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Here are two companion drabbles, the first is a double the second, a single, for the birthdays of Annmarwalk (who wanted drabbles of the "Brothers 'Mir") and Aeneid who wanted a "Boromir Lives!" AU drabble).
His hand, strong and commanding, lies over mine. My grip tightens on the hilt of Anduril, the ceremonial words slipping easily from my lips.
When I pictured this scene as a boy, I expected to receive such words and not to give them. I understand clearly at last who stands before me and it strikes awe deep in my heart. Such a feeling is strange to me; I cannot keep it from my face as I finish my pledge.
His eyes meet mine; kindness, strength and nobility clear in his gaze, his words of acceptance so familiar.
“…valor with honour,” His eyes narrow as he finishes his statement, “oath-breaking with justice.”
He smiles at my surprise, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder.
“There is no vengeance, Boromir, son of Denethor.”
How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king? My prophetic, childhood words return to me. Gone is the unkempt Ranger from the North. Before me I see my King, returned at last.
Standing, he sheaths the sword before beckoning me to rise. Together we turn to face the people.
His voice rings clear and true across the Citadel.
"Boromir! Steward of Gondor!"
Pride wells within me as I look at the men before me. Boromir and Aragorn, side by side, face the exuberant crowd.
I study my brother's face and see acceptance, loyalty. More than that: devotion even our father never inspired in him. Can I read his heart? Still, always, my brother, but he is different somehow.
How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king? Ever have I remembered his words, clear after so many years. Yet discontent I see not in my brother's face. Perhaps, now, the years that have passed do not matter anymore.
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