Authors Note: I initially wrote this as an introduction/excuse to role-play on the website as as Boromir and continue with the current plots and story lines that other members currently had going. I will be eternally grateful for their love and support even if I can no longer be among them.
I figured I should upload this here to keep it safe from PC crashes and the likes which I find myself overly prone too!
It could not end like this. He'd always known that his life would end in the grip of battle; surrounded by his own people, the realm of man. A death worth writing stories about. A glorious death that was written down in the histories to be remembered by all of man kind. This, was not that death. This was the inglorious fall of a peasant shot down by archers. The death of a fool that allowed corruption into his heart and failed those he'd sworn to protect.
In his final breaths he'd made a near stranger swear a secret. In ethereal nature he heard the words; standing over himself and the true heir of Gondor.
"I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I promise you...I will not let the White City fall...nor our people fail."
He heard the words, in his very core he believed them, but as his final breath released he refused to let go. Silent, unseen in his death he followed as the Fellowship broke apart, sending his mortal body on splendid boat. A funeral not entirely fit for the great deeds he'd accomplished, but all those that remained could do for them in their weakest hour.
Divided they left the river to take his body and unbeknown to him how, he followed it. Watching the small boat as it bobbed along the river. Twice he looked back to the shores to see his companions leaving. Two hobbits to one side of the river, the rest to the others. He hoped they would be going after his two little ones. No cheerful mood crossed his ghostly face as he recalled them; Merry and Pippin, with kindness. Once more he looked down and as the little boat was swept down a waterfall as did he.
Face gripped with determination he reached out to his fallen corpse, plunging into the waters after it. His hand connected with his lifeless body and he struggled to drag it to the edges of the river bank. Weary from the excursion of it; and scarcely believing that he'd even managed to pull his own dead weight to the river bank. None of this made any sense to him; he was dead, he'd seen himself die, he was sitting, slumped next to his own lifeless form. Yet. Here he was, influencing the world of the living still.
A searing white light enveloped him, and for time unknown he watched it, waiting. A lot had been written about the end times and the hereafter, but no one had lived to know the truth of it. It was fascinating and instilled a feeling of dread all in one. This really was the beginning of the end. A figure emerged eventually from the light. Robes of white billowed around them in a windless breeze and he was enthralled by the figures beauty. There was a humanity to her stretched skin, and all he could really make out of her was the outlines of her face underneath a hood. Around her waist was a cord tied in gilt silver from which hung an hourglass. The White Wraith was described almost perfectly in the books, aside the drastic colour change and the nature of her gender.
"YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE." Their voice spoke, it was not a command, but a voice shrill and harmonic, speaking in elevated soprano tones. It was an accusation, and the words cut through his soul like razors edge.
"I should not be there," his courage returned, getting to his feet and pointed down to himself. He dared argue with the figure of death, for what could she do to him that had not already be done.
"YES YOU SHOULD." The female returned, it was a kind tone the statement took this time.
"I have much left to do," he commented, knowing that there was so much more that he had to do among the world of the living.
The White Wraith ignored his statement, she had heard it many times before and would do as long as her job remained as it was. She made to move towards the body that was hers to claim, and a skeletal hand hovered above open palmed ready to make the claim complete.
For her efforts an ethereal shield slammed strongly into her face. Stunned the White Wraith turned towards the armed human.
"THOSE MORE WORTHY THAN YOU HAVE TRIED AND FAILED." She spoke, plainly; taking her own weapon in hand.
Boromir said nothing, just circled the White Wraith. He would not give in so easily. Not when the splendour of Gondor was still hanging in tentative balance. He'd promised to find a way to repair glory to the white city; he'd left the promise in good hands but the refusal to let go remained.
When the White Wraith struck his shield arm raised, the blow deflected. She was strong and he crumbled under the blow from her scythe, falling to a single knee.
"WHAT DO YOU HOPE TO GAIN FROM THIS?" She asked, her tone had turned to that of wonder, curiosity. Enjoyment.
"Time," came the reply from the man as he got to his feet again, wielding his unremarkable weapon, swinging it in a circle. He charged, not giving the White Wraith time to comprehend his answers. His blade swung around, back handed aiming to decapitate the foe.
His blow was blocked, and the scythe brought around once more. The shield raised again, and this time his feet stood firm. And so they fought, trading blows between them for a time that lost all time. No quarter was granted and none given by either side. And exactly how long it was was of no consequence to either of the two.
"ENOUGH OF THIS." The White Wraith eventually cried, swinging her great weapon in a final arch, intending to cease the battle. Her enjoyment from the fight had dissipated weeks ago. Just when it looked to be the final strike of the battle, the stalwart shield bashed forwards, the rim serving as another weapon slamming into the hilt of the arching scythe sending it flying in one direction while the White Wraith slumped into another on the floor.
Looming over her, Boromir thrust the tip of his weapon towards where her throat should be, yet he hesitated, and lowered the weapon from it's killing blow; sparing the spectre of death.
"Time," he repeated his demands.
A chilling scream echoed from the White Wraiths mouth, and her hand reached forwards, long and slender towards him. In a single instant gripping his ethereal face.
He coughed, spluttered and gasped for breath. The entirety of his body felt bone sore and weary. That was nothing compared to the pain that coursed through him. But there was one thing you had to be to feel pain. Alive. His hand clutched to his chest as he pulled himself into an upright position. His fingers groped the ground wanting to make certain it was all real when they connected to a small trinket near him. It glinted amongst the leaves. A small hourglass hung on a golden chain. Etched around the edges were the words. "YOUR TIME WILL COME."