Of Soul and Being

by Daughter of Olorin

Boromir’s thoughts as he battles for his and the Hobbits’ lives at Amon Hen. One shot piece.

Of Soul and Being by Daughter of Olorin

Summary:  Boromir's thoughts as he battles for his and the Hobbits' lives at Amon Hen.  One shot piece.

Rating:  PG-13.

Warnings:  Thoughts of death, character death (canon), vague images of war.  No slash, even if you think there is.

Author's Notes:  As much as I love the books, this fic is movie canon because I couldn't resist.

Disclaimer:  By sheer want and desire, I ought to own the rights to Boromir, but, unfortunately, I barely have enough money to pay rent.  However, I can't claim any of the storyline or the characters in this fic, just Boromir's thoughts and flashbacks.  All hail J. R. R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson!  Just remember, guys, I can't even pay rent.

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Boromir swung with all the energy left in him.  He knew he should have been in massive pain after the first arrow hit, but everything was numb, everything but his mind.  He would not go down in his own element.  This was the only way he could prove his worth—fighting for his land, fighting for the White City.  Now that he had tried to betray the one hope that his city had left, he fell to what he did best—wage war on the enemy.

His fingers impulsively tried to grip his shield but they would not move, neither was his shield within his grasp.  For a brief moment, the Captain chastised himself for being so far from such an important weapon.  The cries of his two dearest friends behind him were sharp in his ears.  It was as if the bellows of the Uruk-hai and the clanging of sword upon sword were only background noise to the war cries of the Hobbits.

The massive black figure appeared as if from nowhere.  Green eyes were transfixed on the white hand stamped on the being's forehead then trailed down to large arrow noched in a bow reminiscent of Elven craftsmanship.  The Captain had little time to react from the initial sight of the ominous Urak-hai before the second arrow sank into his body.  A sharp pain seared through his flesh and both hands clasped his sword and drove it into another black body.  The Steward-to-be immediately let his left arm fall to his side.  Another outburst came from Merry and Pippin and he staggered back to his feet.  His friends would not die because of his inadequacies.  They would not die because of his stupid, fatal mistakes. 

He cared not if he died.  When he had surrendered himself to the service of Gondor, his superiors had quickly told him to come to grips with the reality of death.  Men of the field would die.  Soldiers under his command would perish.  His own could be as imminent in any battle.  He was a young man that sloughed off his commanders words.  He thought himself invincible by sheer fact that he was the future Steward, key being "future."  He would always survive because he had to be the Steward.  However, the fantasy of invulnerability became reality from a battle in which he found himself on the front lines for the first time.  When he finally regained consciousness, the pain of an arrow wound destroyed his theory.  When the young man standing beside him on the battlefield died in the next room, his resolve crumbled.  He could only wish for numbness, that his mind could be wiped free of what he had witnessed.

That skirmish had been lost and the entire village had fallen.  Gondorian citizens had been slaughtered and here he was, alive and in his down bed.  Healers fawned over him.  His former arrogant self would have justified the pampering because of his status.  Now, he only wanted to push them away because he didn't deserve the treatment.  The blonde-haired man thought he deserved to have died alongside his fellowpeople, alongside those too defenseless to fight back, those who relied on his city to keep them safe.  They had failed.  He had failed.  He would fail no more…even if death took him.

With that vow ringing in his ears, he cared not if died as long as Merry and Pippin were not claimed by that foreboding blackness.  He slashed again wildly at the figures in front of him.  One of the Orc-hybrid bodies fell and he drove his sword in deeper.  He fell to one knee in pain.  With a quick reminder from his training, he rose and methodically lunged out at the next enemy in line.

The Man's body told him he could go no further.  His flesh screamed out for him to just give in and leave the Hobbits' salvation to Aragorn.  Seeing the terror on their faces, he could not do it.  Another body fell to the leaf and blood covered ground and Boromir lifted his eyes to see how many more were coming over the hill.  Without notice or warning, the third arrow pierced his body and the fierce soldier sank to the ground.  The blow was too much for him to withstand despite his emotions driving him to keep fighting.  He could not move no matter how much he willed his limbs to do so.  Even the sight of his little friends that housed big hearts being carried off could not even make his legs rise out from under him. 

As their cries faded in the distance, Boromir hung his head.  The stomp of the Urak-hai army filing past him echoed in his ears.  Each stamp of a foot caused another pang to course through his body.  He waited for the deathblow but none came.  They ignored the Man slumped on his knees before them.  Confusion clouded his thoughts.  If he could have spoke, he would have cried out "Why?  Am I not worthy enough to die at your hands?"

Through eyelashes dripping with sweat, he pulled his gaze from the ground to see the Urak-hai commander stop shortly before him.  Boromir could barely even raise his head to stare the infidel in the eyes.  When he heard the bow creak from the straining arrow, he knew why he had been spared for those brief moments.  The White Captain was to be the prize of the Black Captain.  He was left to serve the pleasure of their commander.

The Gondorian soldier willed himself to stand and face the misshapen and tortured Orc-goblin, but his legs never moved.  With a gulping breath, he said a silent prayer for his brother and father.  He hadn't realized the shot never came until he fell over onto his right side.  Through the blur, he recognized Aragorn battling his would-be assassin.  Using his only functioning arm, he began to drag himself to the bottom of a tree where he could prop himself up to breathe.  He collapsed on the roots unable to make it an inch farther. 

As he dragged himself along, images of his family seared his mind.  The scenes played through his mind of every fight he had had with brother and his father.  Every harsh word that he had said choked him and he had to force himself to breathe.  He knew he was dying and he was not going to try to convince himself otherwise.  Faramir and Denethor both knew that this would come one day.  They were soldiers themselves.  They would forgive him for dying in battle but would they forgive him for why he died?  Would they forgive him for his betrayal?  His betrayal…

Metal clashing on metal signaled that Aragorn was still alive.  Boromir needed the self-exiled King to be his confessor.  He had to confess his sins before he died.  Someone needed to know.  The future leader of his beloved city needed to know.  He needed to confess his sorrow for not only betraying Frodo but also for betraying the Fellowship and his home. 

The look in Frodo's eyes before he slipped on the Ring sent a shudder through his body.  Sam would take care of him and do his best to right Boromir's wrong.  The Captain need not worry about the welfare of the Ringbearer.  The Gardener would see to the tilling of the young Hobbit's heart.  If only someone would be there for the other Hobbits.  Instead of praying for his own life, he quickly prayed for the two little ones.  They were of amazing resilience, but the Enemy had ways of breaking even the strongest of warriors.  Aragorn had to know that they had been taken or he would never be able to find them.  The future King's name was formed on the dying man's lips but the sounds of struggle caused the word to become a ghost of an echo.

Aragorn…and the rest of the Fellowship…Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf…  The soldier knew that he was a better man for having known the Wood Elf, Dwarf, and Wizard.  Gimli and Legolas had taken little time for him, being too busy dealing with their own hatred of each other.  However, what Boromir had learned from them had broken the barrier for him with the Elves and Dwarves.  He had had plans when he returned to begin to erase the false images that Man had placed on the other races of Middle Earth.  They were his friends…and he believed that they counted him as friend when he was not being a self-righteous fool possessed by the Ring.  Gandalf knew when his spirit was captivated by the Ring.  As much as he and the Wizard did not coalesce, the Stormcrow was sorely missed and the Man knew that Gandalf could have stopped him…or, at least, he hoped. 

But hope was nothing now.  Hope would do him no good.  Yet, his heart sent out one last prayer of hope.  The Steward's son hoped for Aragorn, to see to it that Minas Tirith was indeed saved from Sauron's hand.  A vicious growl from the Uruk-hai commander brought Boromir's attention back to the one-on-one battle before him.  The roar was immediately cut off with a sickening thud.  Aragorn…Estel…Hope… Boromir let the thoughts trail through his mind in hopes of summoning the other Man to him.

The Captain was not in the least surprised when Aragorn appeared at his side.  A thousand thoughts were reeling now that he had the chance.  He opened his mouth and all that came was "They took the little ones."

"Hold still," Aragorn replied but Boromir ignored his words, grasping the Man's shoulder with his only mobile arm.  He wanted Aragorn to know how urgent the matter was.

"Frodo.  Where is Frodo?"  He had to know for sure that the Ringbearer was safe. 

"I let Frodo go," Aragorn answered.  Boromir was not satisfied with the answer but he at least knew that Aragorn had not fallen prey to the Ring's power.

"Then you did what I could not do…I tried to take the Ring from him."  He sighed a painful breath at the release of the confession. 

"The Ring is beyond our reach now," Aragorn spoke, trying to comfort him.  However, it was no comfort.  It was defeat.  Now, there was no hope.  The ring would either be lost or taken and he was at fault.  If only he had known, if only he had been told…

"Forgive me.  I did not see it.  I have failed you all."

Aragorn quickly replied with words that he honestly meant and not as lie to reassure the Captain.  "No, Boromir.  You fought bravely.  You have kept your honor." 

Hot tears welled up in the warrior's eyes.  He could not believe himself to be on the verge of weeping.  Yet, those few words meant more to him than anything that Aragorn had ever spoken to him.  He may be dying, he may have failed them, but he had done his damnedest to rectify the situation.  Maybe so, maybe he had kept his honor in doing what he knew best, fighting for those he loved.  Aragorn reached for one of the arrows in his chest and a sharp pain shot throughout his entire body. 

"Leave it.  It is over.  The world of Men will fall, and all will come to darkness and my city to ruin."  Now, he wanted the tears to come.  They would be some kind of physical relief from the emotion wracking his soul…but they never came.  The only other respite left would be the release of death.  He had only seconds left in the world and he reached across the King…yes, the King, my King, although I would not see it...and tried to pull him closer but to no avail.  Aragorn placed his hand on top of the other's in the only gesture of comfort that he could offer.

A resolve surged through the King and he stared intently into the eyes of the dying Man.  "I do not know what strength is in my blood but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall…nor our people fail."  He truly meant those words and it had been Boromir that had brought him to the realization of what he must do.

"Our people…" Boromir said with a painful smile.  "…our people."  He was awash with the relief of the knowledge that Aragorn was taking his rightful place in leading his…no, our people…to a victory over the Dark Lord.  Aragorn would not fail as he had done, honor intact or not.  Estel would complete the once future Steward's task and succeed.

A soldier of Gondor lived and died by his sword.  He glanced to where it lay beside him and tried to grasp the weapon, but it was impossible.  Aragorn lifted the heavy sword and softly placed in Boromir's hand.  With the only energy the Man had left, he drew the symbol of his soul, his being, his country, and his brother to his chest.  "I would have followed you, my brother, my captain, my king."

It's amazing how much of one's life flashes before his eyes in so little of a time.  After Boromir uttered those last words to Aragorn, the image of his brother as a child and then as he last saw him, pulling from their embrace, passed before his eyes, then an image of his father with a rare smile, and last the image of his late mother as he remembered her at her best.  Funny how a hardened warrior thinks of his mother before he…

FINI!