Recalled to Life
“This cannot be,” Aragorn murmured, staring in shock at Boromir.
“What cannot be? My presence? I admit my appearance is a bit unsuitable for such an occasion, but that does not deserve such shock, especially from you, Strider,” Boromir smiled as he used King Elessar’s old nickname. He had not yet recognized that Aragorn was no longer the Ranger from the wild, but rather the King of Gondor.
“And where is my father? Surely he would be here.” Boromir looked around, and confusion began to grow on his face. “Why are you here anyway, Aragorn? The last I knew it, a young hobbit was in your charge.”
“Brother,” Faramir said, his face pale in shock. “You…”
“You have been thought dead for three years,” Thranduil said flatly. Startled, Boromir turned his gaze to the king Elf.
“Dead for three years? That cannot be possible, as you can see. I assure you I am not dead.” His laugh was light. Surely, they jest with him! But the look of disbelief on his brother’s face told him otherwise.
“I saw you die!” Aragorn said. “You died lying against a tree, pierced by many arrows. I placed your body in a boat and you were swept down the Rauros Falls. No man could have survived either experiences.” All could see the pain on Elessar’s face as he remembered the day Boromir had fallen. The two had become close, the day of his death, as close as brothers.
“Then what do you suppose I am?” Boromir cried, confusion slowly growing into anger. “A ghost? Touch me, Aragorn! Touch me, Faramir, and see that your brother is alive.” Faramir stepped forward hesitantly, his body trembling as it had never before. Did he dare believe his dear brother had returned to him?
But when his shaking hand made contact with the warm, living face of his brother, all apprehension washed away and an incredible surge of joy flooded through Faramir. He embraced his brother, a huge smile on his face, a joyous laugh upon his lips.
“Oh, brother, it is so good to see you home!” He cried, and Boromir returned his embrace just as heartily.
“It is good to be home,” Boromir replied.
“But how is it possible?” Thranduil asked as the brothers embraced. “Who could have the power to recall a fallen man to life?”
“Radagast the Brown?” Arwen suggested, watching as her husband embraced Boromir as well, disbelief lost in happiness.
“He does not have such power. Not even Gandalf the White could have performed such a feat,” Thranduil answered, as Legolas and Gimli approached Boromir.
“Where are the hobbits? Do Merry and Pippin still live? And what about Frodo and Sam?”
“They all live. Frodo has gone over the seas, Sam lives in the Shire, and Merry and Pippin are well…”
“Then the Ring is…” Faramir’s smile disappeared when he saw the guilt on his brother’s face. Faramir had learned of Boromir’s betrayal of the Fellowship, and how he had tried to take the Ring from Frodo.
“It has been destroyed, Boromir,” Aragorn answered softly. Boromir closed his eyes in relief. The cursed Ring, the evil that had haunted his dreams and had dictated his actions was finally gone.
“Well someone has, and we must discover who that is, for a creature with such power could be a danger to us,” Elrohir said calmly.
“Perhaps it was no one,” Eomer argued. “Perhaps he was not truly dead.”
“No could have survived the Falls of Rauros,” Thranduil said in response. The men surrounding Boromir turned, realizing that a heated debate had grown while they had greeted Boromir.
“We should not worry ourselves for the moment,” Eowyn suddenly interrupted. All eyes settled upon her, including Boromir’s.
“The important thing is that Boromir is here with us again. My lord,” she said, for while speaking she too, had approached Boromir. “I am Lady Eowyn.” She curtsied low before him, for though as a princess she was higher than him, she was honored to meet Boromir. She had always wondered what Faramir’s brother would be like.
“I have heard much of you, Lady, from my father. I am surprised, though.”
“Oh?” Eowyn asked. She gazed into his piercing green eyes, and suddenly her heart began to beat faster.
“He spoke of your grace and of your skill, but never once did he speak of your great beauty.” Boromir took her hand and kissed it softly. Eowyn blushed deeply. Boromir was indeed not his brother.
“And speaking of him, where is my father?” Boromir asked.
“Dead? When did he die?”
“A few days after he learned of your death.” Faramir went on to tell the tale of Denethor’s death, the destruction of the Ring, and the final days of the War of the Ring. Boromir felt guilt pierce his heart as he learned of Denethor’s death.
“I do not know what drove him mad,” Faramir said sadly.
“I warned him,” Boromir said. “As did you. It was the Palantir, was it not?”
“Yes,” Faramir admitted finally. “I did not want you to know.” Boromir had known about the existence of the Palantir, as had Faramir. Many years ago, Boromir had tried to make Denethor get rid of the Seeing-Stone, but Denethor had ignored his pleas. Faramir knew his brother would feel guilty about his death.
Faramir decided not to tell Boromir about how Denethor’s madness had almost gotten Faramir burned alive, and continued with his tale.
“And that is what has happened since your ‘disappearance,’” Faramir said once he had finished. “Now, I believe there are some other men who want to greet you.”
That day and those following were filled with bliss as Boromir greeted his friends. Some were old soldiers and laughed as they embraced Boromir, tears in their eyes.
“There is no greater bond than the bond between soldiers. They have stared death in the face together, and have returned from the greatest hell man can create for himself,” Boromir had once said to Faramir. His closeness with the men who had fought under his command proved his statement.
But with the happiness also came grief. Many men had died in the War of the Ring, some of which had Boromir’s closest friends. Captain Orostan, Boromir’s first commander, had died on Pelennor Fields, surrounded by the numerous bodies of Orcs and Haradrim he had slain. He had been stabbed nearly ten times by at least two spears.
Boromir visited his grave, saluting his Captain. Orostan had been a good soldier, and a man of violent passion. He had treated Boromir and Faramir like sons until the time came for them to become captains themselves.
After visiting his grave, both Boromir and Faramir were summoned by Elessar. The time had come to resolve Boromir’s past.
Aragorn’s study had a very comfortable atmosphere; it was nothing like it had been when Denethor had held the Stewardship. The austere, white room with only a solemn black metal desk had been changed into a room filled with books. Three of the four walls were lined with bookcases filled with scrolls and notebooks. A large painting of a dark-haired Elvish woman, presumably Arwen, was the decoration of the back wall.
In the center of the room was a large mahogany desk, littered with scrolls. Elessar sat behind the desk in a leather chair, with small brass epaulettes with engraved pictures scrawling up the arms and legs of the chair. In this room, Aragorn was no longer a king or a warrior. He was a scholar, and searched through his library, yearning for knowledge.
“The last I remember is hearing the cry of Orcs and thinking that I had to get to Merry Pippin. Then the next thing I knew I was in the Grey Woods, alone, and without my sword. I came to Minas Tirith, and went to my fath- your hall.” Aragorn nodded.
“Boromir, if we cannot determine your past, we must create one. At least until we find out what truly happened- which I doubt will happen.” Elessar leaned back in his chair, and they began to talk.
After several hours of discussion, the threesome finally decided that Boromir’s wounds had not been fatal- but so close that Aragorn had not been able to detect whether or not Boromir lived. His fall down the Rauros had caused him to lose his memory. After years of aimless wondering, the memory had come back to him, and he had come back to Minas Tirith.
“It is a highly unlikely that it is the true tale, but it will serve. Now, Boromir, now that we have settled your past, we must look to your future. Three years ago, you were Heir to the Stewardship. But I have given that position to Faramir.”
“I am willing to give it up if you desire the position,” Faramir said quickly. Boromir glanced at his brother, somewhat surprised. He recalled how, many years ago, how Faramir had told his brother how much he had wanted the Stewardship. He had only been a boy of sixteen, and had thought that maybe his father would know his wish and grant it. Denethor had indeed known Faramir’s desire, and had chosen to ignore it.
“King Elessar, I would be a fool to ask for the Stewardship. I have never enjoyed politics and I do not think Gondor would benefit from my political views, if I indeed have any.” Aragorn smiled. Of the three men, Boromir was certainly the best warrior and the worst politician.
“Then what position do you desire, Lord Boromir?” Aragorn asked as knowing smile crossed his face.
“Only to be a Captain of Gondor, my lord,” he said humbly. Elessar laughed heartily, startling Boromir.
“I had expected much. Very well, Boromir, you shall be Captain Boromir, Keeper of Osgiliath.” Aragorn opened up a drawer of his desk, and took out three small goblets with a small bottle of wine. He poured the wine, handed Boromir and Faramir each a goblet, and rose.
“A toast. To Lord Boromir, Captain of Gondor, and to Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor.” The brothers lifted their glasses in response.
“Now, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have bad news. Elrohir and I will be leaving Minas Tirith for a spell. Faramir, are you ready to assume your duties?”
“For what reason do you leave, my Lord?” Faramir asked, surprised.
“We are going to investigate Urya’s death.”
“Urya? But he is not dead,” Boromir said, confused.
“I’m afraid he is.” Aragorn told him how Elladan and he had discovered the cave and the blood.
“I intend to go back to the cave and decipher some markings I found there. I do not know when I shall return.”
“I shall watch over Gondor until you return,” Faramir said in return.
“As will I,” Boromir said.
“Then you had better reacquaint yourself with a sword,” Aragorn said chidingly.
“I suppose I should,” Boromir said, realizing he had not touched a sword in three years. He took a sip of his wine and resolved to “reacquaint” himself the next day.
The next day, Faramir took his brother to the Training Hall, a large, single-room building on the outskirts of Minas Tirith. That day the atmosphere of the hall sang with the clash of metal against metal. Every day, hordes of young men and boys, searching for an outlet for their reckless, youthful energy, came to the hall, where they were trained how to use a sword. Both Eowyn and Eomer were there as well. Eomer was teaching a few of the young boys proper footwork, while Eowyn encouraged the more awkward fighters.
“Good morning, Lord King!” Faramir greeted upon entering the hall. Eomer turned and bowed.
“Good morning, Lord Faramir, Boromir.” Eowyn, patting a youth on the head, approached the brothers, a warm smile upon her face.
“Good morning, my love,” Eowyn said, kissing Faramir lightly on the cheek. Faramir coloured slightly, but returned her action.
“Good morning, Lord Boromir.” Eowyn said, and Boromir nodded his greetings. She found herself staring into his green eyes again, trapped by their intensity. Boromir realized she gazed at him, and returned the stare with uncertainty.
What a strange woman, Boromir thought. Faramir had told him very little of his fiancé. He had been told that she was a quiet woman, but very passionate. Her silence had once been accompanied but coldness, but that coldness had seemingly thawed with her engagement to Faramir.
“How are you, Eowyn?” Faramir asked, not noticing the elongated eye contact between his betrothed and brother.
“I am well,” Eowyn said, breaking contact with Boromir. “What brings you to the Training Hall?”
“I had been hoping to find a partner to spar with. I haven’t fought in years, or so I am told.”
“You shall have to practice first, brother, before any real sparring.”
“Yes, but with who?”
“I’m afraid I am not in the mood for battling with you, brother. Perhaps Eomer-”
“I will fight you,” Eowyn interrupted suddenly.
“You?” Boromir asked, caught off guard. He glanced over Eowyn, studying her carefully from her feet to her head. She was a tall woman, with somewhat slender hips, small breasts, and strong arms. She was wearing a dress, hiding her long legs, but Boromir could already tell she was well built for battle, like a thin but deadly spear.
I’m sorry, Lady Eowyn, but I do not spar with women,” Boromir said finally. “I shall ask you brother instead.”
Eowyn blushed in embarrassment. But she refused to give up.
“I understand. I try not to fight with old, inexperienced men myself.” Faramir raised his eyebrow in surprise. He knew Eowyn was spirited, but not pugnacious.
Boromir stiffened, and turned. He was not of the sort of men who took insults lightly.
“That was not called for, Lady Eowyn.” He stared at the young woman whose eyes burned with passion. He hardly new his future sister-in-law, yet she already seemed inclined to dislike him.
“I believe it was. I find it insulting that you would fight my brother, but not me. I am as much as an accomplished warrior as Eomer is.”
“That may be, my Lady, but as I said before, I do not fight women.”
“Why?” Eowyn asked, anger beginning to burn hot within her.
“It is impolite to place a lady in unnecessary distress.”
“It is also impolite to shun a lady’s polite request. I do not think manners are the reason for your refusal to fight me.”
“Oh?” Boromir said, his temper beginning to rise. He was beginning to care less and less for his brother’s future wife.
“I think you are afraid to fight me. You are afraid that I, a seasoned warrior, will defeat the great Boromir.”
“I am not afraid!” Boromir exclaimed.
“Then fight me.” Eowyn’s grey eyes flashed with defiance.
“Very well,” Boromir replied venomously, drawing his sword. It was unwise for him to enter a battle cold, but his pride had been wounded and it demanded immediate treatment. He began to circle Eowyn, who stood calm and ready. She would let him make the first move.
A large crowd of men and boys had gathered, anticipating the two warrior’s battle. A few cheered for Boromir, but it soon became obvious Eowyn was the favourite. All had heard of her deed at Pelennor Fields, and mostly all were already held captive by her beauty.
“You had better be careful, Boromir,” Faramir called out in glee. “There are rumours that she killed a Nazgul single-handedly!”
“Really? The poor bugger must been having a bad day.” It was the final insult. Eowyn leapt forward, her war cry echoing in the large room. Boromir, caught off guard by her fury, had no choice but to block her attack.
The first clash was powerful. Eowyn grimaced as the shock streaked up her arm, but she refused to cry out. She would not let Boromir see any signs of weakness. She pushed against his blade, using it as a springboard to leap back.
Boromir groaned as the combined weight of Eowyn and her sword pushed into him. His arms already ached, and he cursed himself for being an impatient fool. He should have practiced before engaging with Eowyn.
He threw up his blade to block another attack, and he saw Eowyn smile. She had forced him to take up the defensive position, a position he loathed. He, like most soldiers, liked to control the battle, and in his mind the battle could only be controlled by the one on attack.
But he knew he had to wait, had to wait until Eowyn grew overconfident and began thrusting. Impatience had gotten him into the fight; now only patience could give him victory.
The moment finally came. Eowyn thrust her sword forward, hoping to force Boromir further back. Instead, he brought his under hers, and swiped upwards. Eowyn stepped back, surprised. Boromir then swung his blade across, forcing Eowyn to block it. Now he was on the attack!
I hate being on the defensive, Eowyn thought angrily. She would not let this annoying, insulting, and terribly arrogant Captain defeat her!
Eowyn knew she was losing. She had grown too confident while Boromir had taken his time, waiting patiently for her to make a mistake.
Suddenly, Boromir accelerated his pace, and Eowyn found herself driven back to the far wall. She could see him grinning, enjoying her frustration. Then suddenly, Boromir’s blade smacked at her hands. Surprised, Eowyn let go of the blade. She dropped down, trying to pick up her sword. Before she could even grasp the handle, Boromir’s blade was at her throat. She froze, her heart stopping for a few terrifying moments.
“Do you yield, Eowyn?” Boromir asked, his voice filled with pride. Silence filled the room as Eomer watched intently, worriedly.
“Never.” Eowyn’s voice was defiant. Boromir wrinkled his forehead in frustration.
“Stubborn… Shieldmaiden,” He said, knowing very well that his attempted insult had transformed into a compliment. Having no other choice- other than to kill her, which he was tempted to do- Boromir lowered his blade. Cheers broke out, for though Boromir had won the battle, Eowyn had won the war.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.