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Boromir sat beside Faramir and Aragorn on a stone wall overlooking the royal gardens. It was a rare occasion the three rulers could be in the same place. Between the restoration of Arnor and Ithilien, their duties spread them to the wind more often than not; however, for this one day, they could sit in peace and repose. Even rarer still was Merry and Pippin being in the same place as them. Much like the first time Boromir met Aragorn and the hobbits in Rivendell, it was wholly unplanned. A meeting of chance, which made it all the more precious.
The intervening years showed on the faces of all present. A few more grays dappled Aragorn’s hair. Faramir, while still lean, had lost the last of the wiriness from his youth. Wrinkles had begun to gather on Boromir’s face, and his left shoulder never quite healed correctly. The once occasional ache reminding him of that fateful day at Amon Hen now plagued him most mornings -- and any time the weather changed quickly. Despite it all, he still trained as often as his body and schedule would allow. A mere ten years would not tie the Captain of the White Tower to a desk - even if his title of Steward meant he ought to be far more than he permitted himself to be. No, he found as much time to train with his troops as he could. He still needed to be in peak form, but not for battle. At least not only for battle. There were other things that demanded Boromir, Steward of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower be fit as ever, and they had nothing to do with his titles or combat.
But today? Today there would be no training. Sitting beside his brother and Aragorn, he reveled in the life they had built together over the past decade. The life none of them dared hope they could have. In the simple fact that they had any life at all. The same soft smile pulled at all three of their lips while they each took in a different part of the scene before them.
Faramir’s gaze rested upon Éowyn, who was lounging against a tree reading the latest section of Merry’s book on Herb Lore. Her eyes flitted across the page, and she would scribble the odd note in the margins. His heart swelled at the love she held for the hobbit. The kindred spirits - doubted and dismissed and then unexpected heroes. Brilliant minds and fierce hearted. There were still days his heart ached for the way both had been doubted, for how men still doubted them on occasion. The wind picked up an errant strand of her golden hair and blew it in her face. She swept it behind her ear, and smudged ink across her cheek in the process. Faramir snickered and shook his head.
Aragorn watched Arwen doting on the youngest of their children. The little ones had always clung to her most of all, and she seemed to relish it. Even the children of her friends flocked to her. Her tales captivated them, and there seemed no end to them. Today, their one year old, however, looked far more fixated on her hair than any tale she may have been telling. The soft wind rustling the leaves above Arwen carried her laughter up to the wall upon which the three men sat. Below them, she disentangled her youngest daughter’s hand from her long hair. Gilraen reached in vain to once again tangle her tiny hands in it, giggling all the while. Arwen tapped her daughter’s nose and produced a small toy before beginning another story. Gilraen settled once again. Aragorn leaned back onto his hands and smiled to himself, utterly lost in the moment.
Boromir tracked the movements of the older children sparring with each other and the hobbits. Elboron faced off against the younger Faramir, and he held his own, but the young hobbit had his father’s rather unorthodox fighting style, which made Pippin a formidable opponent for most men twice his size. It left Elboron evenly matched against Faramir despite the edge his age and size afforded him.
Eldarion stood opposite one of his younger sisters and Merry’s son, and he was trying desperately to get them to pay attention to his instructions. They were, to his dismay, far more content to whack each other with the wooden swords than to mind Eldarion. At ten, he was the eldest of all the children, and he was already quite a fighter. He approached much of life with a quiet seriousness, and his sword training was no different. He excelled at it, as he did with nearly all his studies. He had the keen mind of both his parents and his father’s gift for swordplay. His young eyes held the same power as Aragorn’s, and where Arwen’s features had softened the sharp edges of his face, the grim set of his jaw when vexed was a replica of his father’s. Boromir could easily see the future High King of the Reunited Kingdom in the boy when he bore that expression. However, Edlarion’s two wayward pupils seemed immune to it - though it had cowed many soldiers and political foes on his father’s face.
In the blink of an eye, the scene below him devolved into chaos. The two uncooperative students of Eldarion turned their conflict into an alliance and changed their target with a shrill battle cry. Eldarion blinked in surprise before he took a defensive stance, but mischief sparked in his eyes. It was a spark Boromir knew well on Aragorn’s face. It gave both father and son a striking resemblance to a cat stalking their prey. In a council meeting, it spelled danger for whomever Aragorn’s target was. When it appeared on either father or son in moments of play, it meant the game was on now. For several moments Eldarion feigned a valiant fight. He gave a fantastic performance of attempting to fend off the two younger children. He blocked and perryed a few strikes and let them land a few blows to his torso before throwing himself onto his back in defeat with a great cry.
Boromir barked out a laugh and jumped from his seat. “For Eldarion!” he yelled before charging into the scrum. The old warrior launched himself into the pile and attacked the sides of the two battering Eldarion with their wooden swords with tickles, which was an effective means to disarm them and reduce them to squeals and laughter; however, within moments, the strategy backfired. In the silent language children possess, the three of them allied themselves, and Eldarion turned on his savior with his former assailants. Three sets of hands mercilessly tickled Boromir’s sides. In full melodramatic fashion, he flung himself onto his back, but his slightly hysterical laughter and writhing was anything but dramatics. Every time he would begin to catch his breath, those small, searching fingers seemed to find another spot that would pull another peel of laughter from him.
It took no more than two minutes before Merry and Pippin abandoned their coaching and refereeing session with Elboron and Faramir to come to the aid of their friend, and Elboron and Faramir were right behind them. In no less than five minutes, there was a mess of men and children thrashing about the grass, dirtying their clothes, and laughing hysterically. It took no more than another few minutes before the adults were calling for a truce and surrendering to their attackers, breathless and exhausted.
As the cries and laughter died down, Boromir caught the sound of Aragorn and Faramir laughing at their plight, and then he caught sight of Éowyn and Arwen who were red faced with their own laughter. He couldn’t find it within himself to be upset by it, however, when a worn out Faramir and Elboron tucked themselves into his side. He wrapped his arms around them and breathed out a contented sigh. A quiet voice roused him from his descent into reverie. “Uncle Boromir, can you help me with my fighting later? Maybe after lunch?”
The sun was unexpectedly high, Boromir noted, and his stomach rumbled quietly. He catalogued the places he was already going to be sore tomorrow from the skirmish and diving headlong onto the ground. “Of course I can Elboron. Faramir, do you want to join us? I think, even as old as I am, I can take the both of you on.”
The two boys’ eyes flashed with the challenge thrown down - tired as they may be. Faramir looked positively indignant at the idea that they could be bested. “I don’t think you can beat us both! We won this fight!”
“That is true…perhaps you are correct, but I suppose we must see after lunch. Speaking of, come, let us find out how long until we are to eat. I don’t know about you two, but that battle made me quite hungry.”
Elboron and Faramir sprung from the ground, both managing to drive at least one limb into his side. Oh yes, Boromir would be sore tomorrow. Sore, and utterly glad for it. Glad for the life he built despite all the bloodshed and tragedy it took to get here. He had his family and a realm finally at peace. If that meant his muscles would ache after wrestling with the kids or sparring for too many rounds with his troops as though he was still the soldier of his youth, then that was a price he would happily pay because he was alive and safe at last. Alive and had no need to fight to keep this miracle safe anymore. Alive and training to keep up with children. Alive and finally able to enjoy all he fought to secure. And enjoy it he would. Every minute of it.