A/N: I love Boromir.
His father loves him best. And he is a child, who does not question this. The sun-baked stones are warm beneath his feet, the tree is dying still but Boromir, son of the Steward, is alive.
"He is perfect," his mother laughs. The gems in her cloak shine like stars come down from heaven in the daytime.
His father takes Boromir in his arms. "He is ours."
Boromir leans lazily against him, squinting at the sun. Beside them, his mother speaks again, softly.
"The next one will be perfect, too."
And he is, but only to Boromir.
...
Every victory seems smaller than the last, as the power of Mordor grows. But Boromir carries the hopes and loves of the people, and he cannot be afraid. He shouts, he clangs sword against shield—he reaps their praise and sows the seeds of hope again as best he knows.
His father tells him that he is their only hope.
Boromir wishes he could believe him.
...
Faramir would go. Faramir, clear of eyes and heavy of heart. Faramir would go in his stead.
In his heart leaps the whisper of a prayer; he does not wish his brother to peril, but the doom is at hand—and Faramir has ever been the wiser among shadows. But Denethor's face is dark in what remains of a white city. Denethor will trust no one else.
Boromir clatters out of the courtyard, and when Faramir can no longer see him, he lets his smile fade.
(His father loves him best.)
...
He arrives at Rivendell road-stained, with days of silence and dreams knocking about in his head and heart. He comes ready to find hope, to find truth, and what he finds is something shimmering, a remote desire that calls him to his core.
...
He would go to Minas Tirith. In the earlier days, he wishes Faramir were there. Faramir's grave eyes would search his, would mark where Boromir has gone astray. But his heart throbs and his head throbs and he is the only, the only one who can bring hope.
(But he must bring it back first. It must go to Minas Tirith. His father would want it so.)
(His father.)
In the later days, he can only think of that.
Where now is Boromir the brave? The fair? The just?
He shouts, he reaches and grasps for the thing that he believes is their only hope.
When he wakes from the fever dream, the enemy is upon them.
...
He fights. He brings no shimmering light, no dream for men. He cannot think of Faramir—he can only think of Faramir, as he defends the little ones—he feels pain, the deep purchase of the arrow. Another, another, another.
And his horn brings more foes than fear, more arrows. His father's horn. His father's gift.
(His father loved him best.)