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The war was over, the White Tree was in bloom, and the King had returned. Yet, for Boromir of Gondor, the peace felt like a garment that no longer fit.
He sat in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, his back against a stone wall that was warm from the afternoon sun. He was alive, a miracle that still felt like a clerical error by the Valar. He could still feel the phantom bite of the three Uruk-hai arrows that had pierced his chest and side at Amon Hen. Though the wounds had closed into thick, ropy scars, the damage ran deep. His left arm was stiff, his lungs burned when he drew a deep breath, and his once-unshakable strength had become a flickering candle.
"You are brooding again," a cheerful voice chirped.
Boromir looked down. Pippin and Merry were standing there, laden with a basket of apples and a suspicious amount of pipe-weed.
"I am not brooding," Boromir said, his voice raspy. "I am... contemplating."
"Contemplating how to escape the Coronation feast tonight?" Merry asked, hopping onto the bench beside him. "Because we’ve already got a plan for that. It involves a very large tapestry and a diversion involving fireworks."
Boromir smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I cannot escape my duties, Little Ones. I am the High Warden. The Captain-General. The Steward-to-be."
The hobbits exchanged a look. It was a look Boromir didn't quite like, it was far too knowing.
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Later that night, in the quiet of the Citadel, Boromir sat with Aragorn and Faramir. The map of Gondor was spread before them, but Boromir wasn't looking at the borders. He was looking at his own hands. They trembled slightly.
"Aragorn," Boromir said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. "I cannot do it."
Aragorn looked up from his scrolls, his grey eyes softening. "The healing takes time, Boromir. Eowyn and Faramir have both-"
"It is not just the body," Boromir interrupted, his hand clutching his side where the first arrow had struck. "The Gondor I fought for needs a pillar of granite. I am... I am cracked stone, my King. I cannot lead the armies. I cannot sit in the Council and debate grain taxes when the sound of a door slamming makes me reach for a sword I can no longer swing with grace."
Faramir stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "Brother, no one expects you to be the man you were before this trip"
"But the people deserve the man I was," Boromir whispered. "You are the Steward Gondor needs, Faramir. You have the wisdom, the patience, and the heart that survived the darkness without breaking. I am a soldier with no war left, and no strength to keep the peace."
Aragorn walked around the table. He didn't offer a platitude. He simply looked at Boromir with the clarity of the Dunedain. "If not Gondor, then where? You are a son of this city."
"I do not know," Boromir admitted.
A small cough came from the doorway. Merry and Pippin were standing there, their arms crossed.
"Actually," Pippin said, "We’ve decided. You’re coming with us."
Boromir blinked. "To... the Shire?"
"Exactly," Merry said, walking in as if he owned the Citadel. "There are no Orcs. The biggest threat is Lotho Sackville-Baggins’ personality. There’s plenty of ale, six meals a day, and you’re already practiced at carrying hobbits around. We need a proper Guard of the Shire, and frankly, you’re the only one tall enough to reach the top shelves in my pantry."
"I cannot simply... leave," Boromir stammered.
"Why not?" Pippin asked. "You said you aren't the Steward. Faramir is. You said you aren't the Captain. Someone else can be. You’re just Boromir. And Boromir is our friend. Friends come over for tea. For a long time."
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The departure was set for a week later. The morning was misty, the air smelling of damp stone and horses. Boromir stood by his mount, his pack light,most of his heavy armor had been gifted to the armory.
Faramir approached him. The younger brother looked every bit the Prince of Ithilien, but his eyes were red-rimmed.
"I feel as though I am losing you all over again," Faramir said softly.
Boromir pulled his brother into a fierce, if slightly clumsy, embrace. He tucked his head against Faramir’s shoulder, smelling the familiar scent of cedar and old parchment. "You aren't losing me. For the first time, I am going somewhere because I want to be, not because Gondor needs me to be."
"You will write?" Faramir pulled back, clutching Boromir’s forearms.
"Every moon," Boromir promised. "I will tell you of the harvests and the quality of the leaf. And I will tell you that I am whole again, once I find the pieces."
"Find them, Boromir," Faramir whispered, a tear finally escaping. "Find the man who used to laugh before the shadow grew so long."
Aragorn stood at the gates, the crown of Gondor gleaming. He didn't say goodbye; he simply pressed a hand to Boromir's chest, right over his heart. "Be at peace, Son of Gondor."
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The journey was slow, which suited Boromir perfectly. His lungs didn't care for a gallop anymore, but a steady walk was manageable.
The hobbits were relentless in their cheer. They treated Boromir like a prized, albeit slightly damaged, treasure. When they stopped for the night, Pippin would insist on rubbing a pungent herbal salve into Boromir’s scarred shoulder to "keep the hinges from rusting," while Merry would recount endless stories of Shire scandals.
"You see," Merry said one night over a campfire near Bree, "The most important thing to remember is the Great Pie Incident of '74. If you understand why Mrs. Bracegirdle doesn't speak to the Tooks, you understand Shire politics."
Boromir laughed, a deep sound that felt rusty in his throat. "It sounds more complicated than the court of Denethor."
"Oh, much more," Pippin agreed, roasting a sausage. "In Gondor, if you disagree, you use a sword. In the Shire, we use 'uninvited to luncheon.' It’s much more brutal."
As they crossed the Brandywine Bridge, Boromir felt a strange shift in the air. The air was sweet, smelling of clover and turned earth. There were no jagged mountains on the horizon, only rolling green hills that looked like the folds of a heavy velvet blanket.
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The arrival of a six-foot-tall Man in the Shire caused a sensation that hadn't been seen since Gandalf’s fireworks.
Initially, Boromir stayed at Brandy Hall, but he soon found himself yearning for a space of his own. He didn't want a stone tower. He wanted what the hobbits had.
With the help of a dozen enthusiastic (and well-paid in ale) hobbit builders, a "Big Man’s Smial" was constructed into the side of a gentle hill overlooking the water. It was built like a hobbit-hole, with a round yellow door and circular windows, but the ceilings were high enough that he didn't have to stoop, and the furniture was reinforced to hold his weight.
The transition to his wardrobe was the next step. Boromir’s Gondorian tunics were too formal, too stiff.
"You look like you're waiting for an inspection," Pippin remarked one morning.
A week later, Boromir emerged from his smial wearing a pair of sturdy brown corduroy trousers, a vast linen shirt with puffed sleeves, and a waistcoat of deep forest green with brass buttons. He refused the cloak, he still kept his elven-cloak from Lorien but he had traded his boots for comfortable leather sandals.
He looked in the mirror and didn't see a Captain of the White Tower. He saw a very large, very tired gardener. He liked it.
Boromir’s "place" in the Shire was found not in the fields or the pubs, but in the nurseries.
It began when Rosie Cotton needed someone to watch a brood of toddlers while the harvest was being brought in. Boromir had volunteered, thinking it couldn't be harder than leading a sortie at Osgiliath.
He was wrong. It was much harder, but far more rewarding.
Within months, Boromir became the unofficial "Uncle" of the Shire. On any given afternoon, the Great Man could be found sitting under a sprawling oak tree with three or four hobbit children perched on his shoulders and knees.
"Tell us about the elephant!" a small Took girl demanded, pulling on Boromir’s beard.
"It is called an Oliphaunt," Boromir corrected gently, his large hand steadying a toddler who was trying to climb his arm. "And it has ears like sails and a nose like a long, grey snake."
He was patient in a way he had never been in his youth. He taught the older children how to whistle, how to track a rabbit without scaring it, and how to tell the stars. When a child fell and scraped a knee, Boromir didn't tell them to "be a soldier." He would pick them up, his massive arms making them feel entirely safe, and carry them to their mothers.
His injuries still pained him. On rainy days, he walked with a cane of polished ash, and he had to sit down frequently. But the hobbits didn't mind. In fact, they liked his "slow days," because it meant he would stay in one place longer to tell stories.
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One evening, Samwise Gamgee walked up the hill to Boromir’s hole. He found the Man sitting on his porch, smoking a long pipe, watching the sunset turn the Brandywine to liquid gold.
"Evening, Mr. Boromir," Sam said, leaning against the fence.
"Evening, Samwise. How is the Gaffer?"
"Complaining about the beans, as usual. Which means he's doing just fine." Sam looked at Boromir, noting the way the Man looked at peace. The haunted look in his eyes, the shadow of the Ring and the trauma of the arrows,had faded into a soft twilight. "You happy here, sir? Truly?"
Boromir took a long pull of his pipe and let the smoke curl into the air. He thought of the cold stone of Minas Tirith. He thought of the blood on the leaves at Parth Galen. Then he thought of the three hobbit children who had fallen asleep on his chest that morning during nap time.
"I spent my life trying to save the world, Sam," Boromir said softly. "I never realized that the world I was saving was made of small things. A good meal. A child’s laugh. A warm fire. I am not a hero here. I am just Boromir. And that is more than enough."
Sam nodded, satisfied. "Well, Rosie says you’re expected for Sunday roast. And don't think you're getting out of it by saying you're too big for the chairs, we’ve moved the bench in from the garden just for you."
Boromir smiled a real, bright smile that lit up his face. "I wouldn't miss it for all the silver in the vaults of Gondor."
As Sam walked away, Boromir leaned back, his hand resting idly on the scar beneath his waistcoat. It didn't throb tonight. The air was still, the Shire was dreaming, and for the first time in his life, the Warden of Gondor was finally off duty.