Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings, nor Boromir of Gondor.

Author's Note: This is written in my PoV, so when it says "I think" etc. basically, that is what I acually think. And, seeing as school has not yet started again, the English project was merely just improvised. But, hey, maybe I'll be able to use this in an accual English project one day.

Staring down at the blank, lined sheet of paper, the author sighed. She had to write a story for an English project, and she had wanted to write something about Boromir of Gondor.

He had always fascinated her; at least, as long as she had been a fan of the Lord of the Rings. Which might not have been that long compared to others. Her pen hovered above the first line of the page; maybe a title would help her get started. Like always, she had the rough outline, the idea in her mind of what she wanted, but she didn't know how to begin.

Should she write it in a fan's--her--perspective, or Faramir's?

She decided to try something different. As if she was writing a...what was it called a character study? Or something like that.

Not even sure how to begin, or how the whole thing would turn out, the author placed the tip her ball-point pen upon the blank paper, and began to write.

To know what your fate should be is, inevitably, one of the worst kinds of torture. You know in your heart what could be, what should be, but you also know that that is what will never be.

Like the elvish tales of old; of Tinuviel falling in love with a mortal man (a tale that Faramir had told him long ago), and even though she knew she would die because of this, she could not help but long for more. For an eternity of lifetimes to spend with her love, Beren.

But what brought this thought to Boromir, he could not tell. And neither can I, at least, not fully.

Perhaps it is that fact that he faced similar circumstances. Although he'd never fallen in love with an elvish-maiden, nor had one fallen for him.

But the fact that he knew in his heart what his fate, his destiny, should be, I think, is why he thought of that one tale. Though there are probably many like that; but that is not the point.

Boromir is a complex character. He is…corrupted, to put it simply. Maybe even before the Ring. He loves his younger brother, Faramir, and he loves his father. It would be, perhaps, an almost-perfect family. Save for one thing. Denethor, father of Boromir and Faramir, did not love his youngest son as he should.

Boromir was, in his mind, a perfect mirror-image of him; Faramir, it has been said (rumors, of course, for I have not heard of any proof; though there might be some), that Findulias the mother died in child-birth when she bore Faramir and he reminds his father so much of his mother that when Denethor looks upon his youngest son he cannot help but feel a heart-wrenching grief, perhaps even a hatred, and he blames, you could say, Faramir for his wife's death.

But this is not what the story (if you wish to call it that) is about. It is about Boromir. But I suppose we needed to get that out of the way.

In truth, I believe that he had once been great. A warrior, brave and strong with as pure a heart as he ever could have had. But sometimes, even what we think is right, has to change in order for greater things to be completed, greater tasks begun and the older, lesser ones forgotten. Even if they hold our fondest memories. And like a pirate with the sea, I think that Boromir was in love with his City, great and strong, and full of ancient, dying glory that he longed to see restored. The glory of Gondor, of Minas Tirith and maybe even the glory of the Old Kings.

To be torn away from all that; all he ever cared for, it would be almost heart-breaking.

Boromir put up as much a fight as he dared, I believe, when his father approached him with the task of journeying to Rivendell; bring him Isildur's Bane. Bring him the One Ring of Power.

Faramir offered to go in Boromir's stead, but Denethor would have none of it. It was Boromir who would go, and Boromir who would not fail him.

But Boromir loved his brother and much as he loved his City, and his people. It tore him to leave both behind, and I think that, in truth, he understood that the task was better suited for Faramir, and he had his doubts of what would become of him on this journey.

So Boromir went, and he went with the good-will that he may have held in his heart at one point. He would try to succeed in this almost impossible task, bring the Ring back to Minas Tirith.

Upon seeing the Ring in Rivendell, I think that all the bad that was in him rose up, pushing the good behind and entering his heart; inevitably creating the lust he felt towards the Ring. He began to believe, perhaps, that they could use the Ring against the one who created it, the one whose life-force was held within it. And I think that we all, Man-kind, think just that. Defeat evil with evil. It may be the simplest solution; and the one that will fail. It corrupted him, the One Ring. It worked its evil deep within him, changing him; and evil never changes one for the good.

It was not Boromir himself that caused his downfall from greatness, but the Ring. We never cause our own downfalls; it is the power we think that we can control, the very things we lust for. As the Ring was Isildur's Bane, so to was it Boromir's, and he realized it in the end, I deem.

He fought bravely, died a hero's death. He saved two hobbits and redeemed himself, but it was short-lived. He realized what he had become too late, but maybe he still had hope.

But hope turned to despair. He would not live to see Gondor's glory restored, or live to fight to the last as she fell. As the world he knew it fell. He had succumbed to the Ring; he had fallen.

He knew that he did not belong in Rivendell; he did not belong in the Fellowship; no matter how important his roll was. I do not know what would have happened if he had stayed, if Faramir went in his stead. He said as much, also.

"My fate lies here. Not in Rivendell."

I think he knew, in the end, that he would fail.

And he did.

Sighing, the author laid down her pen, and read over what she had written. It was alright, she supposed. But not the greatest; not what she had imagined. But it seemed that whatever she thought of, ideas she had for such fan-fictions, always were better within her mind than they were on paper.

It would have to do, what was left of it after she had crossed out a line here, and a word there. To re-write it, it would be even worse. She tried not to think that it could be better. She was somewhat content with what she had, and the author did not wish to lose what she had worked on for the past hour. Shaking her hand, numb from the endless writing she had just done, she once again re-read her story.

It was growing on her, and maybe it would just go up on her fan-fiction page. Chuckling lightly to herself, she rose from her seat and went off to watch the DVD extras of the Lord of the Rings.