#Boromir Week 2025

[kanic0]

Boromir Week Day 1: Brother of Faramir, Childhood (again)

something a bit haphazardly quick (and not exactly right with age difference between the two, but we��re ignoring that for a second).

I really like the headcanons that Finduilas loved the ocean and bringing her boys to it, so I’d like to think that after she dies Boromir takes it upon himself to go visit her at the beach every once in a while. It’s a familiar place for them and makes them feel just a bit closer to their mother despite the little amount of time Faramir really knew her for.

@boromir-week

[wisteria53]

Boromir lives, and was never going to let Aragorn enter Minas Tirith without a fanfare 📯

Boromir Week, Day 6: Change of Fate

The note from Boromir's horn bounded high and clear, ricocheting off broken, soot-stained stone. A swell of voices rose into the air, cheering and shouting.

“The King of Gondor has returned!” he bellowed, sweeping his arm to Aragorn over his shoulder. “Long live King Elessar Telcontar, heir of Isildur!”

Aragorn was sitting straight and tall on his horse, his mouth set, but his eyes betrayed the barest spark of shell-shock. Boromir wasn’t going to let him think about it. He squeezed his horse’s flanks and started forward. Aragorn’s horse instinctively followed, and behind them the cumbersome train of their friends, comrades, and vanguard fell into step.

They passed through the first gate, which was no more than the stubs of towers, rimed with ash and gouged by ballistae. Still, gate wardens stood on top of the rubble, and the heralds released a peal from their trumpets. First, the two rising notes that signaled peaceful news to the city, and then the short burst that had been preceding Boromir his whole life. The Captain was entering the city. Growing up, Faramir would buzz it through pursed lips whenever Boromir stumbled out of bed or emerged from the jakes. But following after was a ring that hadn’t been heard from the ramparts of Minas Tirith since the second age. A clear swirl of notes, rising into the morning air.

The King was entering the city.

A snippet from a fic I wrote a few years ago. We all know Boromir Lives is my lifeblood, and one of my favorite concepts is Boromir reinventing himself as the pillar that holds up and legitimizes Aragorn as king.

@boromir-week

[die-auster]

@boromir-week, Day 2: Son of Finduilas, Maternal Family, Grief and Loss

[elodieunderglass]

@boromir-week Day 1: childhood, brother

Faramir said: Mithrandir says the tree is dead.

Boromir said: of course the tree is dead. You don’t need a wizard to tell you that.

Faramir said: he says it’s because it’s a stupid way to keep a tree. he says it always ends up dying, every time, because we don’t keep it propply.

Boromir said: don’t talk like a baby. And don’t say that! Mithrandir has never understood the duties of Stewards.

Faramir said: he says it isn’t politics, it’s gardening. he says we don’t let the roots go down deep enough, and they always hit stone, and white trees would keep growing forever-and-ever, if you let them; and if their roots can’t grow any more they always die, ‘cos it starves them, and that’s mean. it ought to be in the ground, and you shouldn’t keep a grown big tree on a - a - a - a PATIO, and not one at the top of a tower neither, a thousand feet above the plain, without enough food for a tree to eat. And that’s mean of us.

Boromir said: Mithrandir talks a lot of rubbish.

Faramir said: he says Minas Tirith has a proud tradition of killing saplings that are very rare, and he will only give us houseplants or tomatoes for presents until we get better at it. and he says that’s why the Lawn of Ecthelion is always yellow in summer too. Underneath the grass, there’s just a little dirt we brought here, and underneath that there’s the stone of the tower, which ‘vaporates, and it can’t hold very much water, for the grass to keep between rains.

Boromir said: actually - I do believe that. But the Lawn of Ecthelion always lives again - as soon as it rains.

Faramir said: yellow lawn grass isn’t dead, it’s just doormat. Waiting for the rain.

Boromir said: dormant.

Faramir said: maybe.

Boromir said: fine, fine, fine -

Boromir said: okay, Faramir, maybe you’re right. So what? What of it?

Faramir said: well, I don’t know. But I don’t like the tree anymore.

Boromir said: you don’t like the White Tree of Gondor.

Faramir said: I don’t like how it looks like we failed it. I don’t like it being dead. I don’t like to think of it starving to death. And I don’t like how it’s everywhere.

Boromir said: but the White Tree is alive everywhere else.

Faramir said: no look at it, Boromir, it’s dead.

Boromir said: no it isn’t, look. It’s alive on you and it’s alive on me. Look on mine. Look at the leaves. What’s that made of?

Faramir said: Broidery.

Boromir said: People don’t embroider all those leaves just to be on a dead tree.

Faramir said: is mine alive?

Boromir said: they all are. The only dead one is the one on the tower, and honestly, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s a stupid place for a real tree.

Boromir said: look.

In real life a country cannot wait forever

For rain to come

Or a tree to grow

Or a king to come

Or summer to go,

Or a wizard to bring a tomato plant. 

There might be a perfect future someday,

But for now we have this day,

Which is our day,

And every other tree in the city is alive -

With leaves on it.

And on this day,

Which is our day,

I am going to sit on your head.

And what Faramir said after is lost to history,

For it mostly sounded like “gahaflarflarf.”



[boromirswife]

"Pippin had liked [Boromir] from the first, admiring the great man's lordly but kindly manner."

My contribution towards @boromir-week Day 5, for the prompts "The People's Prince" and "Member of the Fellowship". I just wanted to highlight some moments that show Boromir's kindness, because I love him and his kind heart so, so much.

[tehcherrya]

~ Brother of Faramir ~

Something for @boromir-week !! While Boromir is the focus, y'all know I always like to draw Faramir as well. Back when they were so carefree, young, and happy...

[boromir-week]

Welcome to Boromir Week!

June 14-20, 2025

After discovering that there was a Boromir Week event 10 years ago and losing sleep because I was constantly thinking about how much Boromir DESERVES to have an event dedicated to him, I decided to try and bring it back.

Bring your Boromir fics, art, gifs, moodboards, and headcanons for a week of being absolutely normal about our beloved Captain of Gondor!

I have made a separate FAQ post with basic information about the event. If you have additional questions, I will do my best to answer them.

Prompts: Day 1: Brother of Faramir, Childhood, Protector and Teacher (Details)

Day 2: Son of Finduilas, Maternal Family, Grief and Loss (Details)

Day 3: Son of Denethor, Paternal Family, Thorongil (Details)

Day 4: Teen Years, Captain of Gondor, Friend of Rohan (Details)

Day 5: The People's Prince, Rivendell, Member of the Fellowship (Details)

Day 6: Change of Fate, Fourth Age, Alternate Universe (Details)

Day 7: Freeform (Details)

[aranov]

I don't have the wherewithal to do something for every day, but I did want to participate! For @boromir-week Day 5, here is a tiny Boromir dog (loosely based on a Caucasian shepherd dog, thank you @queensabriel) in his classic Fellowship outfit.

I based it on this free pattern and stuffed him with fabric scraps so he's not too squishy. Features are a combination of sharpie and embroidery, and I did a little needle sculpting to define the muzzle. He's perfectly cat-toy-sized, unfortunately, so I have to hide him from my girls who have found him once already.

[kylobith]

Boromir Week - Day 2 - Into Eternity

Prompts: Son of Finduilas, Maternal Family, Grief and Loss

Summary: Boromir awakes to find a face he has not seen in many years.

Word count: 1,040

Everything is pitch black.

Below Boromir’s feet is an endless body of water, flowing around his ankles yet unfelt. Nothing but a phantom sensation. Its gurgling sound resounds around him, enveloping him in its calming mantle. It expands far into the horizon, as though solid ground was but an abstract notion. Above his head is a canopy of darkness, where not a single star or pinprick of light can be seen. The stream’s ripples reflect no light, comforting him in the idea that he has not been locked into a closed space.

But what is it then? Where is it? How long has it been?

As he throws glances around to survey his surroundings, his clothes emit a low rustle. His chainmail sleeve brushes against his belt’s buckle. The tinkle reverberates throughout the space like a fallen coin upon marble.

‘Is there anybody in here?’ his voice rises in a cry of raw fear. It is met by nothing but an eerie silence, heavier than anything he has ever experienced. Yet he continues to call out, his gloved hand seeking the curve of the horn at his hip.

‘Aragorn?’

Nothing but the broken chord of his own cry.

‘Merry? Pippin!’

The water laps at his ankles, splattering about as he frantically spins in desperation. His eyes are wide, searching — for light, for escape, for anything other than this pressing dark.

‘F… Frodo…’

His lower lip quivers, his vision clouds as tears brim his eyes. Hot tears trickle along his stubbled cheeks, carving a path down his worn-out traits. With a soft, broken whimper, he buries his face in the large palm of his hand. He hiccups, the sound ragged and muffled, then curls inward, folding into himself as the ache in his chest twists down into his stomach. It is a sorrow he can neither name nor escape — one for which he knows he bears full responsibility, with no one else to help him shoulder its hefty weight.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

He crouches just above the water, tucking his forehead between his knees. His knuckles close onto a fistful of his hair, more than willing to yank it in self-pity.

And Boromir weeps without restraint.

A hand grazes his shoulder, light as a whisper and as a summer breeze, and he startles at the touch, as though pulled from the depths of some distant, drowning spiral. His head snaps around so sharply it throws him off-kilter. For a moment, he teeters, as if the submerged ground beneath him might give way.

‘My child,’ came the gentle voice, laced with affection and surprise, ‘what brings you here so early? What ails your heart?’

Before him stands a lean woman, her raven-dark hair cascading in silken waves down to her waist, cloaking her figure like a midnight veil. Its tresses contrast strikingly with the pale blue of her gown, floating on the water’s surface. Two glistening grey eyes fix him with unguarded concern. Boromir freezes at her sight, persuaded that his own pupils are deceiving him.

It cannot be.

As a cool breeze wafts through the silk of her garment, an unforgettable fragrance reaches him. And there is no shadow of a doubt.

‘Mother?’

He hauls himself up on his feet, staring at the apparition before him. Finduilas’ face, etched in memory but unseen for some thirty-two odd years, awakens a wound he long thought healed. He reaches out to cradle her cheek, his mouth parting and closing in silent wonder. Without another thought, he draws her close, folding her into his arms and pressing her against his sore heart.

‘Oh, my boy,’ she whispers, returning his embrace and weaving her fingers through his hair. ‘You are not supposed to be here — at least not for many more years.’

‘How can you be here? I… Where is this place?’

She pulls away, just enough to comb stray locks away from his tear-drenched face.

‘Though your body has fallen still, your conscience lingers still — for now. It too shall be snuffed soon.’

Boromir unconsciously brings his hand to the base of his neck, as though expecting to feel a pulse. There is nothing.

‘But the fellowship, they…’

His throat tightens, and a fresh wave of tears overwhelms him, stealing his breath in its merciless current.

‘I betrayed them. I breached their trust. Mother, I endangered them.’

‘They all live, Boromir. The others will be seeking the little ones. They will never be abandoned to their fate.’

‘Still, I…’

‘Hush, my baby, hush. They are alive for now, thanks to you.’

A brush of her thumb dries his tears away.

‘You did what you could,’ Finduilas murmurs. ‘Let go.’

A slow exhale rolls off his lip as he relaxes his shoulders. If he is dead, there is nothing he can do anymore. He must accept it.

Finduilas smiles from ear to ear as she admires him, her own eyes watering.

‘How you have grown! How deeply I regret having missed the years that shaped you, the events that made your character.’

‘Nonsense, Mother, you were ill, you…’

‘My hand was not that which wove my fate, I know this well — but a mother’s heart dares to dream.’

She lays her hand upon his then nods towards a path that, to the untrained eye, blends indistinguishably with the rest.

‘We must leave, Boromir. It is time.’

‘Will I see any of them again?’

‘When the time comes, yes. But do not wish it so soon. Let their destinies follow their course.’

His fingers curl around his mother’s hand as she takes a first step away from where they are standing. Boromir follows without question, the anguish in his heart ebbing away with each stride. Whispers and chants rise behind him, tugging at his attention. He glances over his shoulder, pupils searching for the source of the chorus. Nobody else comes within his sight.

O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar, But you came not from the empty lands where no men are…

A peaceful smile unfurls at the corners of his lips, softening the lines of his face. He gives a single resolute nod, then turns his gaze toward the path ahead. Within a heartbeat, Finduilas and Boromir disappear into eternity.

Taglist: @emmathefanficgal @boromir-week

[scyllas-revenge]

Boromir Week Day 4: A Strange Likeness, Part 1

Posted late for @boromir-week Day 4: Captain of Gondor. Inspired by an old conversation with @sotwk about Boromir potentially having a statue of himself somewhere in Minas Tirith.

Word count: 1k

Rating: G

Part 2 is set for Day 5: The People's Prince, Member of the Fellowship or Day 6: Change of Fate, Fourth Age. But will I actually post it on time? Who knows? This week is killing me dead, but either way I’m loving all the Boromir content 💜

Read on AO3 here!

A Strange Likeness

“Truly, Father, you need not have gone to the trouble,” Boromir said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Faramir bit back a laugh. Boromir had repeated the same sentiment at least three times since Denethor had brought them to the training grounds, yet there was an undeniable gleam in his brother’s eyes, his chin jutting rather more proudly than usual. 

“Nonsense,” the Steward cried, patting Boromir’s shoulder. “It is not every day Gondor is granted a new Captain-General, after all!” 

A cheer rose up from the crowd gathered behind them. 

“All the same,” Boromir said again, his chest puffing out seemingly against his will, “I’m certain our coffers would be put to much better use than the commissioning of a statue.” 

“Pah! You are hardly the first of the line of Stewards to be commemorated so. This city is awash in monuments to bygone rulers—it would be a travesty to exclude you from their ranks! Would it not, eh?”

He directed the last words to the crowd, who whooped and cheered again. Nearly all were Boromir’s soldiers, having strayed from their evening training regimens to witness the statue’s unveiling. Boromir had trained many of them personally, and despite the newness of his title, had already saved many of their lives in battle.

Faramir smiled at the glowing faces of the crowd, at the boyish grin on his brother’s face, then up at the statue itself.

It was adorned in the regalia of the Captain-General of Gondor, of course, appointed to Boromir just weeks before. While most Gondorian statues stood stilted and lifeless, limbs unbent, this one beckoned visitors to the training yards with a shield raised high, the figure’s weight shifted slightly to its right leg to brace for an unseen strike.

Still, it was a strange likeness, for the dynamic style did not quite extend to the statue’s expression.

“Valar, how stern it looks,” Boromir grimaced and turned to Faramir, laughing. “Tell me I do not look half so dour as that!” 

“You, dour? Never. Perhaps the sculptor was in a foul mood while he worked.”

Boromir laughed all the harder. “I fear you are right. You had best increase his wages, Father, that his next statue might bear a smile.” 

Denethor offered his eldest an indulgent smile of his own. “Come, now. The city’s Captain-General must look the part, must he not?”

Still, unusually grim-faced or not, Boromir’s statue did bear a striking resemblance to the original. Its features were sharp and new, not yet worn and weathered like so many of the city’s other statues were, the discoloration and dilapidation of centuries having worn away their finer features until each looked no different from its fellows. Someday, Faramir supposed, his brother’s statue would meet the same fate as the others. The stains of smoke and lichen would crawl over the stone skin, the wind and weather and relentless march of time slowly stealing the memory of him away. He frowned at the thought, forcing it from his mind.

“Now that a statue has been built in my honor, Father,” Boromir said, shaking Faramir from his musings, “perhaps you might commission one for your second son.”

Denethor’s cheery demeanor soured at once. “I will do no such thing.” 

Faramir swallowed uncomfortably. “Brother, do not trouble yourself.”

“Nonsense!” Boromir glared from Faramir to their father. “When you are no less valiant in battle, no less loved by our people—”

“Enough,” Denethor hissed, teeth clenched. “Let him earn such esteem, if he can. I will not grant it on a whim!”

“You may let the matter rest, my lord,” Faramir assured him, biting back his frustration. Boromir meant well, he knew, but what could such efforts accomplish beyond angering their father all the more? 

But Boromir was bristling, his nostrils flaring, his chest puffed out with anger rather than pride. “Then you will see him earn it now, Father. What say you, men?” He turned to the crowd of soldiers, his voice booming and jovial. “Would you see my brother thus honored as well? Shall we have a statue for Lord Faramir?” 

The men erupted with applause, so loud that Faramir felt his ears grow hot. “Boromir,” he muttered, “you need not have—”

“Nonsense,” Boromir repeated under his breath, still beaming at the cheering crowd. “Father can hardly deny you your due now. Then let it be done!” he added in a roar, as the cries of Faramir! Faramir! Faramir! died away at last. “You do us all great honor. Now, return to your training—so commands your new Captain-General!” 

“You are behaving like a child, Boromir,” Denethor hissed as the soldiers retreated to the training yard at last. But he was forcing a smile for the onlookers, and Faramir knew that—against all odds—Boromir had beaten him.

Their father swept away with a scoff, leaving the brothers standing alone in the now-empty street. 

“Why did you do that?” Faramir demanded. “I have no desire for a statue of myself—”

“Yet you deserve one at least as much as I do,” was his staunch reply. “Besides, it will do Father good to be reminded how well the people love you.” 

“Thank you, brother. Though I fear you have only angered him further.” 

“I will handle Father. If he gives you any grief, come to me. Your new Captain-General will defend you, eh?” Boromir raised his shield-arm in imitation of his statue, adopting a grim, dreary expression so exaggerated that Faramir snorted. 

“Such an expression suits you terribly.” 

“Yes. Still—it is an impressive statue, is it not?” he mused. “I had not thought to cut such an imposing figure.” Boromir's chest was swelling again as he looked up at his likeness. Perhaps unconsciously, he was adjusting the angle of his jaw and the proud squaring of his shoulders to better match the statue’s regal silhouette. 

A long moment passed. Faramir raised an eyebrow. “Shall I give the two of you some privacy?” 

“What—” Boromir jumped and cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. “I—ahem. I had best speak to my men again—see how their training is coming along. Farewell, brother.”

“Farewell, Captain.” 

Boromir beamed anew at the title and departed, passing his grim-faced statue with a spring in his step.

[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.

[kanic0]

“Son of Denethor”

acrylic on canvas, (11in x 14in)

Day 3 of Boromir Week so of course some: character introspection/headcanon time!! Especially after the death of his mother Findulas, Boromir felt many responsibilities towards his father, brother, and country. Boromir’s learned through hard work (and high expectations) what it means to uphold the duties of a Captain of the White Tower and future Steward of Gondor, chasing after his father’s approval which is not so easily won. He feels a certain duty to follow his father’s every word and to protect Faramir, often leading to perfectionism and overachievement in order to satisfy his Denethor’s wishes.

I really tried to show with this painting the part of Boromir that’s not really his own, the bit that belongs to Denethor. Upright/stiff posture and a flat resting expression (plus some traditional gondorian garb designed by me) to show the bit of Boromir that’s will always be ‘The Steward’.

@boromir-week

[emilybeemartin]

Boromir Week, Day 5: The People's Prince, the Fellowship

"I will not go," said Boromir, "not unless the vote of the whole company is against me. What do Legolas and the little folk say? The Ring-bearer's voice surely should be heard?" "I do not wish to go to Moria," said Legolas. -The Fellowship of the Ring

When I center Boromir in narratives, I often cast Legolas as the comic relief, but actually, I've always thought of him in much the same way as Boromir: the son of a lesser ruler who has spent his entire adult life fighting the supernatural threat to his home, aided by no magic, largely unremarkable except in his bravery, skill, and dedication to his people. Another people's prince. Until Elladan and Elrohir decide to show up later in the series, Legolas is the only Elf who sees fit to put his life aside to help the Fellowship. I've always liked him for that, and I think amid all Boromir's weirdling companions in the Fellowship, he would clock Legolas as a kindred spirit---someone who knows strategy, someone who knows how to rely on his own wits and strength rather than mystical solutions. It's the combined masterminding of Boromir and Legolas who get the Fellowship off Caradhras, and in Moria I think they'd see themselves in similar roles. Gandalf seems to be at a loss. Aragorn hasn't had to step up yet. Gimli's expectations of the reception in the mines was wildly different to the grim reality. So I think Boromir would assume that if anybody was going to get them out of the mess they're in, it's him and the guy who can run over the snow, even if he does pass entire nights staring straight at the moon like a little freak.

But mostly, I think Boromir's time amid the Fellowship is mostly just

Like being the only human actor in a muppet movie

@boromir-week

[erulasse23]

Boromir Week Day 4: Teen Years, Captain of Gondor, Friend of Rohan

headcanons:

- Boromir started serving in the army two years earlier than is typically permitted. He knew from a young age that he would be Captain one day and he could never imagine doing anything differently. His fellow soldiers had to teach him that there is more to life than just duty, but he still struggles with its weight.

- From the moment he first sees the Simbelmynë on the barrows in Rohan, it becomes a symbol to him of why he fights. New life in defiance of death. It always feels bittersweet.

- Boromir loves the white city, but he also develops a love of camping. It’s his favorite thing to do with his friends when he has free time. They build big bonfires and tell stories.

@boromir-week

[epiphany333]

"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!

...

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."

[boromirswife]

Day 1: Brother of Faramir, Childhood

“Worry not, little brother. Father says that Mama will get better soon…”

My entry for the first day of @boromir-week!! This is little Boromir and Faramir as they wait for news of their mother. Boromir wants nothing more than to make Faramir feel better and to ease his fears, but he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying.