Pairing: None, just Pippin.

Rating: PG I think (please tell me you think otherwise and I will change it)

Disclaimer: Sadly do not own any of the characters from Lord of the Rings. I make no money out of this, just a warm fuzzy glow inside when I realise I've finished something!

Summary; Pippin reflects on what Boromir did for him. (I suck at summaries)

Was It Worth It?

God how could it have happened? I never dreamt things would turn out like this. We saved Frodo's life but we forfeited his. I would have died for Frodo and for the cause of the Ring, as he would have done also, but why did he die for us? I didn't understand why Frodo wouldn't hide with us, why he felt he had to leave. But Merry knew. And I always trust Merry, he never lets me down. So I ran with him, I yelled with him, I jeered with him at the Urak Hai. And I stopped with him; I stared with horror at the axe coming towards us with him. And then he came. Running, with all the strength of the noble warrior that he was. Boromir.

He liked us. He seemed to prefer us to Frodo and Sam, maybe because Frodo kept to Gandalf and Aragorn, maybe because we laughed a lot more and he hadn't heard much laughter where he came from. He told us all about it one time, in the Mines of Moria, we couldn't sleep and he had been on watch. He had heard us complaining softly and had come over to see what the problem was.

He told us all about his country, his city and his family. He talked a lot about his brother but told us little about his father other than his important role and how this left little time to bring up children. He mentioned briefly his mother's death and how he had been alone in the world with his brother and how they had had to fend for themselves. I liked listening to him talk, he had a good voice and I loved hearing about his life, what a warrior like him was really like. He seemed intrigued by our lives and often asked to hear songs or tales. We told him gladly, finding the grandest songs we could remember and then laughing when he told us he wanted to hear silly songs, pub songs like the ones his soldiers liked to sing when they marched to war, to cheer up the mood.

And now he's gone. Dead. It seems to strange to think of him like that, he who could carry both of us up a mountain and never complain of getting tired or needing a break, he who could carry that great shield around and laugh when we said our packs were too heavy. He would carry them for us if they got too much, just like Aragorn would carry Frodo's and occasionally Sam's.

I feel so responsible for his death, but I couldn't have done anything, I did the best that I could. It's just I can't help feel that if we hadn't run away, bringing the Urak Hai with us, if I hadn't jumped out the bush at the thought of Frodo leaving, if Merry and I hadn't gone looking for Frodo when we knew Aragorn would find him quicker than us, then maybe he would still be alive.

He was always so good in battle, rivalling Aragorn with his sword skills. At the Mines of Moria he impressed everyone I think and here he could not have done more. As it was, he put himself in front of hundreds of orcs and told us to run. We did, but not far, not far enough to be safe. He blew his horn when he knew no help would come. The horn just attracted more orcs. He drew the orcs away from Frodo, away from Aragorn and the others and onto himself. He was the threat, he was the danger. The orcs could have picked us up and been off but he was the one stopping them. So they all went for him. God he fought them and fought them but there was only one of him, there was only one of him against so many others. Everywhere I looked there were orcs waiting for the chance to fight him and even more orcs were pouring over the surrounding hills to fight him. It was only too soon that someone got him. But it was no normal orc, this one had a bow and arrow and this one didn't even try to come close.

I saw the arrow coming before it hit Boromir and I wanted to scream that it was coming but my mouth was held shut, hoping in vain that he wouldn't be hit. For why would he? This was Boromir! Nothing could defeat him.

I was so wrong.

My mouth dropped open as the flesh tore and his stomach convulsed in. He doubled over in pain but to my amazement did not fall. He stopped, drew a breath and then turned with a fresh roar of anger and beheaded the next orc. He carried on. This gave me courage; of course Boromir could not be killed by a lowly arrow. Merry and I threw stones, hitting them but doing more harm than good, only enraging the orcs rather than frightening them off. And all the time I kept wondering when Aragorn would appear over the hill and help Boromir, keep him from getting hit again.

I never saw the 2nd arrow coming. Boromir had stopped as if to draw breath and the force of the arrow caused him to spin, turning and falling to his knees in front of us. I dropped the stone in my hand and could only stare at him as he tried to draw breath. He gasped and looked up at us, looked up at me. I knew it was over then. He could not survive this. I saw it in his eyes, the look of defeat creeping up in them. But he would not give in.

Pushing himself up, he gave a guttural cry and carried on fighting. His moves were slower now, he was not so fast or so graceful but he kept them off. I knew he would be yelling at us to run if he had had the energy or the breath but we could not. Beside me I heard Merry catching his breath, trying to come to terms with it all and I knew he knew as well. He looked the picture of a noble warrior, knowing the cause was lost but carrying on none the less and giving us that last chance.

We never took it.

The 3rd arrow hit and he fell down again. This time I knew that he would not get back up. His breathing was shallow and he was going pale, blood loss affecting him already. Merry and I had the same thought; we must follow up this glorious act of self sacrifice and fight ourselves. We picked up our swords and ran at the orcs, screaming our last defiance but we were too small. Once again I felt inadequate. Rough hands grasped my throat and pulled me away as I struggled to reach Boromir. To thank him, to tell him that we would never forget what he had done for us. We never got the chance. My last view of him was of him on his knees, 3 arrows sticking out his chest, gasping for breath.

He was ignored by the orcs now, all of them who had been itching to fight him mere moments ago now ran past him like he was worth nothing. Like he wasn't the Steward's son of Gondor, like he wasn't a noble and strong warrior, like he meant nothing to this world.

He meant something to me.

It saddened me greatly to see such a strong man, broken and beaten, awaiting the final blow.

And all the time I kept thinking; where was Aragorn? Where were Legolas and Gimli? Why didn't they come and save him? Why did they leave him here to die? They must have heard the horn, so why didn't they come? Why didn't they do anything?

And as I look over now at Merry, lying unconscious with a gash deep on his head, I think to myself,

'Was it worth it? Was it worth his dying for us?'

Fin