will triumph thereby. and what help then can you be up your friends?

nay, find tidings by other means, true tidings and full, for not all is yet dark while we yet stand. for behold! if you lift your head and look upon the morning you will see that all is not yet lost! queers live yet, and migrants, and women, and will not be wiped out while the great alliances between free peoples last!

[mervynbunter]

To be perfectly honest, I am always ready to defend the honour and integrity of Denethor son of Ecthelion and ever will be for as long as there is breath in my body.

[inkedmoth]

Day 3: Son of Denethor, Paternal Family, Thorongil

I'm in the midst of working through On Swift Wings, and thought I might not have a chance to join for @boromir-week. But then I recalled my favourite interaction I wrote between Boromir, Finduilas, and Thorongil, from Chapter Two of Hell or High Water, and thought it would be fun to share!

As a note: Adawn – A combination of the word Adar (father) and Hawn (brother) to create something akin to “Uncle”

“The Captain Thorongil, to see you milady.”

“We’re certainly having a lot of visitors today,” Finduilas commented to Rhysnaur, “alright show him in.”

“My Lady,” the Captain greeted with a formal bow, and then a nod to herself. “Rhys.”

“Adawn!” little Boromir cried out, and without any warning, slid from Finduilas’ lap, speeding towards Thorongil with outstretched arms. “Adawn! Pick up!”

Thorongil spared a glance to Finduilas, and upon receiving permission, stooped down to scoop up the toddler. And promptly tucked him under one arm like a sack of potatoes as he continued across the room to join their company.

“I apologise for intruding,” Thorongil said, apparently oblivious to upside-down-Boromir’s shrieks of delight from near his elbow, “but I had been looking for Rhys.”

“You’ve found her,” Finduilas replied, at the same time Rhysnaur declared, “and here you find me!”

“I’ve just come from a meeting with Stewards Ecthelion,” he said by way of explanation.

Rhysnaur immediately noted that he was far cleaner than she’d last seen him, and he’d changed out of his previous doublet and tunic. He’d not come straight from the meeting, but had detoured to clean up and change it seemed. Only a little lie so she wouldn’t call him out on it until in private.

“Oh, and has he granted you permission?” Rhysnaur asked, turning her attention back to her knitting with some amusement.

“In short, yes.”

Her head swivelled back to focus on him so sharply that something clicked in her neck.

Boromir had been repositioned and was now entirely upside down in Thorongil’s arms, his legs kicking at the air level with the Captain’s shoulders. Finduilas watching with some amusement, and very little concern, clearly trusting that her firstborn was in safe hands. Even if he was upside down.

But Ecthelion had agreed to Thorongil’s suggestions? They were to sail out and tackle the threat head on? Bema’s Bow she’d been joking with Rhosthain, and said it was unlikely that they’d be sent out. But here Thorongil was scarcely two hours later, with permission.

A peculiar mixture of excitement and anxiety thrummed through her.

“The situation with the Corsairs?” Finduilas asked, earning surprised looks, she gave an elegant shrug of her shoulder as she turned back to her tapestry. “Father has been worrying over it for some time, your words have been making him reconsider. I’m glad to hear that he’s made a decision.”

“Indeed…” There was clear hesitancy in Thorongil’s voice, but he didn’t disagree with the Lady’s words. Instead, the Captain righted Boromir, and set him down, sinking into a crouch alongside the toddler, who immediately started inspecting the silver star pinned upon his doublet. “Nothing set in stone yet, the next step is figuring out how we’re to deal with them.”

“Ah, planning meetings, delightful,” Rhysnaur sighed, returning her attention to the yarn in her lap, needles clacking as she wove. “Unless there’s a considerable number of pastries at them, I’m inclined to leave it to you, Captain.”

“I’ll have some sent over,” Finduilas said to Thorongil. “We can’t have your best rider missing out on the planning.”

“There’s no horses at sea, she can remain behind for all I care.”

“Ass!” Rhysnaur exclaimed, earning a very frosty glare for her language, “—if I would let you leave without me,” she amended swiftly enough that the toddler was oblivious, and Finduilas’ glare quickly thawed. “You’re going to need all the hands you can get with this one, leaving me behind would be a mistake.”

The amused look Thorongil gave her suggested he doubted that, but no actual disagreement rose to his lips, so she took it to mean he had none.

“Denethor had actually been discussing it yesterday over dinner,” Finduilas was saying, her attention still on the tapestry, and missing the shared glance between Rhysnaur and Thorongil. “He’d received reports on how the coastal villages were faring, what they’re going through sounds harrowing.”

Rhysnaur, didn’t believe Denethor one bit. The Corsairs had been threatening the coastlines of Gondor for decades, the Steward’s son had plenty of time to reconsider, why change now?

“Do you have a length of yarn I can have?” Thorongil requested from his seat on the floor with Boromir. An unsubtle change of subject if ever there was one, but she wasn’t about to protest it.

“I do one momen—and I forgot my shears,” Rhysnaur sighed, looking through her satchel.

A gentle snk-snk sounded, and she looked up to find Finduilas wordlessly offering her own bird shaped ones. A quick snip, and a length of midnight blue yarn was passed to Thorongil. Apparently the Captain had some sort of trick to show Boromir, as he twisted a knot to tie the two ends together, and then proceeded to weave his fingers through it until the length of yarn formed a shape.

“See the city wall?” he asked the child, displaying the complex weaving he’d managed to construct between his fingers. “And if I drop these, look, the White Tower.”

Boromir was more than a little delighted by this display, clapping at his hands and watching in fascination as Thorongil went through a few more shapes. A ship, a hammock, a swan, even managing to contort the string into the rough shape of a rabbit.

He wasn’t the only one entranced, as Rhysnaur’s needles had come to a stop, eyes trying to follow the progression of Thorongil’s hands, the deft movement of his fingers as he wove the yarn between them. Whatever magic trick this was, the Captain had clearly spent a lot of time learning how to do it, as not once did the yard tangle or snare.

“And then, back to the ship again,” he announced, as the yarn slipped seamlessly into the distinctive appearance of a ship’s prow.

“Oh!” Finduilas exclaimed so loudly, that all three of them jumped in surprise. “Would it be terribly uncouth to have a nautical themed birthday?” she asked, “I’d hate for you to think I was mocking your mission against the corsairs, but I do so love the sea.”

“I see no probable with that,” Rhysnaur replied, looking to Thorongil for confirmation.

His eyes were on the tapestry beneath Finduilas’ slender hands, a frown of consideration on his face as he studied it. “What about a Dol Amroth theme?” he suggested, looking up to meet the Lady’s eyes. “It would honour both you and your family and could cover a range of decorations and displays.”

“Oh that’s perfect!”

“I’m sure the King will have no complaints against that,” Rhysnaur commented wryly.

As Finduilas laughed, Thorongil’s eyes snapped to her, head tilting with a frown, clearly missing out on what the joke was.

“I was worried about decorating the King’s Halls so outlandishly,” Finduilas explained, a broad smile still on her fine features, as she leant down to gather the restless Boromir back into her lap. “But Rhys thinks that the King wouldn’t mind if I did so.”

For a brief moment, Rhysnaur watched as Thorongil’s eyes narrowed in something strangely like suspicion, but then he shook his head ruefully as he coiled the length of yarn about his wrist and rose to his feet.

“No, no I don’t think the King would mind,” he said, a rare smile forming on his lips.

[an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66593845/chapters/171782503

Boromir Week Day 2: Son of Finduilas, Maternal Family, Grief & Loss

Check out all the other amazing works at @boromir-week !!!!

At the end of the week, I’ll be posting all my other attempts at writing this prompt on my masterlist. Chapter 2

Stolen from the Cradle (get them back):

Chapter one: Discovered

Finduilas was certain that her baby had been replaced by a changeling, even if others denied it. It was a mother’s instinct, she supposed, when she went over to the bed one morning and knew right away.

She had attempted to talk sense into Denethor and Ecthelion several times, but they never believed her. They insisted that she was seeing things, that her elven heritage confused her instincts. He was quite odd, they said, but Changelings were far worse. Besides, what Fae would replace a five year old?

Her only saving grace was Thorongil, who believed her at once.

“It’s the eyes,” she explains to him in the privacy of her sitting room a few weeks after the replacement, bouncing the changeling on her knee to keep it from wailing. It had woken from its nap a few minutes ago, and wouldn’t stay quiet otherwise. “When you can get it to look at you, that is. It has the most peculiar habit of never looking at you.”

Thorongil takes the changeling into his lap, tickles under its jaw, and it looks right at him. “Changelings are often hard to spot,” he says, “for those who don’t know what to look for. If left unnoticed, Changelings grow into adults, and are often able contribute to their community.”

“That may be so, but I do want my baby back.”

“How soon can you be free for two weeks?” Thorongil asks, playfully pinching the Changeling’s cheeks. It squeals, smiling wide.

“Months, with my current schedule.” Her hands clench her skirts to stop herself from reaching to the changeling. She speaks hurriedly but quietly, as though the Fae could hear through what they had left behind. “Is there a time limit?”

Thorongil shakes his head. “Years in the Fae realm would change your child, but he’s young enough to grow out of their strange ways.”

Finduilas sighs and flops back onto the bed, only to sit up when the Changeling burbles and reaches for her. She frowns at its toothy smile, mouth unfit for human words.

She will suffer the Changeling for two more months, and then she will retrieve her little darling from the thieving Fae.

[eodred]

Day 3: Son of Denethor, Paternal Family, Thorongil

Prompt filled for: @boromir-week

Title:  Heron Pose

Word count: ~1.3k

Summary:

When the city still sleeps, Ecthelion II greets the morning in Heron Pose at the center of the courtyard — a quiet reminder to himself and to others: true strength lies in balance. But even the steadiest stance may falter… when one’s grandson wakes too early and arrives at morning practice clutching a tome almost as big as himself. A warm dawn vignette about mentors, legacy, and love — without a single grand word.

AO3

Ecthelion II had always been… particular. Not in the sense of shocking his people (though, admittedly, he did so on occasion — but only for good reason). Rather, in all things — his habits, his way of life, his views — he seemed to move quietly against expectation.

He looked every bit the noble lord: lean, silver-haired, and possessed of that quiet steel so often glimpsed in the blood of Númenor. But his daily routines? Entirely unsuitable for a man of his rank. Ecthelion hardly drank, ate sparingly, slept little — and every single dawn found him in the courtyard, clad not in finery but in a simple cloak over an old training tunic, stretching his joints as the City Guard assembled, still blinking from sleep.

The guards had long grown used to it. At first, they blushed and looked away — “awkward to admire the steward like a statue,” they’d mutter. But soon they grew accustomed, and two young recruits even began to copy the movements in secret, hoping that after a few months they too might be saluted with such respect.

Yet the true marvels happened behind closed doors. In his cedar-scented chambers, Ecthelion would kneel, close his eyes — and silence would fall. The world hushed, reduced to a soft vibration, a whisper of the Ainur’s ancient Music — the Elven hymns he once heard in Rivendell. First, the weighty thoughts of Dol Amroth’s letters would fade. Then, the northern roads lost their urgency. And deep in his mind, a warm, resonant chord would rise — like the breath of the White Tree itself.

He could sit for hours, meditating, until the candle burned down to the base and the miruvor, gathered under Lórien’s silver moonlight, shimmered in his cup like amber tears.

And in the evening — the soft glow of a milk-lamp, gentle shadow, and quiet Elvish breath-words, the kind Elrond had once taught him, back when no one yet dreamed Mordor might rise again. A single touch to the right place — and the weight of the day would slip from his shoulders, like an arrow pulled from flesh.

But who said wisdom must dwell in shadows?

This was why the courtyard saw him each morning, though he could’ve stretched in private. Ecthelion believed: example was the best herald. Let the people see their lord did not hide behind marble walls, but shared with them the chill of dew and the fresh light of dawn. And so it came to be: city boys began holding their own “Steward’s workouts,” and market vendors argued whose herbmasters could better reproduce the Steward’s tonic blend.

On that May morning, coppery with sunrise, Ecthelion stood in a pose strange to the untrained eye: right leg lifted, arms extended, spine straight as Gil-galad’s spear. He was perfectly still — like a statue.

“Grandpa…?” came a small, husky voice from the edge of the courtyard, barely breaking the morning stillness.

From behind a tall marble column etched with the ancient sigils of Gondor peeked five-year-old Boromir — tousle-haired, half-asleep, clutching a massive tome to his chest. He looked more like a runaway scribe’s apprentice than the future heir of the Steward. His linen shirt was askew, pillow lines marked one cheek, and under his eyes sat that special kind of weary injustice that belongs only to children who’ve woken too early.

“Why aren’t you at council?” Boromir blinked, clearly baffled by the sight before him: his grandfather, instead of seated in finery at the table of state, stood balancing like an acrobat from far southern lands.

“The council begins when the day blooms,” Ecthelion replied, not opening his eyes or moving a muscle. “And the day begins with balance.”

The boy stepped closer, his grey Númenórean eyes wide with wonder.

“You’ve been standing like that a—awfully long time,” he noted with suspicion, tilting his head. “Are you waiting for your enemies to fall over from exhaustion?”

The Steward smiled just slightly — a quiet, cryptic smile, like stained-glass saints whispering secrets to one another.

“No, young one. I am learning not to fall myself.”

“Oh,” Boromir nodded gravely, straightening to his full (still quite small) height. “Can I do it too?” With the solemn determination known only to five-year-olds, Boromir placed his hefty tome onto a carved stone bench — with all the gravity of an ancient ritual. Then he hurriedly kicked off his boots — one landed sideways with a dull thunk, but who cared about tidy footwear when something as vital as balance was at stake?

He planted himself beside his grandfather, arms stretching, one leg lifting in imitation of the Steward. The result… was not quite graceful. He wobbled like a sapling in the wind, head swinging as he struggled to regain equilibrium, and then straightened again with fierce resolve.

Heron Pose, as performed by young Boromir, more closely resembled the confused flailing of a newborn chick deciding whether to peck left or right at the air.

“Not bad for a first attempt,” the old man observed dryly, though a faint warmth lingered beneath his voice. “But your breath is uneven — like a spring mountain stream — and your spine curves like the bow of a Gondorian archer.”

“It’s Faramir’s fault,” the boy huffed, nearly losing his balance again. “He cried all night again. Probably ‘cause no one lets him try on real armor yet. That’s why he’s mad all the time, like a baby.”

“He’s barely learned to walk. Armor would be a bit much.”

“Well I’m not a baby anymore!” Boromir said, suddenly animated. “I even dreamed I was wearing real armor on the tallest wall in the city, and everyone was looking at me like… like at Toro—”

He squinted, his face scrunching in valiant concentration.

“Torona… Toron…”

“Thorongil,” his grandfather offered gently, still perfectly balanced, like a statue carved from stone.

Boromir lit up like a sunbeam breaking through morning mist.

“Yes! That’s it! I’ll be a great warrior one day too. Just like him. Only…”

And then the little heron, attempting a heroic pivot, flailed both arms wildly — as if trying to grab hold of the air — and landed with a soft plop on the clean stone floor.

“Grandpa, are your legs made of iron?” he asked, genuine in his bewilderment.

“No, little warrior,” Ecthelion replied. “I’ve simply lived through enough winters to know: in old age, one learns to hold the earth tighter — like an ancient tree clutching deep with its roots.”

“Well, I don’t want to hold the ground that tight just yet,” Boromir said philosophically, yawning so wide it could’ve swept half the courtyard into drowsiness. “I’d rather nap a little.”

And with that, he curled up right at the Steward’s feet, cheek pressed to his beloved tome as though it were a pillow woven from the feathers of legendary Elven swans. Three quiet breaths later, his chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of peaceful sleep, and on his lips bloomed that rare smile only found on contentedly dreaming children.

Ecthelion opened his eyes and slowly lowered his leg. The stone beneath him gave no sound — though surely it longed to sigh. He bent down, carefully lifted his grandson, and placed a gentle hand on his tousled hair.

“There. Balance,” he whispered — not to the court, nor to the guards, but to the very light of dawn that kissed the high towers of the city.

The guards they passed stood to attention, backs straight — but in their eyes flickered not formal respect, but something warmer: a quiet, almost familial pride.

And if anyone later claimed the Steward skipped half his morning routine that day, Ecthelion would only smile. Physical discipline was a noble virtue — but the strength to stoop for the small and the weary? That was the true might of Númenor.

For balance is easier to keep… once the heart has found its center of gravity.

[sillylotrpolls]

Yes, these are your only choices.

Yes, these are all pairings with multiple fics on Archive of Our Own in the Lord of the Rings - All Media Types category.

Yes, I did deliberately exclude incest ships. You're welcome.

[anexhaustedanomaly]

Boromir Week Day 3 | Son of Denethor | Gondor AU

Wrote this one in an hour literally yesterday because I didn’t like my original idea anymore. Hope you enjoy!

The world felt like it was closing in on him.

Boromir, Son of Denethor, sat on the broken ramparts of Minas Tirith with his head in his hands as he processed what his wife had just told him. He hadn’t given her any time to console him, not wanting her to see the true breadth of his emotions as he turned from the Halls of Healing and ran at full speed to the nearest place he thought she either would not or could not follow.

His father had nearly killed Faramir, and had killed himself in an act of hopeless desperation so profound, Boromir was sure it changed his view of the man forever. He did not understand…he couldn’t fathom it…

Yes, it was true that they had worked desperately to reclaim the ruins of Osgiliath from the enemy. They had fought and lost so much to claim that victory, but there was no reason, none at all, that Boromir could wrap his mind around for his father to send such a small regiment to reclaim it a second time. Considering the nature of the enemy that stood between Faramir and his men and Osgiliath, it made even less sense. The very idea of it was one that, had Boromir been here to intercede on his brothers behalf, he would have vehemently rejected and all but insisted not occur. It was true that Boromir often said that his fathers commands were his happy task but this…it was unforgivable. A wanton loss of life caused by the desperate, hopeless ravings of a mad man.

A groan tore loose from his chest as he rested his head in his hands. Had he himself not fallen to the same impulses not so long ago, with much higher risk of much graver consequences? Had he not tried to steal the Ring from Frodo, insisting it needed to be brought here to the very city he now sat in to be used as a tool against the Deceiver himself?

Perhaps, he thought, he and his father were not so different after all. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so they said, and none had been more desperate than Denethor to save his city, except maybe his oldest son.

Where was the proud, wise man who had once sat in the Stewards chair now? His corpse lay burned and in pieces somewhere on the Pelennor but he could not bring himself to seek it out. He could not, but he knew others would, wanting to give the son of Ecthelion the burial he had deserved not 1 day before his untimely passing. To honor his legacy and not think too hard about the rest of it. But Boromir had no choice. It was all he could think about, and it was a dangerous path to go down. As dangerous as it was, he couldn’t help himself as deep concern and fear, not only for his brother but for the fragile remnants of his own mind crept further and further into his heart.

A gentle hand on his back startled him out of his downward spiral as he reeled on the person responsible, dagger in hand and a wild look in his eyes. It took a moment for him to register that it was his wife, and as soon as he did, the dagger clattered to the ground as a guttural sound tore free of his chest once more. He wrapped her arms around her waist and rested his forehead against her stomach as he began to weep.

“Aureylia…it’s too much…it’s all too much…I need…I’m scared, Aureylia…I’m scared I’ll be no better than him, that everything I touch will fall to despair and ruin and there will be nothing left of me but fear and hopeless agony…”

His wife, his sweet, loyal, loving wife knelt down in the blood soaked mud in front of him, resting her hands on each of his cheeks and resting her forehead against his.

“Hush now, love. Shh…it will all be ok. You’ll see. I promise, my love…there is still hope here. The enemy has been routed and now, even just for a moment, there can be peace. Peace out here, and in here…”

One hand moves from his cheek to rest over his heart. Through the layers of Rohirric leather and padding, he could almost feel the warmth of her touch. His eyes flutter for a moment as if the touch was healing something in him he thought would be broken forever as he lifts one of his own hands and rests it over hers on his chest. The warmth spreads throughout his whole body as if by magic and a calm the likes of which he had never known washed over him as they knelt together.

“Trust in me, my love. This darkness will not endure. We are so close to the end now…Faramir is being tended to by that Ranger you came home with, and whatever it is he has done worked a miracle for him and several others…they will live. Faramir will live, and what I think he needs now is his brother to remind him of what he has to live for…”

Aragorn…a seed of hope planted itself in his chest. If anyone could fix what ailed his brother, it would be him…but he understood the hidden meaning in her words. Faramir needed him, but he needed Faramir too. He needed his brother, the one constant in his whole life who, while they had tread different paths, had always come back to him. Now, it was no different.

The very foundation of his life, the stalwart presence of his own father had been called into question in a manner that made him question the very nature of his own self, but it could not be doubted that his brother, his sweet, kind, brilliant brother, was the key to making sure Boromir didn’t crumble to pieces.

Denethor, son of Ecthelion II may have lost the will to live, but Boromir, Son of Denethor would not. He could not.

Aureylia was right. The darkness would not endure. But he would.

For his wife.

For his brother.

For his country.

For his King.

He had not spent his life raging against the darkness of Mordor only to let it win now.

The end was nigh.

He rose to his feet, helping his wife to hers. She smiled when she saw a bit of that sharp steel like edge return to his eye, kissing him gently on the lips as if to say “trust me, I am here. You are here.” He studied her sweet face, one of many reminders of what he had to live for. She took one of his hands between both of hers, kissing his knuckles gently before tugging him away from the carnage.

“Aureylia…”

He says, tugging her back a bit to look at him. Her keen hazel eyes, shining with love as they were, grounded him in this moment. He was not his father. He would never be.

“I love you.”

He says simply and her smile puts the Valar to shame.

“I love you too. Very much. Now, let’s go see your brother. He most likely won’t be awake for a long while but I’ve learned that having loved ones nearby speeds up the healing process…”

Oh this woman…he chuckled, knowing she was trying to distract him from his fears and letting her.

His life and everything he understood about his father had changed today, but she hadn’t. She was his lighthouse.

Life would always have its storms, but if he could find her, he could find peace.

@boromir-week

[boromir-week]

Boromir Week 2025 - Day 3 Prompts

Son of Denethor - I know, I know, it's the guy we all love to hate. But since there is a prompt for Finduilas, there should be one for Denethor, too. And Boromir would want there to be fairness, right?

Paternal Family - Did you know that Ecthelion II had two daughters? And if you did, now is your chance to explore Boromir's other aunts... or cousins! Or even Grandpa Ecthelion! Or Grandma...????

Thorongil - So, fun fact, but when Aragorn was in his late 20s/30s/40s, he went by the alias Thorongil and served King Thengel and later Steward Ecthelion. That's right, Aragorn witnessed Boromir's "terrible two's."

[bretwalda-lamnguin]

Given that Aragorn and Denethor look nearly identical (and fandom almost completely ignores this!) I give you a selection of possible explanations given by Gondorians when polled on this issue:

Aragorn is clone of Denethor created by Gandalf

Aragorn is Ecthelion’s bastard son

Aragorn is Denethor’s bastard son(???)

Denethor is actually Arathorn’s son(???????)

They're twins separated at birth

Dúnedain are all so inbred they have like 3 possible appearances at this point, they're not special

Aragorn is a shapechanging Maia

They're a pair of reincarnated siblings

They don't actually look like that, they just use glamours and are both modelling themselves on the same person

[carothepoet]

Anyway that’s not Fields that’s Denethor son of Ecthelion and I immediately HATE. HIM.

[daincrediblegg]

OH SO IT IS DENETHOR SON OF ECTHELION !!!!

[estel-elrondion]

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Aragorn/Legolas Greenleaf, Legolas Greenleaf & Thranduil, Aragorn & Elrond Peredhel, Aragorn | Estel & Ecthelion

Characters: Aragorn (Tolkien), Legolas Greenleaf, Elrond Peredhel, Thranduil (Tolkien), Ecthelion II, Denethor II

Additional Tags: Rating May Change, Aragorn as, Thorongil - Freeform, Humor, Eloping, Good Parent Thranduil (Tolkien), Good Parent Elrond Peredhel, confused courtiers, Legolas and Aragorn are simply in love

Summary: Just as the title suggests.

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Alternatively: What happens when elven lords loose their temper upon the news of their sons' elopement</p>