We do not know exactly what date Boromir of Gondor was born on – but he was forty years old when he set off on the quest to find the answers for the riddle of the dream that Faramir and he shared. So it seems only logical (what woman of Gondor needs logic) – to have a little tale of Boromir’s birthday to give to Dr. G on his fortieth birthday! Many, many happy returns, dear friend!
July 3rd - -
He heard stifled laughter coming from his father’s study; his brow furrowed. There was naught to laugh about, in his mind’s eye. All seemed to be doom and gloom. Was not he leaving on a dangerous quest on the morrow? He hesitated a moment before knocking on the door.
Now Boromir was highly disturbed. His father’s voice questioned him! Did not his father summon him? The guard at his side never flinched. “You told him I was here?”
The guard nodded, but said nary a word.
“‘Tis Boromir. You sent for me, my Lord Steward,” he called through the closed oaken door.
Uproarious laughter greeted his words. Boromir began to fume. Mayhap he should turn around and go to The Green Parrot, as he had planned before the summons.
“Just a moment, Captain. I need to tidy the room.”
Behind the door, snorts and giggles greeted this response. Boromir stood at the closed door, his mouth agape. ‘What in all the tea in Harad is going on?’ He clutched his sword hilt and paced back and forth.
“You may enter,” his father’s voice said a few moments later.
He put his hand on the cold, black, iron handle and pushed the lever down. The door was locked!
Raucous laughter came through the door.
“Forgive me, my son,” the Steward called aloud. “I forgot I locked it.”
Boromir stood back, waiting impatiently for someone to unlock it and let him in. It was nearing dusk. He had hoped to spend the night packing, sharpening his sword, and spending at least a little time with Faramir. He had reserved a table at the Green Parrot and had hoped to enjoy what was left of this hideous day with Faramir and some close friends.
The Council meeting earlier in the day had been a disaster. It had taken all of Boromir’s persuading to finally sway his father to let him go to Imladris. If such a place could be found. Faramir had wanted to go, probably should have been the one sent; instead he left in anger. They had not spoken since Denethor gave the mission to Boromir in his stead.
If his father was in one of his moods, he would spend the night here, listening to theories, looking at maps, and going over all the information that they had eschewed at the Council meeting earlier in the day. He tried to control his temper, his frustration, and his sorrow. He needed to spend time with his brother, to explain his reasons for making the journey instead. Faramir was disappointed in him, he knew that.
“Surprise!” The shouted greeting met him as he stepped through the late opened door. “Happy Birth Day!”
Boromir stared. Denethor, Faramir, Imrahil, the captains of the different Citadel guards, some of the lords from the Council meeting – all stood about with smiles upon their faces and shouts of congratulations on their lips.
“I… I had forgotten.”
Faramir stepped forward and hugged him. “We did not!”