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When Boromir turned fifteen, he left the walls of Minas Tirith for the white sands of Dol Amroth. He spent the next five years serving as his uncle Imrahil’s squire, honing his swordsmanship and learning how to command military units. He was also instructed in politics, which he was not too thrilled about. He had looked forward to this ever since his father told him that he would be under Imrahil’s mentorship, and although Denethor did not seem wholly pleased with it, Boromir was excited enough for them both. Not only had Boromir looked up to Imrahil ever since he was a young boy, but he had wanted to spend more time in Dol Amroth than the brief visits he’d experienced, hoping to come to know and love his mother’s homeland as much as she had.
It was not long after his arrival and the beginning of his training that he learned the rumors about the rigid discipline of the Swan Knights proved to be more than rumors. They were strong, fast, and never hesitated, and they did not go easy on him just because he was the oldest son of the Ruling Steward and would one day hold the title, himself. But Boromir preferred it this way. He liked the challenge. If his opponents had simply let him win, then he would never learn or improve his skills. He would have found his training as not only unenjoyable but also a waste of his time. From the very first time he was knocked onto his behind in the training ring, he had made it a goal to defeat each Swan Knight at least once before it was time for him to return to Minas Tirith in five years.
What he had not anticipated was that his training would not only be overseen by his uncle Imrahil but, in a sense, also by Prince Adrahil. Boromir had only met his grandfather a few times—could probably count them all on one hand—but he recalled that all of those meetings had been unpleasant.
Boromir was too reckless. Boromir was a slower learner than Imrahil. Boromir was too impulsive. Boromir was not disciplined enough. All of his grandfather’s comments—spoken loud enough for all in the training yard to hear—seemed to be that Boromir was too much of something or not enough.
Was it not enough that he was trying to learn all he could? Was it not enough that he was working hard every day? Was it not enough that he was doing the best he could and always striving to do better? But no, that was not, nor would it ever be enough for Prince Adrahil.
His grandfather never seemed to have anything positive to say to or about him, and after a time, Boromir couldn’t help but notice the similarities with how his father had spoken to Faramir in recent years. At least he would jump to Faramir’s defense whenever he witnessed such interactions, unlike his uncle Imrahil, who merely stood there silently while Prince Adrahil subjected Boromir to his seemingly infinite criticisms of his flaws and shortcomings. Granted, he had learned a lot from Imrahil and was grateful for his advice and teachings, but he wished that his uncle would speak up on his behalf from time to time.
Something else he disliked almost as much as politics was archery. It wasn’t that he hated archery, per se. He had often watched the archers of Minas Tirith practice and admired their skill. He just wasn’t very good at it, and he preferred using a sword and shield. But his grandfather did not care about his preferences and insisted that he practice archery just as much as, if not more than, he practiced with sword or spear.
Boromir grimaced as he raised his trembling arms, trying to string another arrow and keep the bow still. He could feel what may have been blood in the fingers of his glove. Sweat rolled down his forehead and he blinked as it burned his eye. How much longer did he have to keep doing this?
He released the bowstring and the arrow soared, but the shot was weak, the arrow tip dipping lower instead of holding straight and not even sticking in the target. He grimaced again, not from the pain in his fingers but from the arrow clattering on the ground noisily.
“Again.”
Boromir clenched his jaw and his aching hands. He’d heard that voice so much, that word so much, that it seemed to have burrowed into his ears, clanging like a bell and filling the few moments of solitude he had with echoes of mockery.
Without even thinking about it, he tossed his bow on the ground and tugged off his glove, which quickly joined it. As he had suspected, the pads of his fingers were smeared with red.
“No.” Prince Adrahil’s eyes narrowed, visibly unimpressed with Boromir’s rebellious behavior. Boromir looked to his uncle, who once again did not seem inclined to speak up on his behalf. “Why should I keep practicing something I’m not good at when I could use that time to improve my skills in other areas?”
“A man who does not master all weapons is doomed to be slain by the very weapon he cannot wield,” said the Prince in his matter-of-fact way.
“Not if I have my shield!” The man smirked.
“A shield is not invincible. It merely serves to delay long enough for you to kill your enemy or for him to kill you.”
Boromir felt his face flush with shame. No matter what he said, Prince Adrahil was never moved by it, always staying the course of unfeeling indifference. He was nothing like his grandfather Ecthelion, who Boromir often remembered with fondness. There was no warmth in the Prince of Dol Amroth. It was as though his heart had been removed and placed in a wooden chest. He never showed affection for his two surviving children or any of his grandchildren. Boromir had never seen him smile, and the long scar that marked the right side of his face only heightened his intimidating aura. But everyone had a breaking point. Even Prince Adrahil had a weakness or some topic that affected him. Boromir just had to keep goading until he got a rise out of him.
“Fine! If you are so good at archery, then prove it!”
Boromir squared his shoulders, refusing to back down, even as his grandfather’s features darkened. He slowly lifted his head, holding the man’s gaze, meeting the icy glare with his own inner fire.
Some time had passed—perhaps a minute, perhaps much longer—with neither one blinking. And then something happened. There was the subtlest change in his grandfather’s features. His eyes slightly widened, and his lips parted, just barely. No longer was Prince Adrahil looking into the challenging gaze of his grandson; instead, he found himself looking into the eyes of the daughter he gave away to the man he hated most in all of Middle-earth. She had never dared to look at him with such anger in life, so it seemed to him as though she had forced her way out of the Halls of Mandos, only to express her contempt and resentment. You did this to me, her eyes said. You sent me away to die.
How absurd. Finduilas was more valuable to him as a bargaining chip in his political dealings and transactions than his oldest daughter, but when it truly mattered, she was still weak. And it appeared that her son was the same.
“I have nothing to prove to the likes of you,” Prince Adrahil said after schooling his features into the usual mask he wore, his lips curling in disgust as though the very suggestion was a slight to his character. Without acknowledging his son, he turned his back on the training grounds and retreated back inside.
Boromir relaxed his muscles and slumped his shoulders. His bleeding fingers curled into trembling fists at his sides, and he focused on the sting as he fought to keep his emotions under control. Movement drew his gaze upwards once more, where his uncle had uncrossed his arms, resting one hand on the marble railing overlooking the yard.
“Go visit the healer to have your hands cleaned and bandaged,” he said, the first time he had spoken since before his father had graced them with his presence. “Then after you have changed clothes, go to the library for your Sindarin lessons. You will not need your hands for those.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Boromir replied glumly, too emotionally drained to even voice a complaint about having to sit through another dull lesson.
As he bent down to pick up the bow and quiver he had thrown aside, his thoughts strayed back to Faramir, who had much more of a knack for archery than he did, and he wondered if this was how he felt after being scolded by their father. Given that Boromir was only going to be here temporarily and would no longer have to see Prince Adrahil on a regular basis once his five years were up, he reasoned that it was much worse for Faramir, who had to live under the perpetual dark cloud of their father’s cruel words and the crushing weight of his disappointment with little to no hope of escaping it.
Boromir knew his strengths and he knew what areas he fell short, or he liked to believe he did. But if there was one thing he excelled at, it was lifting up others who felt they weren’t enough and reassuring them that they mattered to him. He often thought his words of encouragement were trivial and that they didn't have as great of an impact as he'd hoped for, but after spending time in Dol Amroth, where praise and recognition were nowhere to be found, he realized that to be seen and heard and understood was enough. He was enough.
