WHILE NO-ONE WATCHED
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, who was a magnificent author. This particular piece also owes a lot to Sean Bean's portrayal of Boromir. Is based mostly on the movie versions.
Pg-13 for violence in later chapters.
Boromir entered Rivendell's halls. If not for his guide and the occasional haughty bystander, the place would have seemed deserted. It was too empty, too open and the light was still a soft, sleepy haze. The place seemed strange and unreal after so many nights spent sleeping under the stars by the blazing warmth of a campfire.
The walls were fair and skillfully crafted, adorned with exquisitely fine weaponry and masterful tapestries. While a part of Boromir was awed by the skill of the Elven smiths, still another part of him balked at the idea of such flimsiness in true battle-ready weapons. No blade of Gondor had such finely worked adornments but then, thought Boromir proudly, the blades of Gondor were made for battle. Most of them had seen far too much battle and blood in recent times.
As thoughts of his beseiged homeland came to him, he found himself gripping the pommel of his sword tightly. If the elf had noticed, he made no comment. Boromir forced himself to relax. It would not do for the Steward's heir to behave as if he feared attack from his hosts. He truly expected scorn from his elven hosts (his guide had not yet disappointed him) but he just as truly felt physically safe within their walls. Strange that in Gondor's many battles there had been many times when he had felt his life in inescapable peril but his pride had always been comfortable and confident. Now the situation was reversed and he wasn't sure that he liked it.
His guide led him up a flight of stairs before they reached a guest room.
"This room is for you," said the elf archly.
He looked very distastefully at Boromir's dusty attire and equipment. Boromir recieved the very distinct impression that the elf was more concerned for the tidiness of the room than the comfort of his guest. Boromir attempted to mirror the elf's haughty expression but he suspected he only appeared sullen.
"Your timing is fortunate," intoned the elf, not deigning to notice Boromir's hostility. "A meal will be served in two hours time," continued the elf. "A servant will be sent to collect you."
The elf seemed to have decided an agenda for Boromir but Boromir refused to be given orders.
"And if I wish to take some exercise?" asked Boromir mildly.
As he had hoped, the elf looked faintly annoyed.
"You do not wish to rest after your long journey?" prompted the elf, in a tone that suggested he thought Boromir was simply being foolish and stubborn.
Boromir, who knew he was simply being foolish and stubborn, smiled jovially at the elf.
"A walk will do me good after so many days on horseback," he said confidently.
The elf hesitated, as if attempting to summon to mind the words that would change Boromir's mind. Apparently unable to find them, he acquiesced. The elf nodded as if it were a great trouble to him personally (Boromir hoped it was).
"There is a gallery down the west end of the corridor - if you have a taste for artwork," suggested the elf, sounding as if he believed Boromir too crude to appreciate fine culture.
Boromir couldn't help but feel a surge of guilt at that accusation, aware that it was a little too close to the truth for comfort. Faramir was the lover of art and culture, Faramir would have delighted in a visit to the elves. Faramir had even volunteered to go but their father, Lord Denethor, would not permit it.
Faramir had a taste for elvish tongues and the ancient tales of Númenor and its Kings. Faramir was a shy child, coddled by the servants of the Steward, his father. At times even Boromir had found himself lulled into the false belief that Faramir was harmless and bereft of a will of his own. Deny Faramir something he truly desired, however, and Faramir was inflamed with a stubbornness and a manipulative cunning that resembled their father all too well.
At the time Osgiliath was still held by Gondor, Orc attacks had damaged the grand building that was Osgiliath's great library before they had been beaten back by Gondor's armies. The Steward and his two sons had arrived to inspect the damage.
When servants had denied the Steward's youngest son permission to explore the damaged library, an eleven year old Faramir seemed to meekly bow to their wishes. In reality, he had instantly sought out his brother.
"Boromir, have you been in a city that's been attacked before?" frowned Faramir, trying to look innocent.
A sixteen year old Boromir had recognised that glint in his brother's eyes.
"I will not help you get into the library, Faramir," Boromir had told him abruptly. "It's dangerous. The roof's damaged and it might fall at any moment."
Faramir looked embarressed at being found out. He looked away for a moment and Boromir allowed himself to relax.
"You've never seen a real battlefield, have you, Boromir?" asked Faramir, succeeding in looking innocent.
"No," admitted Boromir, puzzled.
"You've seen plenty of catapaults every day, haven't you?"
"Yes..."
"But you've never seen what they can do to a real building, have you?"
"Not exactly."
"Would you like to wait until the middle of a battle to find out... or do you want to find out now, when there are no orcs around?"
Boromir was rather proud of the fact that he withstood Faramir's reasoning for at least a full minute before caving in and agreeing to take Faramir into the library. If nothing else, Faramir certainly knew his brother's weaknesses.
The chance to gawk at actual damage and the actual boulders that had done it was impressive. Boromir was still using the things he'd learnt that day. The scolding his Father had given him later was a small price to pay.
The blame for the incident fell on Boromir's shoulders but the way their Father looked sideways at Faramir suggested that he knew who had started it. Boromir was worried that Faramir would be punished but he was spared that time. It was only a few years later that their Father would begin to publicly berate Faramir for any real or imagined error.
Still, at the time Faramir was young and couldn't be expected to understand the danger. Boromir, not only as a brother but as a soldier of Gondor, should have protected him better.
Boromir realised that he was standing in the corridor alone. The elf had left him, probably with a good number of muttered comments on the rudeness of men. Annoyed, Boromir shouldered his way into his room. He was intending to drop his sword and equipment in the room and then continue on to the gallery. He barely made it inside the door before he froze.
The room beyond was light and fresh, afternoon sunlight dancing on clean white wooden pillars. A large wooden bed was draped in pale yellow sheets with patterns of blue and green vines dancing along the edges. A breeze fluttered curtains by a balcony with a view of the trees in all their autumn glory. Boromir stood for a moment, taking in the view. The large bed was inviting enough to almost make Boromir regret his insistence on taking 'exercise'.
He knew, though, that if he did not go, somehow the elf would hear about it. The elf would hear about it and know that Boromir had been showing off. So Boromir sighed, dropped his belongings, and turned away. Boromir sacrificed his own comfort for the sake of his pride and nobody was there to watch.