Disclaimer: You know the drill. All characters belong to the great Tolkien,
I am merely borrowing them for my own amusement. I am making no money or
otherwise material gain (drat!) and should therefore be overlooked by
anyone looking to nab copyright infringers.
* * *
The Calling
* * *
Death knew his name, he had once told me.
He had met Death before. Upon the red ruins of Osgiliath, when the bloody
shadow of the Nameless Enemy fell upon his slain kin. Death's face had been
sallow, consuming light and radiating fear, and many fell. But it was not
meant at that time for Death to take him. The warrior waged fiercely on,
and Death had chosen another. But he had known that Death kept his name,
and that they would meet again.
It did not seem that Boromir, son of the Steward, expected Death would call
so quickly.
Death came to Amon Hen many times that afternoon, settling among the hordes
of Uruk-Hai that swarmed about us. Smote by strong sword and swift arrow,
they fell, their screams filling the forest with eerie life. It had been
many lifetimes since the trees had heard such sounds; I could hear them
weeping like children. Never had we expected that Death would chose again
from the Nine Walkers, now eight - had not the loss of Mithrandir been
great enough? Easily we should have seen the grim future of Boromir- left
to battle foul Orcs in the halflings' defense. But, alas, our senses were
too dim, our feet too slow. As I emerged from the trees I saw him,
Aragorn's lips upon his pale brow, black shafts piercing his chest, the two
men surrounded in the glade by the sweet stench of spilled blood. Valiant
was his end, if not enviable.
It was the ring that claimed him, that broke his strong yet human will.
That evil trinket that so many have died for. How ironic that such a small
being should shoulder it's burden when men strong and powerful have
succumbed so easily. But submission did not come easily for Boromir. Many
nights I heard his dreams, his squirming inner desires that dreaded the
honesty of day. They escaped even before he knew of them; they haunted the
corners of his mind while he looked elsewhere. And in moments of peace,
they struck. I blame him not for what happened between him and the
ringbearer; it is clear that he was beckoned unfairly by that golden
promise, as so many lesser men had been. The power of evil strikes deep and
hard, leaving little chance of redemption. Perhaps in death he has found
the serenity that escaped him for so long.
I watched them pack the boat. His body cleaned and positioned, his cloven
horn and broken sword placed upon his lap. The white stone shone at his
neck like a light sent by Elbereth herself. His face looked so rested, so
alive. His breath had caught, he would soon rise, I was sure of it. But it
was not so, and I grieved. It is different, for an elf- death may bring
solace and glorious reunions, celebrations of a life long and well-lived.
But his life, valiant and well-lived as it may have been, was far too
short. It seems the lives of men lie still beyond my immortal
comprehension.
Bowed heads sent his craft afloat on the murky Anduin. The sun dimmed, and
life slowed as he passed. I offered a blessing to Illùvatar, and we watched
as the misty fingers of Rauros granted a solemn tribute to the fallen son
of Gondor.
As we travel now, on the trail of the stolen hobbits, my mind wanders to
the man who shared his dream. Ten and one hundred days he rode, seeking
counsel in Imladris. Ten and one hundred days Death followed him. Waiting.
Crouching. Lusting. And in the musky hour of battle, he struck. A
sacrifice, Boromir was, to the future of Middle Earth. And I know he would
not accept any other way.
I am merely borrowing them for my own amusement. I am making no money or
otherwise material gain (drat!) and should therefore be overlooked by
anyone looking to nab copyright infringers.
* * *
The Calling
* * *
Death knew his name, he had once told me.
He had met Death before. Upon the red ruins of Osgiliath, when the bloody
shadow of the Nameless Enemy fell upon his slain kin. Death's face had been
sallow, consuming light and radiating fear, and many fell. But it was not
meant at that time for Death to take him. The warrior waged fiercely on,
and Death had chosen another. But he had known that Death kept his name,
and that they would meet again.
It did not seem that Boromir, son of the Steward, expected Death would call
so quickly.
Death came to Amon Hen many times that afternoon, settling among the hordes
of Uruk-Hai that swarmed about us. Smote by strong sword and swift arrow,
they fell, their screams filling the forest with eerie life. It had been
many lifetimes since the trees had heard such sounds; I could hear them
weeping like children. Never had we expected that Death would chose again
from the Nine Walkers, now eight - had not the loss of Mithrandir been
great enough? Easily we should have seen the grim future of Boromir- left
to battle foul Orcs in the halflings' defense. But, alas, our senses were
too dim, our feet too slow. As I emerged from the trees I saw him,
Aragorn's lips upon his pale brow, black shafts piercing his chest, the two
men surrounded in the glade by the sweet stench of spilled blood. Valiant
was his end, if not enviable.
It was the ring that claimed him, that broke his strong yet human will.
That evil trinket that so many have died for. How ironic that such a small
being should shoulder it's burden when men strong and powerful have
succumbed so easily. But submission did not come easily for Boromir. Many
nights I heard his dreams, his squirming inner desires that dreaded the
honesty of day. They escaped even before he knew of them; they haunted the
corners of his mind while he looked elsewhere. And in moments of peace,
they struck. I blame him not for what happened between him and the
ringbearer; it is clear that he was beckoned unfairly by that golden
promise, as so many lesser men had been. The power of evil strikes deep and
hard, leaving little chance of redemption. Perhaps in death he has found
the serenity that escaped him for so long.
I watched them pack the boat. His body cleaned and positioned, his cloven
horn and broken sword placed upon his lap. The white stone shone at his
neck like a light sent by Elbereth herself. His face looked so rested, so
alive. His breath had caught, he would soon rise, I was sure of it. But it
was not so, and I grieved. It is different, for an elf- death may bring
solace and glorious reunions, celebrations of a life long and well-lived.
But his life, valiant and well-lived as it may have been, was far too
short. It seems the lives of men lie still beyond my immortal
comprehension.
Bowed heads sent his craft afloat on the murky Anduin. The sun dimmed, and
life slowed as he passed. I offered a blessing to Illùvatar, and we watched
as the misty fingers of Rauros granted a solemn tribute to the fallen son
of Gondor.
As we travel now, on the trail of the stolen hobbits, my mind wanders to
the man who shared his dream. Ten and one hundred days he rode, seeking
counsel in Imladris. Ten and one hundred days Death followed him. Waiting.
Crouching. Lusting. And in the musky hour of battle, he struck. A
sacrifice, Boromir was, to the future of Middle Earth. And I know he would
not accept any other way.