A series of ficlets, originally written for Terrifying Tolkien Week on tumblr, set in the Patior verse. You will need to have read at least the first and second chapter of Patior for these to make sense, but they contain no spoilers for the main story. These ficlets can mostly stand-alone, but the fates of some characters will remain ambiguous so as not to spoil the main Patior storyline.
The coffin was tiny, and the figure within smaller still, diminished beneath the black shroud. He stood at the end of the coffin, swallowing his grief. His hands were trembling. Black, black, black, the shroud - the colour of traitors. He had not deserved this, had not deserved this death.
I should have stopped this. I could have stopped them.
He turned on his heel and marched out of the crypt, letting the door slam shut behind him. The door to this particular crypt bore no name, just as the coffin had borne no lid - no dignity, no remembrance for those who died a traitor's death. He resolutely ignored how his eyes blurred with tears as he collected his sword from the gates to the crypts.
The climb back up to the Citadel was a long one, passing the doors to the dungeons, deep in the mountainside. Singing, in voices rough and broken and rusted, edged to sharpness with grief, rose defiantly but distant from within. He wished they would stop. Here, the tears were harder to ignore.
It wasn't my fault. I did what I could.
Higher he climbed, trying not to let his gaze linger where blood had stained the white walls no matter how hard the staff had scrubbed them. He carefully side-stepped around the cracks in the floor, and the piles of chipped stone from where swords had struck the walls, leaving scars that could never be healed.
Traitor.
His cloak is not black, but he knows it should be. He had betrayed those who had trusted him, and now a choice lay before him.
"I am Boromir, son of Denethor," he whispered to himself as he walked down the pristine white corridors of the Citadel. This was his home, the home of his forefathers before him, the place where once he had been a boy, happy and carefree. That boy would not recognise the man he was to become - nor would he like him.
"I am of the House of Hùrin," he told himself. "My line is the line of Stewards." He did not look out the window to where a white tree had once stood, waiting to flower. It never had. Now it never would again, and the white stump was stained. He did not think he could ever look at it again without shame.
"We guard the throne until such a time as the King returns." His father's voice echoed him in memory, teaching him the words with gentle patience.
"We fear no foe."
What happens when the King is the foe?
He unsheathed his long sword, the metal ringing a chilling counterpoint to the music below. His father had gifted it to him when he came of age, fresh and clean then. Now the metal was dull and chipped from recent battle.
"We fear no darkness."
He thought of Faramir: let him be safe. Let him vanish into the wild, and let him be free. But he would never know.
"And here my guard is ended." The last line, only to be uttered by an abdicating Steward, echoed hollowly back at him as he stood before the doors to the throne room. Boromir took a deep breath, studying the familiar patterns and inlays in the wood; how often had he stood here, waiting to be announced? But he was not expected, no herald stood now to announce him.
He was alone.
His sword trembled in his hand. What was he thinking? This was madness, folly! He would be throwing everything away; his pride, his duty, his honour. Everything his father and ancestors had stood for, and guarded—
He had begged for Boromir to help him. To speak in his defence. To save him.
How he had stared, pleading. He would never forget those eyes so long as he lived, how they had widened with despair and betrayal.
A tiny coffin, and the body within smaller still.
Black, black, black. No name on the crypt door.
Boromir staggered back, shaking off the spell, gasping. He knew his purpose now, his duty. He would not back down.
He pushed open the doors to the throne room, naked steel in his hands, his voice issuing challenge.
The Iron King rose from his throne - no fury nor sadness creased his features, only calm acceptance and perhaps...disappointment? He descended gracefully down the steps, unsheathing his own blade, Anduril, as he did so. The Ring shone cruelly bright for a moment, before the Iron King wrapped his hand about it.
"Another traitor? So be it."