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That He Might Be Free  by Melyanna

This is an idea which smacked me in the back of the head late one night and wouldn’t leave me alone until I had written it. I blame this entirely on Simon and Garfunkel.

With apologies to Faith—I know I promised you Éomer, but ignoring the Muse can be perilous.

This scene is based on the events of Neither Death nor Pain, but stands alone.


Éowyn is fast asleep in the bed she has lain in for most of the day. After the birth she was too weak to remove to our chambers, so we have stayed here for the night. Even now there is a faint smile on her face. She is more beautiful now than I have ever dreamt her to be.

And in my arms is our son, born at sunset this evening. He too is more beautiful than I could have imagined. I had wanted a daughter, but I cannot now imagine holding any child but this one—my son.

I kiss the top of his head as he sleeps in my arms. He is so small, smaller than I would have thought. But in truth I have little experience with children, and that perhaps worries me more than anything else. My son seems so delicate; yet I know he will grow into a man, strong like his namesake.

Elboron, I have named him. Éowyn told me to name him for my brother, but I could not bring myself to use my brother’s name for my son. The name Boromir holds too many memories for me to use it again for someone who would be more dear to me than my brother was, so I have named him Elboron. And the name suits him. Already I can see that he will strongly resemble the men of my family, and that his eyes are my brother’s.

The infant opens his eyes then and looks up at me. “Hello,” I whisper. “Have we been properly introduced? I do not believe we have. . . And in that case, I am Faramir, the Steward of Gondor. And you, Elboron, are my son. My firstborn.”

To that the babe yawns, and I laugh softly. “That means little to you now, I know,” I say. “You are rather new at this. But you will understand someday. I never thought I would hold a child of my own, so I fear I am new at this as well.”

He blinks at me several times and I am struck, all over again, at how his eyes remind me of my brother. How long has it been since I saw Boromir for the last time? Four years, five? Sometimes I can recount, with perfect clarity, each day that has passed since he set out from Minas Tirith never to return, and at other times I can barely believe that he left more than a week ago. And now, with his reflection in my son’s eyes, I can hardly believe that he is gone at all.

A knock sounds on the door and I say: “Come in.” It opens, and one of the new servants stands in the doorway.

“My lord,” he says, bowing, “a guest has arrived and asked to see you if you were yet awake.”

I nod to him and follow him from the room, the child still in my arms. He leads me to the softly-lit library, where a familiar cloaked figure stands. The servant leaves and closes the door behind him, and Aragorn turns to face me. “My lord,” I say, nodding to him.

His features were solemn when he first turned, but after a moment his face lights up. “Lord Faramir, let me congratulate you,” he says.

“Thank you, my lord,” I reply, looking down at Elboron. He has fallen asleep again, which is hardly surprising.

“When was the child born?” Aragorn asks. “I had received no word of it, or we would not have broken our journey here.”

I shake my head. “It is no matter, my lord. This house is always open to you,” I say. “And we decided to wait until morning to send word to you. He was born but six hours ago.”

Aragorn approaches then and lays his large hand on the top of Elboron’s head. “A son, then,” he says. “How is Éowyn?”

I smile at him. “She is well. Exhausted, but well.”

The King almost grins at that. “I am glad of that. And you, friend? You look exhausted as well.”

“It is nothing, lord,” I reply, looking down at my son again.

“I am very happy for you both, Faramir,” says the King.

I glance up at him for a moment, seeing a look of peculiar longing in his eyes. “I understand it will not be long before you will have a child of your own.”

“In the autumn,” he replies. Almost as an afterthought, he asks: “May I hold him, Faramir?”

With an absurd and instinctive reluctance I nod. The King sees this and laughs. “I think I understand,” he says. “You have not had him to yourself long.”

At this I smile. “No, my lord, I have not.”

“I will not keep him from you long.” And the hands which I have so often seen grip a sword or sceptre now lift the babe from my arms with infinite care. He lays the child against his shoulder and asks: “And have you named him yet?”

I nod. “He is Elboron.”

Aragorn looks at the child and smiles as a tiny hand rests against his chest. “A fine, strong name you have chosen.” He looks back at me. “Was that your doing or Éowyn’s?”

With a tired sort of laugh I reply: “Both, my lord. She told me to name him for my brother.”

The King nods, understanding, I think, why I did not name my son Boromir. “Your brother would have been proud to see this day.”

“I think he would have been of Éomer’s persuasion, and been glad to laugh at me as I paced the hall.” We both smile at this, and I add: “But yes, I believe Boromir would have been proud.”

“Of all the things we and our brothers fought and died for,” Aragorn says, “this is perhaps the most precious.”

And so we sit for a time and talk of things past and things to come. Elboron sleeps on, even when Aragorn rises and gives him back to me. His weight and warmth are now so familiar to me that I feel strange without it. This child is a wonder, and in the few short hours he has lived, he has already worked in me a change greater than any I ever expected. For I no longer doubt that I will love him. I have loved him since I first heard him cry, before I even saw him. Perhaps I have loved him since Éowyn first told me that she was with child.

Eventually Aragorn and I leave the library, each to our own sleeping wives. Éowyn’s maid wakes when I enter the room again, but she returns to her rest soon enough. And I carry my son to the balcony which overlooks the waterfall not far from our house.

“All this will be yours to rule someday, my son,” I say. “For you will be the Prince of Ithilien. And you will rule it well, I know.” Elboron opens his eyes, and though I know he does not understand what I say, I continue to speak to him. “Your mother and I will show you as best we can to love our people and to do what is right. And you will, for you are a blessing, little one. A blessing to me, a blessing to your mother, and a blessing to our people.”

I look away from Elboron then: toward the River Anduin and Boromir’s final resting place. Aragorn is right: he would be proud if he had lived to see this day. Yet wherever he is now, he is proud, I know. He is proud that we finished what he set out to do, that we saved our people, and that we found the strength to keep on living. It is that for which he died—that we might live. He died for me, his brother, for his friends, and for all those who would take a stand against the evil of our time. He died for our freedom.

And he died for this child in my arms. He died for my son, that he might be free.




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