Head canon thing: Boromir
Headcanon A: what I think realistically
Boromir is beloved.
Boromir is the treasured first son of Gondor, who is loved in equal, fierce measure to the love he gives all of Gondor’s people. Even as rumors spread of Denethor’s becoming strange and remote; even when the hold on Osgiliath slips; Boromir is always there—Boromir who is broad and handsome and dark, whose strength is in his arms, and whose courage is a bulwark against the rising tide of the East. (Not that Faramir is not loved, but Faramir is not Boromir; he is a Prince, not the Prince.)
Boromir carries the whole of Gondor on his back, the White City a heavy crown where it sits at his temples. He wonders, biting his tongue as Lord Elrond calls Gondor lesser, mixed, fallen, declined, if he is alone in seeing it—all that stone the Steward-Princes have inherited, it is nothing, it is only smoke and Boromir’s own delusions of grandeur.
He drinks his wine too quickly, hoping to stave off the sudden stab of baseless panic. Because it is baseless—Boromir has ridden out with armies, said prayers to Mandos over dying men. He would die to keep holding the shield before him, to keep pushing back the dark with all the force of his arm, even if it is for such a burden as he carries.
(Boromir does die of it, more’s the pity.)
Headcanon B: what I think is fucking hilarious
Everyone except Boromir finds it extraordinarily funny how many maids, cook’s assistants, healers, poets, soldiers, squires, weavers, highborn ladies, lowborn ladies, and—on one notable occasion—a prince have thrown themselves at Boromir Steward-Prince of Gondor. Faramir still tells the story of going searching for borrowed greaves, and instead finding a Dol Amroth harper in Boromir’s bed. She was not wearing even a stitch of clothing, and she had thrown pillows at Faramir’s head until he fled.
Boromir, though, is deeply embarrassed and vaguely horrified by all the carrying on—he loves his father and brother, the sword, his command, and Gondor; there endeth the list. As a consequence, he has perfected the art of a gentle refusal. (Also, sitting on his bed next to a semi-naked woman, patting her hand, and calling her a “very nice girl” even as she wipes snot all over his sheets.)
Headcanon C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Faramir had felt a sudden chill, standing beside Denethor on the parapet as they watched Boromir ride out for Rivendell. Faramir had not been able to explain it—the morning sun was already too hot, the miasma of summer laid thickly over Minas Tirith. But the sweat beneath the collar of his tunic turned to ice, and he was seized by a sudden, desperate urge to run, pell-mell after his elder brother, to pull him down from his horse and bodily drag him back to the white hall, where he would be home, where he would be safe.
Beside him, his father gave a sudden shudder, as though awakening from sleep, or perhaps feeling that same cold—
But Faramir and Denethor let the moment pass, in silence.
(Faramir does not know this, but Boromir’s last thought is a half-delirious, brother, I am sorry, brother—)
Headcanon D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway
Listen. It would be really sad if Boromir died a tragic but ultimately redemptive heroic death, but he never died, so we don’t have to contemplate that, do we?