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It was not long after he was made Captain-General that Boromir noticed things had changed. He could no longer spend evenings having drinks with his men in the taverns as he used to. The first time he walked through the door, they all went silent and nervously assured him that they were not over indulging. A few times, they would give up their table to him and look for a less pleasant place to sit. He’d had no doubt that they were being responsible, and he told them that they did not have to adhere to protocol when they were off-duty, as far as snapping to Attention and saluting when he entered a room; he did encourage them to maintain the Army’s reputation when they were not in uniform, because any reckless behavior would reflect badly on the Army. But no matter how many times he had said the formalities were unnecessary, his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.
And so, over time, his visits to the local tavern happened less and less, until he ceased going at all. After all, it was not as enjoyable to drink alone, and it seemed that every time he went to the same place his men had gathered after they finished training, they acted as though he was there to punish them or order them to leave.
His soldiers still respected him, just as he still respected them, but they no longer saw him as one of their own. There was a line separating them from him that they dared not cross.
Faramir was the only one who never treated him differently, but he had brotherly privilege. He always adhered to his command when they were training or in a skirmish with Orcs or Easterlings, but outside of the battlefield, barracks, and training grounds, they were just brothers. When he was with Faramir, he felt like he was still himself, and that he had not become some idol to be worshiped or an outcast to be avoided or ostracized. He felt human.
But there were other times where he felt like a monster or a harbinger of despair. This was whenever a soldier under his command fell in battle and he had to deliver the news to the deceased’s loved ones. For a long time, this task had been relegated to a man of lower rank, but one of his predecessors began carrying it out himself because he chose to take responsibility for the loss of life rather than wash his hands of it. The King or Ruling Steward gave the command for his army to go to war, but the Captain-General was the one who gave the order to advance or retreat. Regardless of whether he was on the battlefield or had stayed behind in the capital, the Captain-General was the one who ultimately gave the go-ahead to carry out a battle plan. The Captain-General was the one who sent men into peril.
Every man who fell in battle felt like a gaping wound on Boromir’s heart, because it was like losing a friend or a brother, since he had gotten to know each and every one of them. But whenever he attended the burial and saw the man’s real friends and family weeping, it felt as though the wound had become infected. Faramir suggested that perhaps it would get easier with time, but even after ten years, his own wounds never closed over and the pain he felt never lessened.
Whenever things got hard, he reminded himself, over and over again like a mantra, that he was the only one who could carry out the task. His father gave command of most missions to him instead of Faramir, because Denethor expected success in everything he did, no matter the cost, and therefore Boromir was the only one who could get the job done. Faramir, on the other hand, was sent on errands of less importance. As a result, there were periods of weeks where the two brothers never saw each other. During those times, Boromir felt less human, because Faramir was not there to bring him down from the pedestal upon which their father had placed him. It would be a far drop if he ever fell.
When the dream came to the two brothers, the night before Sauron declared war on the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, Boromir defied his father’s order for Faramir to ride to Imladris. Though their city was still recovering from the Enemy’s assault, and Minas Tirith was a far cry from a safe haven, the perils on the road to Imladris would surely be far more dangerous. And so Boromir took it upon himself to make the journey and leave his men behind, all to protect Faramir. And for the next hundred and ten days, he traveled alone, save for the horse he borrowed from Edoras and was separated from halfway through the journey. He was doing this for Faramir. He was doing this for his country. He was doing this for his people. He was the only one who could do this. He repeated these words to himself again and again, as he laid on the hard ground and found sleep elusive, as he went for days without seeing another soul on the road, as he startled awake from a nightmare in which he saw the doom of his beloved city. Doom is near at hand, the voice had said in the dream. Had doom already come to Minas Tirith? Was this merely a fool’s errand, a trick orchestrated by the Enemy to draw him away from his city while it was left vulnerable in his absence?
At long last, he reached Imladris, and the following day he laid his eyes on Isildur’s Bane—the very ring that had been cut from its master’s hand long ago. Though it looked plain, Boromir could see that there was a great power pulsing within.
Could it aid Gondor in this fight?
Yes, a voice whispered to him.
How?
You will be given the strength to achieve victory. All who challenge you will be powerless. Only you can save Gondor.
Only I can save Gondor. Only I can do this. It has to be me.
And so he carried that resolve with him, through the lands that laid in the shadow of the Misty Mountains, deep into the tunnels of Moria, among the trees of the Golden Wood, along the Anduin, until they reached Parth Galen.
I shall ask Frodo to give the Ring to me. I have greater need of it than he does. I am doing this for Gondor. I have no other choice.
Frodo fled from him and left him alone, reeling with what he had done. He found Merry and Pippin and stood alone against the swarming Uruk-hai. He was wounded. Merry and Pippin were taken. He was left alone, surrounded by the enemies he had slain before his strength had failed him. He leaned against a tree. His vision was growing dark. He knew he was about to die. Who would mourn for him? Who would tell Faramir and his father?
A figure appeared through the trees. Aragorn. He told him what he had done.
“I have failed.”
“You have conquered.”
My people. Who will save my people? Someone save them.
“Minas Tirith shall not fall,” he said.
Yes. Aragorn will save them. He’s the only one who can.
Boromir smiled. The burden that had pressed down upon him eased at last.