I don't own any major characters or plot points.
The phrase "your world will burn" is taken from The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug movie.
With a strangled gasp, Boromir awoke.
For a while he was completely still, listening carefully, not daring to move or breathe. All was quiet save the chirping of birds and the shuffling footsteps of servants outside. Slowly, he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings.
He was in his room in Minas Tirith, in the Citadel. Becoming slowly aware of his body, he realized that his hands were still clutching the bedsheets convulsively, his covers thrown to the floor, his teeth biting into his lower lip until it bled, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. Every muscle was frozen in extreme tension.
A pale light shone through the window. Everything around him was just as it has been every morning when he woke up in his room for the past twenty-something years. Light through the window, green curtains, ornate carpet… He breathed a sigh of relief and let go of the bedsheets, allowing his muscles to relax.
He was in his room. He was alive, and apparently unharmed. It was but a dream, then, he thought, a vision born of a mind inflamed by a glass or two of this new liquor the messengers from Rohan brought last night.
As he stood up, he swayed on his feet, head pounding, vision going dark for a moment. The room spun dizzily, but he steadied himself against the wall, and the dizziness passed.
Odd. I wasn't even properly tipsy last night. The Rohan soldier only brought one bottle to share among us all. There was simply not enough to drink myself into a hangover.
Boromir became aware of a certain unease that still sat in his heart, the tension and strain of the dream wrapped around his mind, feeding a growing dread somewhere deep inside him…
It was so long since he felt that kind of black, impenetrable dread and despair which came to him in this dream. Has he ever felt that way in his life before? He was awake now, and still felt it creeping through him…
Enough. You're turning into a superstitious housewife, Boromir, he thought. Stay the hell away from that witch's brew from Rohan, and all shall be well. What good can possibly come from dwelling on a few torn images from a liquor-induced nightmare?
And yet…
He is stumbling around in pitch black, trying to find his footing. A cold wind pierces him to the core, his very soul laid bare to its onslaught. A light in the distance. A shrill, mirthless laugh. A man stumbling out of nowhere toward him… Then the man sways on his feet. Another high pitched laugh, "Your world will burn", a cold voice says… The man's dead body falls to the ground… he tries to come closer, to see who it is, surely it's someone he knows… Odd, he thinks, it almost looks like himself. Himself, or…
"Morning, brother!" Faramir's voice spoke through the door. "If you don't recall, Father called a military council meeting during breakfast today. The bloody thing starts in ten minutes, so you better hurry if you don't want to risk his Lordship's wrath!" with a chuckle, Faramir turned away and his footsteps faded into the hall.
Truly, I'm a fool, thought Boromir. Here I am, fretting about some vague dream, when I have a council meeting with Father to live through.
He threw on a tunic, trousers, and shoes. How he hated these council meetings. Why must they always be at meal times? Nothing ever got fully resolved. Which, of course, resulted in a need to continue the discourse during a lunch meeting, followed by a dinner meeting. He never ceased to be amazed at how his father could manage to ruin all three meals in a day.
Turning his mind from the dream to more practical matters, Boromir walked out of his room and marched down to the dining hall, the painful pounding in his head echoing his footfalls every step of the way.