Happy Hobbit Day! (I almost forgot and it's technically well into the 23rd where I am right now, but I haven't gone to bed yet since waking up on the 22nd, so we'll say it counts.)
I think if Boromir had survived he should be allowed special permissions to go into the Shire to see his friends in their native habitat after everything is over.
Today’s Fig Tree Discord Server Out of Context Moment is:
Exaggerated Boromir and exaggerated hobbits (aka Dr. Livesey and humidity furbies)
Lord of the rings
I present to you: this blessed group.
ARROW CAPACITY KILLED ME
As I made my way through The Fellowship of the Ring, I noticed that Tolkien's heroes are notable for their humility. The hobbits don't have any special skills; they're just stumbling their way through an adventure, being rescued by one mentor after another. Farmer Maggot is well-versed in handling all the dangers at the edges of the Shire, but acts like any Shire farmer. Tom Bombadil is incredibly powerful, one of the oldest beings in Middle Earth, but he spends his time living in a cottage with his wife and wandering the forest singing nonsense songs. Aragorn is the rightful king of Gondor, but he works a thankless job protecting people who give him insulting nicknames. Gandalf is a powerful wizard who befriends hobbits and uses his powers mostly for fireworks. Glorfindel is a legendary elf warrior who offers his horse to help the hobbits with no further explanation than that it's really fast. Elrond is a figure out of legend who casually offers hospitality to travelers. Just example after example of people who are nothing special, but choose to help anyway, or people who are special, but don't act like they're anything special.
I'm like, cool, but maybe that's just the way Tolkien writes heroes. He's just drawn to a type of heroism that's built on humility, so his heroes naturally show that.
And then, one of the first lines Boromir speaks is tagged with "Boromir said proudly." And I realized that Tolkien's 100% doing this on purpose.
Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a half dozen arrows to the chest.
It occurred to me on my last readthrough of The Lord of the Rings that one of the reasons I always found Boromir’s death so tragic was because he failed to protect those that he cared for. He attempts to take the ring from Frodo, driving him away, and then is killed in defense of Merry and Pippin. It was all for nothing, his struggle with the darkness and shadow, and his final stand against the Uruk-hai.
But really, I think that Boromir’s death achieved something very important. I always questioned why the Uruks settled for only taking Merry and Pippin. Surely Saruman knew the composition of the Fellowship, and would have told his captains that there were four hobbits. It stands to reason that they would have simply rounded up all four just to be safe. Yet they only take two, leaving Frodo and Sam to escape. I think the reason is actually quite simple.
The Uruks are selfish, loveless beings. They have no love for each other, or anything else. They would always opt to save their own skin if given the choice. To their eyes, this great man of Gondor was protecting something important, something very valuable, if he was willing to die for its safety. Boromir’s death insured Frodo’s escape, because the Uruks could not fathom anyone giving their life to defend something so trivial as a friend. It was clear to them beyond a shadow of a doubt that these were the hobbits that their master wanted, and they had no need to look farther. Boromir sealed this with his life. He may not have saved Merry and Pippin, but his death was not in vain.
Broke: Boromir was weak and a failure
Woke: Boromir was a tragic figure who faltered because of his desire to save people but ultimately succeed in saving people
Bespoke: Boromir wouldn't have faltered at all if Galadriel hadn't been playing Jenga with his mind
you: boromir succumbed to the ring because he was faithless, selfish and the weakest member of the fellowship
me, an intellectual: boromir held such belief in the power of good over evil and the strength of the people of middle earth that he literally believed with enough willpower they could turn sauron's work against him. he was absolutely convinced that with enough goodness and love and solidarity they could overcome the most fundamental evil. the ring used those beliefs and used them to isolate boromir from the fellowship because that's what it does - it takes people's good attributes and uses them to twist them into something serving its own purposes. the ring literally could only corrupt boromir because he was a fundamentally good and faithful person at heart. in this essay i will
Survivor
His mother and father went out on the river and never came back
(But he’s still here)
She went over the Sea, wounded too deeply by orc attack
(But he’s still here)
We cannot get out, drums in the deep took his kinsfolk
(But he’s still here)
They fled o’er the bridge, and he fell in shadow and black smoke
(They’re still here)
Their people are fading, but still here they linger like old dreams
(They’re still here)
He found him fading, and laid him to rest on the white streams
(They’re still here)
They’re gone, gone, forgotten; he lingers in malice and hungering
(He’s still here)
They’re all growing tree-ish, but he persists watching and pondering
(He’s still here)
His grief unrestrained; that Spider took his dearest Master
(But he’s still here)
Many went to the Door; only few walked away from disaster
(But he’s still here)
Grief consumed mother, the brother by water, the father by fire
(But he’s still here)
Her parents died young, the uncle who raised her was wounded dire
(But she’s still here)
And when he returns to his study and books and his quaint room
(He’s still here)
A part of him’s lost; it died in the shadow of Mount Doom
(But he’s still here)
- - -
Tickle
The halls were carved of stone and marble and mercilessly echoed every sound. He’d learned long ago that if he wanted to go unseen and unheard, he’d have to leave his boots behind and walk on feather-light toes.
Tip-toe, tip-toe. He slid up to the base of a tall column, pressed his back to the cold marble, and held his breath. Just around the corner was his unsuspecting prey.
He turned. Leaned over. Slowly peeked his head around. Good—he hadn’t been spotted yet. One foot out, toes set down gingerly, and he shifted his weight over. Still no reaction. Slowly, he crept forward, crouched low to the ground, his hands curled like claws—
“Ha!” he cried, and clamped his fingers under Faramir’s ribs.
The younger boy shrieked and dropped the book he’d been reading. Boromir cackled and turned to flee, and his laughter and the smack of his bare feet echoed loudly down the hall.
Faramir scooped the book off the floor and threw it after his brother, but it went wide and landed on the stones with a thud. “That isn’t fair!” he cried, and ran after him, but it was tough work for his shorter legs.
“Is too!” Boromir called over his shoulder.
“Is not!”
“Is too!”
The halls were carved of stone and marble, and just for a moment, their silence echoed with the shouts and laughter of children.
For the work ask: pride
“Pride” makes me think of Boromir.
Pride was Boromir’s greatest strength and his greatest weakness. He was proud of his father, proud of his country, proud of his people, proud of their accomplishments in the thankless fight to keep the darkness at bay.
Yet because of his pride, it was difficult for him to admit that Gondor was flagging; it was difficult for him to ask for help. Because of his pride, he stumbled into more than one intercultural faux pas that could have been avoided if he’d deigned to listen or keep his mouth shut or think of other people as his equals.
He laughed at the Hobbits in the Council of Elrond—and then quickly had to swallow his laughter as he realized the Elves and Dwarf Lords and Wizard and other Very Important People in this council took these two little halflings Very Seriously.
He insinuated that Men are the stoutest and strongest of all the races—earning the ire of the Dwarf, who was standing right there.
He talked very loudly about how this Galadriel lady seemed quite sus and he for sure did not trust her—in the very land where Galadriel was In Charge and Incredibly Powerful, and in front of an exhausted Aragorn who told him in no uncertain terms to Shut The Heck Up.
It was pride that made Boromir believe that Gondor could outsmart the curse of the Ring and use it against its maker. It was pride that led to Boromir’s obsession with it. It was pride that resulted in his betrayal, his downfall.
It was pride that did not let him run when the orcs arrived; pride that made him risk everything to defend Merry and Pippin.
It was pride that kept him fighting until the very end.
It’s been better stated in this post than I could say here, but a great deal of Tolkien’s heroes are marked by their humility: Aragorn, the rightful king, goes about in dingy clothes and mud-stained boots; Gandalf, who long ago participated in the creation of the world, delights in making fireworks for the entertainment of hobbits; Frodo is a veritable sheep to the slaughter, never bragging about himself, and never demanding recognition for what he’s done. Tolkien’s heroes are humble.
And then, there is Boromir.
Noble, valiant, arrogant, tactless, passionate, opinionated, flawed and fearless and proud Boromir.
We learn this about him almost from the moment we meet him.
He ceased, but at once Boromir stood up, tall and proud, before them…
“Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Numenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten.”
Hm…Numenor. Wasn’t it Numenor that had the hubris to believe it could challenge the Valar and earn eternal life through force? Wasn’t it Numenor that brought about its own destruction? Wasn’t it Numenor that fell because of its pride?
Maybe Boromir comes by it naturally.
For the word game:
Faramir + strength
Elrond + kindness
Bill (the pony) + love
Gandalf + rest
Frodo + discord (as in “opposite of peace”, not as in the popular app)
Strength
I think Faramir’s strength comes mostly from the inside.
Now, of course it’s an oversimplification to say that Boromir is the Meathead Strong One and Faramir is the Delicate Smart One—it’s way more complex than that—but the juxtaposition is still there if you’re looking for it.
Boromir is heavily associated with strength of the physical or martial kind. He’s broad-shouldered, strong, proud, and primarily interested in securing the military might necessary to protect his home and his people. “Where minds cannot serve, bodies must suffice,” says Boromir; to him, strength is found in the hearts and bones and muscles of Men. He has noble qualities on the inside as well, but the emphasis is placed on physical might and prowess.
By contrast, Faramir is associated primarily with strength in the abstract: the mental, social, and moral kind. That’s not to say he isn’t a valiant warrior; he’s every bit as much a Captain as his brother. One of Eowyn’s first observations of him is that he is “one whom no Rider of the Mark could outmatch in battle”. But that isn’t Faramir’s primary trait. His strength lies even more so in the mind. He prefers diplomacy over coercion, investigation over prejudice, mercy over punishment (even when it’s deserved). His big wow moment in the book is his outright refusal of the Ring—even when all he’d have to do is order his men to overpower a couple of tired, tipsy hobbits to take it by force—which is a feat not of physical strength, but of virtue. He thinks, feels, and loves deeply; he is wise and intelligent and just. Faramir’s strength is in his head and his heart, just as much or even more so than in his limbs.
With that being said—even though I draw Faramir tall and skinny—I do not doubt for a second that he could bench press double his weight or more if he wanted to. He’s that one gym bro who’s nearly seven feet tall and still has the lanky proportions of a teenager, but you go to poke his arm and it’s just solid muscle. He’s like a lamppost, if a lamppost could kill you.
Parade, Boromir ~meg
He was practically dragging his little brother behind him as they raced through the crowded side-streets, giggling uncontrollably, dodging the women’s skirts and the men’s long legs. They could hear the bells and music and happy commotion from blocks away, and it drew them irresistibly, like moths to a fire.
There! Suddenly the narrow alleyway exploded onto the wide main street, and Boromir had to grab Faramir and drag him back into the crowd to keep from being trampled under a horse’s hoof. The procession was already underway—carts pulled by men and horses, dancers and musicians, even a juggler or two perched on his friend’s shoulders. Colored ribbons fluttered over every door and from the latches of the window-shutters; women leaned out of second-story windows, waved handkerchiefs, and cheered; children spun noisemakers and rang little bells.
One man was riding backwards in the back of a hay cart, with a burlap sack between his knees. When he saw Boromir and Faramir and the other children nearby, he winked at them, reached into his sack, and threw a fistful of something into the air.
Instantly, it was a mad scramble, and tiny hands snatched up the little treasures almost as quickly as they hit the pavement stones. Sweets! Colorful fruit sweets wrapped in thin brown paper and tied off with string. Faramir unwrapped his immediately and popped it into his mouth—it was too big for him, and he couldn’t talk for the next five minutes—but Boromir planned ahead and stuck his in his pocket for later.
This was a marvelous parade. The harvest had been good this year. Last year there had been a drought, and the storehouses began to run low, and Father had spent long hours closeted with his advisers, speaking in tense, hushed voices when they thought Boromir wasn’t listening. But this year had been good, and the furrows between Father’s brows seemed shallower than usual, and he’d allowed the boys to go see the harvest parade after their studies.
Suddenly, Faramir laughed, and Boromir turned to see what he’d found so funny. There was a juggler standing on one foot on the corner post of a cart, and he was balancing a little ball on his nose as he spun hoops on his arms. The children all thought this was great fun, and they clapped and hooted, and some tried to copy the trick with the sweets on their noses and dropped them.
One day, Boromir thought as he puffed out his chest, I’ll be at the front of the parade.
- - -
The victory procession through Osgiliath was a glad event. Ranks upon ranks of mail-clad soldiers, their silver helmets glittering in the sun, marched through the rubble-strewn streets of the Old City, cutting down the flags and foul trappings of the orcs and singing as they went.
When they came to the old Town Square, Boromir climbed what remained of the dry fountain and hoisted the flag of Gondor, and he gave a speech. His voice boomed sure and strong over the company, and the faces that looked up and heard his words were glad, but he saw the weariness of battle in them, and the way they held close wounded limbs or favored aching feet.
All men. No women leaning out of windows. No children gathered expectantly on the street. The rubble of buildings echoes our words back to us, hollow and joyless and lifeless.
No matter. This was only the beginning. They had reclaimed the City, and the glad voices of women and children and bells and noisemakers would ring out in these streets in time.
- - -
He swore to Faramir, before he set off north, that he would return with aid.
“And when I do,” he added, with a smile full of the courage and bluster that he wished he had, “you’d better hold a parade for me!”
They’d laughed at the time. It seemed funny then. Now months had passed, and Faramir had been very busy, but there were still times he looked out at the northern road and hoped to see his brother’s horse returning.
- - -
The procession bore a cloven horn to the Silent Street.
There was no body. Anduin had carried it away to the Sea.
Well, brother, he thought, as he peered into the flames and wished the clock could be turned back.
I had that parade for you, didn’t I?
- - -
Tree, Boromir and Faramir
There aren't many trees in Minas Tirith. There's the White Tree, of course, but from boyhood it was drilled into Boromir and Faramir that the White Tree was sacred, and even during their rowdy games of Swords or Elves or Guard and Robber in the courtyard, they always stayed far away from the guards and the fountain and the old tree.
Just outside the city wasn't much good, either. The Pelennor Fields stretched for miles outside the city walls, with the low grasses and tussocks being the only green thing visible as far as the eye could see; most of the buildings in Minas Tirith were made of stone, and the ones that did incorporate wood were built with logs imported from other parts of the kingdom. Trees usually came to Minas Tirith as naked, straight logs on carts drawn by stout horses.
That's why a real, live, standing tree was such a treat.
On the rare occasions that Denethor had business outside of Minas Tirith, Faramir and Boromir would nag and beg their father incessantly to take them with him. Often times, there was some excuse why they couldn't come; "you must stay here and attend to your studies", "the road will be dangerous", "this is a simple business matter, and there will be no time for two young lads to stay and frolic". But sometimes—sometimes, on a miracle—he would agree.
Faramir was only a boy when he saw the forest for the first time, and he fell in love in an instant. The smells, the colors, the variety of life, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Boromir's heart was still with the City, and he was dubious of the mud and the fallen leaves that could conceal animal droppings. But the moment he heard a voice call his name from above, and looked up, and found his little brother grinning down at him from his perch on a stout tree limb several feet over his head, the contest had begun.
The rules were simple, and immediately understood: whoever could climb the highest was the winner. Faramir had been sitting in an oak; Boromir heaved himself up into a maple; Faramir scrambled almost all the way to the top of a tall fir, so high that the branches were thin and swayed alarmingly underneath him.
Boromir thought he'd found a winning tree—many large limbs, starting near the ground and spiraling upwards around the trunk far up to the canopy—but the moment he leaped up to hang on one small, bare, leafless limb, it cracked in his hands, and the dead wood snapped off the tree and came crashing down.
Boromir had the good sense to let go as soon as he heard the crack, but it was a long way to fall. A moment after his boots thumped onto the leaves on the forest floor—and the impact shot up his legs and made his knees shaky—he felt a heavy blow to his shoulder and collapsed face-down. The limb fell, and its dry twigs and fingers snapped all at once with a CRASH.
"Boromir!" Hurried footsteps, and heavy breathing, broke the silence that followed. "Boromir!" Faramir had shimmied hastily down from his perch, and was running to his brother.
Boromir groaned, and grimaced, and pushed into the dirt with his hands and sat up. His shoulder was sore, and he rubbed it gingerly as he leaned against the tree and tried to catch his breath.
"Are you all right?" Faramir had skidded to a halt in front of him, and now looked at him with wide eyes and trembling hands.
Boromir saw the fear and worry in his little brother's face, and wanting to dispel it with laughter, he mustered a smile. "Of course!" he said. "I did not fall very far."
"It seemed so to me," said Faramir. "You are hurt; I can see it. We should have been more cautious. Father will be furious if he learns of this."
"I am not hurt," Boromir repeated, although he had to cover a wince as he sat up straighter. "And Father does not need to know."
Faramir hesitated. "If you are certain."
"I am certain. Although," he said slowly, "I do not wish to climb any more trees. I do not think they have taken a liking to me."
That got Faramir to laugh, and he stood up straighter. "You jest! Trees here do not have the gift of thought; the likes of those can be found only in the stories of old, or in lands far away. Yet if these could think, I'm sure they would find you heavy. Have caution, or you shall get yourself killed."
"Who is heavy?" Boromir scooped a pine cone from the forest floor and threw it at him, laughing, as Faramir ran away.
For just a moment, Boromir was alone, and he took the chance to press his aching shoulder and hiss through his teeth. He wouldn't let Faramir see him like this. He didn't want him to worry. But for just a moment, he leaned against the trunk of a great tree, caught his breath, and sourly plucked out a small twig from where it had stuck into his jacket.
Oh, these reverse friendship asks are fun! If you're up for another one, I'd like to know what friendship the song Meet Me on the Battlefield by SVRCINA makes you think of. - Princess of Words
Yesss, more song recs! Okay so for this one I was tempted to go with the joke answer and say Aragorn and Eomer—‘cause, y’know, they met on the battlefield during Pelennor Fields—but as I got listening to the lyrics, I realized it’s something else.
It’s Aragorn and Boromir.
The mournful piano melody, “we may be the first to fall”, and “just wanna lay me down and finally try to get some sleep” all become far more poignant if you think about it in the context of Boromir’s final moments. He had “nowhere to run from this”; how could he outrun the corruption in his own mind? And he had “no pillow for my head”; only the root of a tall old tree.
The second verse talks a lot about legacy and influence and taking control of the future; “our tainted history is playing on repeat/but we could change it if we stand up strong and take the lead”. If that isn’t Gondor to a T then I don’t know what is. Boromir wants to save his people, “our sons and daughters”, and his idea of taking the lead is to use the Ring against the Enemy; but that becomes his destruction. Aragorn is the one who truly changes the course of the “tainted history”, and who takes the lead of Gondor as the King, Isildur’s heir.
In the end, Aragorn and Boromir are both men of Gondor who love their country and their people and will gladly fight to protect it. Maybe the real tragedy is that Boromir never got to stand, beside Aragorn, on the field of those great battles after all.
