Work Text:
“Oh this just will not do! I have been sitting here for almost two full hours trying to think of a final line for this poem, but I always fall flat describing the beauty of maidens. Perhaps you can help me, as the lady Arwen is particular to your own heart?”
Boromir froze in the doorway. He had meant to go to his own room, but somewhere amongst the gilded corridors and landings of the Last Homely House, he must have taken a wrong turn. Now he thought about it, he did not recall his door being flanked by a pair of beech saplings in tall vases of painted glass.
“Excuse me, I have come to the wrong room. I did not mean to disturb you.” Boromir inclined his head and quickly made to leave. But the small figure, who was seated at a low desk covered in books and scrolls, called out to halt him.
“Oh hullo! I’m terribly sorry, my lad! I believed you to be my friend the Dúnedan. The two of you do look very much alike.”
Boromir wasn’t sure whether to feel honoured or disturbed by such a remark. He and Aragorn were both men to be sure, tall and dark of hair, but while the blood of Númenór shone clearly through the ranger’s guise, in Boromir it was little more than a whisper of the past. But he would not begrudge a halfling of the Shire for the comment, as far-removed from the rest of the world as they were.
“Alas, no. I am Boromir, son of Denethor. I saw you at the council, but we did not speak.”
The perian - Bilbo, Boromir thought he was called - smiled and waved his hand in welcome. “Oh yes, I remember you now. The man from Gondor who had the dream! I confess I meant to seek you out to talk about that poem of yours: ‘Seek the sword that was broken,’ and so on, but I completely forgot about it. To tell you the truth, you and your brother are not the only ones to have had abnormal dreams. The words from my verse about Aragorn - I wonder now if they did not come from my own mind. I just woke up one day and there the poem was, already fully-formed in my head. Perhaps it was spoken to me, just as the words about my- the Ring were spoken to you. I cannot remember it in full, so I was hoping you may be willing to scribe it for me so that I may study it.”
Boromir stepped inside the room, judging that Bilbo’s request was an invitation to enter. It was open and airy, much like his own chamber; though most of the furniture was smaller and lower. Perhaps the bed had once belonged to one of Elrond’s children, but thousands of years would have passed since then. Could it really last that long without the wood deteriorating? Just thinking about it made Boromir's head hurt.
He approached the desk, and took the pen and sheet of paper that Bilbo offered him. He remembered the words clearly, but he still took his time writing them out, as he was self-conscious of his own untidy scrawl next to Bilbo’s own, perfectly-shaped lettering. Did all Periannath write this well? Boromir found himself growing more and more curious about this forgotten people of the north.
Once Boromir had finished, he blew on the ink and handed the paper back to Bilbo, who immediately pored over the words with keen eyes. Boromir couldn’t help but stare at his ears, which while wider and flatter, were pointed in the same manner as an Elf’s.
“The length, the structure, the style.. even the rhyming patterns are exactly the same,” Bilbo muttered, almost as if to himself. “It’s too much of a coincidence, do you not think?”
“I suppose it is,” Boromir replied, attempting to feign any knowledge about poetry. If only Faramir were here, he would be a great deal more help.
“Well how about that then!” Bilbo said brightly, leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps both our poems shall become prophecies! I always intended the “crownless” to refer to my dear friend, but I thought perhaps I might no longer be around by the time it happened. I am not a young hobbit by any means, so this gives me hope that the day may come soon after all!”
Boromir felt a jolt down his spine. Of course he knew that it was possible that the King may return and reclaim his throne, but like Bilbo, he never imagined that it would come to pass in his own life. His father had been preparing him for the stewardship since he was a child - with the arrival of Aragorn would he now be cast aside? Would all his training be for nothing?
“You show a surprising level of interest in the future of Gondor, for one who has never travelled there,” Boromir said, looking down as his fingers brushed and tapped over the oakwood desk.
A faraway look came into Bilbo’s eyes, and his expression became wrought with the sweetest kind of sadness: the exact kind found in the faces of those who have lost their beloved.
“Aragorn reminds me of someone I once knew. A great warrior and wanderer he was, with eyes like the ocean. Strong and loyal to a fault. One who would also have been a king, were he not sent to the Halls of Mandos before his time.”
A great many things were said at the council in October, and Boromir did not have a natural aptitude for remembering details and events, but he did now recall that Bilbo Baggins had once embarked on a quest to reclaim Erebor. Immediately, he understood to whom the perian was referring.
“You speak of Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, with not a hint of questioning in his voice.
Bilbo let out a long, drawn-out sigh, and patted the pocket of his waistcoat. This was something Boromir had observed was a habit of his.
“You must have loved him very dearly,” Boromir added.
Bilbo gave a wry smile. “In truth, for the first few weeks I knew him I did not care for him much at all, and neither did he for me. But as the months drew on, I saw how deeply he cared about his people, and how readily he would lay down his life for them. And yes, I grew to love him. In the end.” He passed his hand over the cover of a red leather-bound book which rested on the top of a pile beside him. “But he lives on in my heart just as he lives on in these pages. And it is my dearest hope that he will live on through the heir of Gondor too.”
Boromir was surprised about how openly Bilbo talked about his feelings. He could not possibly tell for certain the nature of the love he shared with Thorin, but he would have been prepared to wager that it was a bond closer to romance to brotherhood.
After all, he himself harboured similar feelings about the prince of another kingdom.
Boromir had no memory of his first meeting with Théodred of Rohan, he knew only that it had taken place when the Éorling prince was brought to Minas Tirith by his father when they were both three years old.
“Mother, why does the boy from Rohan smell of horses?”
According to Finduilas, this was the first thing he had asked once Théodred was whisked out of their sight. Boromir couldn’t help but smile at the memory of hearing the story for the first time.
Théodred continued to smell of horses, but as the years drew on, the scent became mixed in with other more delightful things: cut grass, fresh sweat and woodsmoke. He was smaller and quieter than Boromir: always thoughtful and sincere, and with an incredibly sharp mind. While Théodred struggled to keep up with Boromir in speed and strength, he was always leagues ahead of him in wit.
One summer when they were both fifteen years old, they stayed up all night, laying side-by-side amongst the simbelmynë that grew around the walls of Edoras. They laughed and sang, and told each other stories about the stars that sparkled in the inky sky above them. But all Boromir could recall from the night was how beautiful the flaxen-haired boy that smelled of horses looked in the light of the moon. His bright green eyes darkened like the surface of a lake at midnight, and Boromir had been so moved that he had boldly kissed him, and to his relief and delight, Théodred had kissed him back.
After that they were only able to see each other briefly every few years, but the depth of their passion for each other never wavered. Neither took a wife, and they promised with their blood that they would be bound to each other for life, no matter the responsibilities that weighed down upon their shoulders. The last time they had seen each other had been in the summer, when Boromir passed through Rohan on the road to Imladris. Théodred had ridden with him out to the Fords of Isen, before returning to his post at Helm’s Deep.
Boromir could still taste the sweet juice of wild strawberries that had been on Théodred’s lips when he had kissed him goodbye.
If Aragorn was to become King, would Boromir be free to spend more time with Théodred? His heart expanded in his chest at the thought. Théodred often talked about making Éomer his heir. Once the war was over, perhaps they could even spend their lives together.
“Boromir, is something the matter?”
Boromir startled, drawn out of the rolling plains of Rohan and back into the house of Elrond by Bilbo’s crisp voice.
“No, nothing. My mind simply began to wander to other matters,” he said quickly.
Bilbo looked at him searchingly, and offered him a knowing smile. “Well my boy, if we do not have the chance to speak again, I wish you and your mysterious lover all the best. Promise me that you will have your happy ending together once this whole business is over, in honour of those of us who never had the chance.”
Boromir looked at the tiny person, with his head of fine white curls and his wrinkled hands. He knew not the exact age of Bilbo Baggins, but one thing he knew for certain was that he had been greatly fortunate to reach it, but was also deeply cursed to have spent so many of those years alone in grief.
“I promise,” he replied.
***
Boromir gave no more thought to the implications of both poems being prophecies until the first night of December, and what it would mean for his future. As evening fell, there was great activity within the forges of Imladris, and the ringing of hammers upon steel could be heard across the valley. When morning came, Boromir went to the Hall of Fire and happened to hear part of a conversation between a couple of the younger hobbits (for this is what he had now learned they called themselves).
“-I am so tired, Merry, you would not believe it. Do Elves not sleep at all? Can they not make swords during the daytime?”
“But Pip, that was not just any sword. Did you not hear? They have reforged Strider’s sword. The blade that was broken, and all that. It’s just as Bilbo said. He’s going to be a king!”