Jewel of Great Price

Okay, so this sappy bit of fluff started out as a “how did Boromir get his name” idea but then I figured he got his name only because a ‘Boromir’ had to follow a ‘Denethor’ as had been done before. So it became a meditation on his name since no one seems to be able to agree on a translation. OT? Maybe; still I hope you enjoy it.

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He came screaming into the world after more than a full day’s labor, but only a short time pushing for his depleted mother, so eager was he to be known and to know.

The pregnancy had not gone well. The babe had been large, the mother slender and often faint; she had been early confined to a bed where the winds of the coming spring did not reach and so her condition soured. Then the thin membrane that had shielded his voracious life thus far had broken unexpectedly, a full moon before its time.

But by the time the young ernil-eg had been bathed and swathed in cloths of silver and black she felt better. The weight of carrying him was already receding from her body, making way for the next trial she must bear: that of raising him. But for that she was ready. She gazed down at the small head of thick hair, dark and shiny as onyx, already suckling at her thin breast for all she might have.

“So it will be from now on,” she thought; “he will ask and I will give.”

For who could deny a boy so strong and fair, so eager to begin his new life and make of it what he would? What he would … she thought of all that awaited him already, all that he had been born to and so could not choose or strive for: the position of power second only to his father and a memory; the horn he would bear; the uniform he would be given so like to the cloth that already covered his skin so smooth and perfect as ivory. Even his name:

Boromir.

Perhaps if he had been a girl – No, she would have it no other way. A son for the father, an Heir for the Steward, a Boromir for Denethor and Ecthelion.

Boromir.

When his father had told her of the name his son would bear she had smiled happily, satisfied to merely think of the creature in her womb as having a name, a face, a body hale and whole. So she had whiled away the long, stale hours of her confinement growing him in her imagination as she did her body, envisioning his little smile bright with pearls, eyes gray as moonstones, his spirit strong like steel, his heart as deep as the sea.

Boromir.

She had even looked it up, his name; superstitious enough to want to know with what more subtle heritage she would be gifting her baby.

But after the ancient Lord of Ladros, the mighty Warrior Steward and Orc-Killer, there was only confusion: ‘Faithful Jewel,’ ‘Jeweled Hand,’ ‘Jewel of War,’ ‘Jewel of Stone,’ all were cited variously. It seemed the tiny being at her breast must bear a host of names.

But now Findiulas smiled to think of it. Perhaps his was a destiny of choice, after all.

‘Stone’ and ‘War’ she could easily understand. This was her first glimpse of the mighty city in which she would make her home: a fortress of stone, a terraced monolith built for elegant and well-appointed defense. What was the birthright of the Stewards, living always within sight of Mount Orodriun’s flame, but an uneasy peace and ready war?

And ‘Jeweled Hand;’ so his would be, born to wealth and power above all others in this land. But what happiness had this brought her husband? who ever felt the richness of his home, his possessions, his honor, borrowed? Who never sat his throne but felt the higher empty chair looming behind? She hoped this would not be her Boromir’s fate when he ascended to that seat, as he surely must one day.

Still, ‘Faithful.’ This she would hope for him. For what greater gift is there than faith? That he would believe, and be believed in; that he would stand steadfast beside his people and for his realm; that he be loved and love in return. This would be her legacy to him: love of his homeland surpassing even her own, faith that the future could only bring happiness, strength to stand steadfast with the choices of fate.

And for herself? “I will want no more,” Findiulas imagined then; “no riches, no honor. In this little one I have all I could ever wish. My jewel, my precious jewel, my little Boromir.”

When the father finally came it was late afternoon. Denethor stopped to marvel for a moment at the sight of his wife, bathed in a golden glow of fading light, sitting up straight and strong for the first time in months and cradling his future in her arms. A shadow of fear slipped from his eyes as he crossed the room and bent to place a kiss on her brow.

Her eyes as they met his sparkled, he thought, like sun on the waves.

“My Lord.”

“My Love.”

Tenderly she slipped her finger between her already sore nipple and her young one’s grasping lips, releasing a small cry of protest. Then she held the boy out to his father, and smiled.

“Your son, my husband: our Boromir.”



ernil-eg – Princeling