Title: Memories and Sorrow
Author: Genevieve (gwenhwyfar_uk@yahoo.com)
Rating: R
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Boromir/ Pippin
Summary: Boromirs painful memories from his childhood
evoke dark feelings in him.
Warnings: Child abuse, AU, character death, suicide



	Boromir was dreaming.  He saw his 13 year old self
learning to fight with a broadsword.  His teacher-
Jonoth was his name- calling out numbers, each an
attack which Boromir was to parry.  His father was
there, watching.
	“3… 5… 2… 7… good!” Jonoth jumped back, giving the
boy a chance to rest.  He had not yet reached his full
height; the sword was still too heavy to wield
properly, yet he refused to use the smaller sword he
had been using until recently.  He was short of
breath, but breathed through his nose in an attempt to
hide that from his father and his teacher.  Jonoth
pretended not to see and allowed the young prince some
time to recuperate.
	“Well?” Denethor spoke out.  Student and teacher
looked up at him.  “I have yet to meet an enemy who
will stop in battle to give you a chance to catch your
breath.”  Jonoth raised his sword and began again,
though slower this time; his pupil was still breathing
hard, he hoped his lord would not notice this
indiscretion.  “Nor do opponents slow down to allow
for weak children who think themselves warriors.”
Boromir felt anger rise from his chest, but he did not
speak back to his father. Denethor stepped down from
the platform on which he was standing.  “Let me.” He
drew his sword and pushed the swordsman out of the way
to face his son.
	“My lord, the prince has only been practising with
the broadsword for a short time- he cannot face an-”
Jonoth began, but was interrupted by the Steward.
	“If he does not learn now, he will never learn.” He
faced the boy. “Attack.”  Boromir stared at him.  Was
this a trick?  “If you do not attack, I will.” 
Boromir stood frozen.  Denethor sneered and raised his
sword.  Boromirs eyes went to Jonoth, who looked
bewildered.  He shifted his eyes back to his father
just in time to see him swinging the sword at his son.
 Boromir parried, the shock of the blow running up his
own sword into his shoulder.  He almost dropped his
sword then, but knew that this would be unforgivable
to his father, so he tightened his grip and parried
another swipe.  After two minutes or so, Boromir was
panting heavily, but his father was unrelenting.
	“Move, boy!  You can’t just defend yourself- attack!”
Denethor shouted, but the muscles in Boromirs shoulder
were so sore, he could barely lift the sword anymore,
let alone attack.  He raised his sword to defend a
downward stroke, but his father hit too close to the
hilt, and Boromir dropped his sword.  He knelt to
retrieve it, and felt the burning slap of a sword
across his back, causing him to fall flat on his
stomach.
	“My lord, he is just a boy, he needs to rest-”
Boromir heard Jonoths voice before he felt a kick to
his side.
	“Silence!  Remember who you serve.” Denethor yelled
as he kicked Boromir again.  “Get up.  Get UP!”
Boromir rolled into the foetal position, tucking his
chin into his chest so that his father could not see
the tears on his face.  “Get up and pick up your
sword.  Move!”  Denethor grabbed him by the collar and
pulled him up to his feet.  Boromir kept his head
down, but his father seized his hair and yanked his
head back.  “Crying?  Stupid boy.” He let go and
pushed his son away from him.  The Steward picked up
the broadsword Boromir had been using, and said, “You
obviously don’t know how to use this yet,” before
throwing it across the training arena.  Denethor
stalked away.  Jonoth put a hand on Boromirs shoulder,
but the young man shrugged it off and half ran, half
limped up to the palace.      

***

	He reached for his sword when he felt a hand shake
his shoulder.  The blade was at the neck of his
opponent before he even opened his eyes.  Legolas
stared down at him, unshaken by the deadly blade at
his throat.
	“It’s your watch, Boromir.” He said quietly.  Boromir
dropped the sword, mumbling an apology as he pulled
himself upright.  Legolas handed him a cup of water,
which he splashed on his face, rubbing away the dream
that lingered.  “Are you well?” The elf asked, his
eyes glowing copper in the firelight.
	“Just dreaming.” was all Boromir could reply.  He
stood and walked to the edge of the camp, looking out
into the night, concentrating on the noises of
crickets and nocturnal birds to keep himself from
remembering more.

	The next morning as they broke camp, Boromir was
silent, not even smiling when Pippin dropped his plate
of oatmeal on Merrys lap.  The monotony of walking was
good; Gandalf set a steady pace, and the sound of his
own footfalls was soothing.  His only thoughts were
‘left, right, left, right, left, right’ which improved
his mood, and his dream slipped further and further
back into his mind, with the rest of his unpleasant
memories.  He even agreed to continue his lessons with
Merry and Pippin when they stopped for lunch.  
	“Good!  1… 4… 3…” Boromir found himself repeating
what he had so often heard from his own teacher.  The
little hobbits were not natural fighters, but they
were trying fiercely.  Pippin stepped in a little too
close and Boromir accidentally hit his hand with the
wooden practice sword.  Pippin leapt back, eyes wide. 
Boromir dropped the sword, leaning towards the
halfling.  Merry looked at his friend, saw that he was
not hurt, then kicked Boromirs shin playfully.  Pippin
laughed and looked about to do the same, when Boromir
shoved Merry away roughly.  The smile fell from
Pippins face and Aragorn, who had been watching,
stood, ready to defend the hobbits.  He did not like
the violence he saw in Boromir's eyes.  Boromir took a
step towards Pippin, then lifted his eyes to where
Aragorn had his hand on the sword hilt at his belt. 
He exhaled quickly, stepped back, and muttered, ‘I’m
sorry… I…’ before walking away.  Merry and Pippin
looked after him in disbelief.

***

	He was walking down a corridor in Minas Tirith. 
Faramir, eight or nine years old, walked with him.  He
could have been no older than fourteen.
	
	They came to a door, guarded by two men whose names
were now forgotten to him.  One opened the door and
the boys passed through, into their fathers study. 
Denethor sat at his writing desk, an attendant beside
him.  Upon seeing his sons enter, he ordered the man
away and the doors closed.  Denethor stood, walked
towards the boys and stopped just in front of them. 
He held something in his hand, but it was hard to see
what it was.
	“What do you have to say for yourselves?” The man
asked.  Faramirs eyes were wide and frightened, he
couldn’t face his father.  Denethor turned to Boromir.
 “Well?” and opened his hand to reveal a shard of red
coloured glass.  It looked like the glass from one of
the painted windows in the throne room.  Boromir
looked up at his fathers face.  “Which one of you did
it?”  Denethor was staring at Faramir, who was shaking
like a rabbit next to his brother.  His lips pulled up
in a cruel smile.  “I think I have the answer. 
Boromir, you may go.”  Boromir started to move, but
instead of leaving, he stepped protectively closer to
his brother.  His father stared.  “Are you disobeying
me?”
	“I broke the window.” Boromir said.  Faramir looked
at his older brother, then grabbed his sleeve and
whispered ‘no.’ Boromir shook him off, staring
defiantly at Denethor.  It was plain to the Steward
what was happening, but if Boromir was willing to take
his brothers punishment, then he would not stop him. 
Denethor raised his arm and hit Boromir across the
face.  “Are you certain it was you?”  Blood spilled
from a cut on Boromirs cheek, falling onto the grey
tunic, but he nodded nonetheless.  Faramir began to
cry. 
	“No- it wasn’t him, father, please, it wasn’t him,
please.”  Denethor ignored him as he punched Boromir
in the stomach.  Boromir doubled over, took a step
back, but stood again to face Denethor.  Denethor
kicked his legs apart, tripping him.  He landed one,
two, three kicks to Boromirs back and ribs before
Faramir grabbed hold of his arm. “Please father, it
was me, I didn’t mean to, please don’t hurt him.”
Denethor threw his younger son back easily, with no
more thought than a horse swishing its tail, and this
respite gave Boromir a chance to get back on his feet.
 Denethor landed blow after blow on Boromirs face,
cursing him at the same time.
	“You are weak- you can’t even stand up to your
father- pathetic, useless child-” all the while
Faramir was crying in the corner, watching his brother
swaying more and more, unable to keep his feet. 
Boromir finally fell, and after landing one more kick
to his stomach, Denethor, panting and sweating, said,
“I think you have learned your lesson.  Both of you.”
and walked out of the room.  All Boromir could hear
was the sound of Faramir wailing, so he crawled over
to his brother and put his arm around the little boys’
shoulders.
	“There now, you are alright, he didn’t hurt you.”
Boromir cooed to his little brother.  Faramir looked
up at him, tears pooling on the lower lids of his eyes
before falling.
“But he hurt you.” Faramir whimpered.
“Shush, he didn’t hurt me, don’t worry, I’m alright. 
See?” but his voice sounded thick with unshed tears,
and the words came out strangely from his swollen
lips.  Faramir slowly stopped crying and held on
tightly to his brother, sniffling into his tunic, his
tears mixing with the blood already staining it.

***

	“What happened there?” Aragorn came up behind him,
putting a hand on Boromirs back.  Boromir jerked away
from the touch, striding further away.
	“Leave me be, Aragorn.”
	“You frightened the hobbits.” Aragorn persisted.
	“I didn’t mean to.  Leave me be now.” Boromir was
pacing in a small circle.
	“I think you should apologise to Merry and Pippin.”
Boromirs eyes flashed venomously.
	“What do you know?” he shouted.  “I just need some
time alone.  Why can nobody understand?” Aragorn
hesitated and looked as if he might speak further, but
he did not want to anger the man further when he was
already in such a volatile state.
	“Very well.  We are breaking camp, and should be
heading off soon.”  Boromir glared at the retreating
figure.  Not only was he usurping Boromirs place on
the throne of Gondor- the place Boromir had suffered
through so much to gain- but he was now issuing
orders?  The bile rose in his throat until he felt he
must either vomit or choke.  His anger scared him,
though not nearly as much as his earlier feelings. 
Boromir clutched his sword blade in his hand,
remembering the lesson.  When he saw Pippin hurt- and
that he had hurt him- he had felt such… power.  The
halfling was so trusting, and Boromir was able to do
whatever he wanted with that trust.  ‘No- I can’t.’
Boromir whispered to himself.  The blade cut into the
flesh of his palm, blood running down his wrist.  The
pain blocked out the evil thoughts he’d been having. 
He had to purge these thoughts, he could not become…

	He could not become his father.

***

	That night, it was Boromirs turn to take first watch,
and he was all too happy to get away from camp.  The
dwarf was the only one who was not avoiding him;
Aragorn kept the hobbits away, Gandalf and Legolas
were deep in conversation, but all shot Boromir
strange looks when they thought he was not looking. 
He sat with his sword across his thighs, trying to
concentrate on anything but the thoughts haunting him
all afternoon.
	Suddenly, behind him, he heard leaves crackling
underfoot.  Half turning, Boromir saw Merry walking
away from the campsite, probably to relieve himself. 
The vile hunger for power overtook him again.  ‘No one
would know… you could say an orc attacked him… Merry
himself wouldn’t be able to see in this dark…’ such
were his thoughts.  Fighting down the painful urge to
hurt the unsuspecting hobbit, he reopened the gash on
his hand and drove his dagger in deeper into the
wound.  No sound escaped his lips, and Merry returned
to camp safely.  When Gimli came to relieve Boromir of
his watch, he said nothing about the small puddle of
blood that had formed on the ground under Boromir.

***

	He had just turned sixteen.  He had finally been
allowed to go out on a scouting mission with the
soldiers in his fathers’ army.  There had been nothing
to report, yet Denethor summoned him upon his return
nonetheless.  Boromir presented himself to his father,
thinking that he had finally done something his father
could be proud of him for.
	Denethor looked over his eldest son with an
appraising eye.  The boy had now reached his full
height, and was beginning to fill out his broad
shoulders.  
	“You wanted to see me, father?” Boromir began.
	“Yes.  I have here Captain Thendor's report.” he
motioned to a scroll on his desk.  “He tells me that
you exceeded his expectations, and he would be
honoured to serve beside you one day.”  Boromir could
not help but smile.  At last, his father was proud of
him!  He was about to open his mouth to thank his
father when Denethor sneered.  “You think that is
something to be proud of?  Brainless whelp.”
	“What more do you want me to do?” Boromir asked,
despairingly.
	“Everything!  You should not think yourself a good
soldier to have exceeded a dimwitted idiot like
Thendor's expectations.  Pride is not a virtue.”
Denethor was almost  incoherent in his explanations. 
Boromir glanced at his desk and saw an empty goblet. 
The old bastard was drunk.  “What’s the matter with
you?  Don’t glare at me, child.” Denethor continued.
	“I am not a child.” Boromir said, barely louder than
a whisper.
	“What did you say?  Are you speaking back to me?”
Denethor raised himself from his chair unsteadily.
	“I said I am not a child anymore.  You can’t tell me
what to do.”
	“What!?!  So now being your father counts for
nothing, does it?  And being lord of this kingdom?  I
could have you hanged for treason.” Denethor was
walking towards him, obviously finding it difficult to
put one foot in front of the other.  Boromir said
nothing until his father was standing before him,
close enough for him to smell the wine on his breath.
	“I am leaving now.” Boromir said and took a step
back.  Denethor reached out and took hold of his
collar.  
	“No you are not.  You will stay here, boy.” 
Realising that he could not pull Boromir towards him,
Denethor used his hold on the tunic to pull himself
closer.  “You do not disobey me.”
	“I am leaving on another scouting mission.  I am not
staying here any longer.” Boromir shook himself free
from his fathers’ grasp and began walking out the
door.
	“You… you useless brat!  Come back here!  You have
been nothing but a bother and a nuisance since you
were born!  Why was I given such a feeble, pathetic
son?  Come back!” but Boromir kept walking.  

***

	The next day as the company were eating breakfast,
Legolas saw the cut on Boromirs hand.  
	“What happened?” He asked.
	“I cut my hand on my dagger.” Boromir snarled back. 
Now even Gimli sidled away from him.  When they began
to walk, the other members of the fellowship walked
either in front or behind him, no one wanted to speak
to him.  Inside his head, Boromirs thoughts swung from
his painful childhood memories to his own ideas of
inflicting pain on others.  Perhaps his father had
known that his rule would never last; he knew that his
power over Gondor hung by a thread.  Perhaps that was
why he chose to exert power over others, over those
weaker than himself.  And now Boromir felt his own
claim to the throne fleeing, and began to hunger after
that same power.

***

	Aragorn seemed reluctant to let Boromir have first
watch that night.  But he seemed to be fine when left
on his own, so Aragorn finally agreed.  Boromir sat,
his back rigid, waiting for the sound of leaves and
twigs behind him.  He knew they would come eventually.
 
	Sure enough, when the campfire had burned down to
embers, a tiny form emerged from its bedroll and
stumbled away from camp.  Silently, Boromir rose.  He
followed the curly head, unable to tell if it was
Merry, Pippin or Frodo (the figure was too slender to
be Sam), but it did not matter to him.  He had to
destroy these thoughts, these urges once and for all. 
In just a few strides, he caught up to the hobbit and
placed a gloved hand over the halflings mouth.  The
little creature struggled, muffled cries escaping from
its mouth.  Boromir pushed the hobbit on to the ground
and placed a knee into his back to keep him from
moving.  He took hold of the hobbits’ head with his
other hand and twisted hard.  A sickening crack was
heard and the hobbit went still.
	Boromir sat back on his haunches, horrified at what
he had done.  He turned the little body over and saw
by the light of the half moon that it was Pippin. 
Boromir breathed hard.  He felt tears sting his eyes. 
What had he done?  Boromir caressed the miniature
face, so like a child’s.  He saw himself in that face;
himself at ten, at twelve, at thirteen, being beaten
and abused by his father.  He scratched at his cheeks,
trying to get rid of the tears there.
	“Forgive me…” he whispered to Pippins frail form. 
Boromir looked around wildly.  Surely Legolas would be
here soon to take second watch.  He drew his sword
from its sheath.  “I’m sorry I failed you.  I was not
strong enough.” Boromir rested the hilt of his sword
on the ground, and fell upon it, the blade slicing
through his heart.

***

	When Legolas found them, Boromir was already dead,
one hand on his sword and the other touching Pippins
cold cheek.  

La fin.


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