Author's Notes: Not my characters, though I'll admit to the hair-nibbling thing. As for nail-chewing, that's all Tolkien: "...Boromir sat muttering to himself, sometimes biting his nails, as if some restlessness or doubt consumed him..." - The Great River. As for hair color, the literal translation of Finduilas and movieverse Beanomir are to blame. Not basing anything on my brothers at all, nope. They're just the means to the madness.
"Oh, Boromir! Look at your poor fingers!"
"Take your hair out of your mouth, Finduilas. We want everyone to be able to see your pretty face."
"I'm all right," my son grumbled, tugging his hand free.
I certainly did not want everyone to see me. Grandfather's court was too large, too overwhelming. I hid behind Ivriniel, all but clinging to her skirts until Mother pulled me loose to stand on my own.
"You've bitten your nails to the quick, dearest. Is something wrong?" My baby shook his head, turning back to his stuffed horse and tower of wooden blocks. The tip of his index finger slowly worked its way back to his mouth as he contemplated his toys.
My brother had a small blanket that he had loved to carry around with him as a young child. I had pitied him. His "bankie" was soft and warm, but it was not the same as real hair: soft, fine, and perfumed with soaps and oils, the warmth offset by the coolness of my hand against my cheek. It was a shield I could always carry with me against the unfamiliar.
I caught his wrist, giving him a questioning stare as blood trickled from the nub of his abused digit. My little one furrowed his brow, caught between shame and anger. "I do not want you to damage yourself. Perhaps gloves would help."
My skull felt stretched from the tight braids and buns I had been compelled to wear to official ceremonies. My grandfather was prince of the realm, and if I could not behave accordingly, then my mother would find a way to make me do so. I was not to embarrass the family's honor.
"No!" Boromir shook his head firmly. "No gloves. I'll be good."
"See that you do, dear. You'll need those fingers later."
"It's such a pity," people told my mother and she repeated to me. "She has such lovely golden hair."
Boromir took a long look at me, and then at his stubby fingernails. "I couldn't really chew them off, could I?"
"You keep it up and Momma will chop all your hair off," Imrahil had teased me.
"You might hurt them, but it shall take a lot of effort to bite your whole finger off." I decided that my boy did not need threats. After all, they had never truly worked on me. Hair and nails might grow back, and once my Boromir found someone who could otherwise keep his hands occupied… Well, I had not felt the need to nibble upon a split end in quite a while. I had discovered that my husband could be very imaginative when it came to things to do with my hair.
"I don't want to do that, Momma." My son reached for me, locking his arms tightly around my neck while I bent over him, shielding his face in long, autumn-colored locks. Already, his hair was beginning to darken, the blond of childhood being overtaken at the roots by the ashy, black-streaked chestnut of maturity, much as my brother's had been. Boromir would be all right, I assured myself, ignoring the feeling of moisture against my neck as I kissed the crown of his head. He was of my blood.