In which Boromir lives, and he is forever afraid of arrows. Written for the Caesar's Palace monthly oneshot contest, month of September, for the prompt 'alive'.

A satire on the overused "Mellon nin" (my friend) phrase that's used in fanfics.

In case you don't know (and I hate that I have to say this, but you might not know) 'ninny' means an idiot, a fool, or, basically, a scaredy-cat.

If you're wondering about Gimli's accent, I'm making fun of the movies.

Thanks to Chasing Silmarils for beta-ing.

"I'm beginning to notice something," announced Aragorn as the Three-and-a-Half Hunters sat down to rest from their ceaseless running. (They were the Three-and-a-Half, naturally, because Gimli was so short that he hardly counted as an entire hunter.) Of course, Aragorn himself was hardly breaking a sweat, being a masochistic Ranger. Whenever Gimli or Legolas complained, they would be met with a bellowed, "You wimps! Just a bit further! Boromir can do it, and he can hardly breathe with his left lung!"

On the ground, Legolas had collapsed into a pile of sweat, Elf, and cloak. "Whaaaaizzttt," he groaned.

Aragorn, master of languages, was able to translate. "It's Boromir, that's what it is," he announced to Legolas and Gimli. "He's so... quiet!"

"What's so bad about that?" asked Legolas. "He never would shut up until he nearly got shot to death. Maybe if we shot arrows at other talkative people, it'd do them some good, too." Under his breath, an accusatory "Gimli" was spoken.

"I'm serious, Legolas," said Aragorn. "Boromir's changed."

"Aragorn really is serious, Legolas," said Gimli solemnly. "He never used to stare angstily off into the distance, murmuring 'Gondor-Gondor-Denethor-Gondor-Gondor-Faramir-battle-Gondor-Gondor-Gondor-RING.'."

"Will you two stop it?" Aragorn snapped. He was beginning to become quite frustrated. Maybe one day he'd just leave them all behind. See how they'd react without a leader! "Hmph," Aragorn huffed, then realized he'd done so aloud. He hoped no one had heard. Fortunately, they hadn't. "I'm serious. I mean, just look at him!"

Currently, Boromir was sitting on a well-placed rocky outcropping. How there was a rocky outcropping in the middle of a field is another tale entirely. If technicality must be broached, it involves one trash-talking deity and a certain a dare in which the aforementioned deity and his brother were having a contest of power and were seeing who could throw a ton of rock the farthest. Let it suffice to say that the trash-talking brother gloated for a while after.

Boromir gazed off into the distance, his chin propped in his hands. He did indeed seem to be muttering to himself.

The following transcription has not been in any way changed from the manner in which he did this:

"Valardammit... look at all of them... shining, just sitting there innocently... mocking me!" (A wild look came to his eyes.)

"They're like little fragments of Doom!" (A horrified strangling sound commenced.)

"Oh, what did I do to deserve this?" (A sarcastic pause.) "I forgot! I betrayed my effin' companions. Valardamn Ring of Power."

(A terrified look, a new horror dawning on him.) "Perhaps this is some kind of punishment!" (A doubtful look.) "Or, perhaps not. I know if Father were here, he'd say, 'You wimp!' and 'Buck up, you pitiful excuse for a human being- what do you think you are, a hobbit? Be a Man!'"

(Here poor Boromir attempted a manly scoff. This resulted in a coughing fit -the arrows that had nearly killed him had punctured his lung.)

The other Two-and-a-Half Hunters looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Little fragments of Doom?" Legolas asked. "What is he talking about?"

"He's not talking about anything, laddie," said Gimli, suddenly gaining a very unnecessary Scottish accent. "Don't ye know? He's gone mad!"

Aragorn nodded grimly. "I am afraid he has, my good friends. Our burden he shall thenceforth be, until fate gives us a blessed opportunity to lock him up in the madhouse."

So it was with heavy hearts that the Three-and-a-Half Hunters fell asleep that night. There were two sentries- (well, One-and-a-Half, as Gimli was one of them) at watch that night. One was Legolas, who was watching for orcs and other scoundrels of the like. The other (the Half) was Gimli, who was watching Boromir.

"Never mind about what Aragorn said about him being quiet," Gimli said to Legolas. "He won't shut up! Listen!"

"...little fragments of Doom... clinking and clattering like the chains of damned prisoners..." Boromir murmured in his sleep.

The next morning, they ran across the plains, looking like a demented cross-country team. Legolas's arrows jingled like bells in his quiver as he ran. The Three-and-a-Half Hunters started their daily contest. All being mighty, brave warriors, they did not wish to admit that they were tired, so they were in a perpetual contest of who could hold out without asking for a break. Whoever did do such a cowardly deed would be looked upon with haughty glares for the rest of the day. That person was usually Legolas, who preferred (in his words) 'prancing across the new-fallen snow, making everyone who sinks up to their knees envious, dee-dee-dee-dee-dum-dee-dee..'

This time, Boromir was the one to beg for a stop. Normally, the person begging would be gasping for breath, clearly unable to run any further, but Boromir was not. Instead, he looked oddly as if he had been planning this particular action, which was so strange that the other Two-and-a-Half Hunters forgot to make fun of him for it.

They all sat down on the grassy plain and did as they usually did at any opportunity of a reprieve from running- they promptly fell asleep. Boromir, on a very unusual whim to be selfish, volunteered as sentry.

Content that no orcs would dare harm them when the firstborn son of Denethor (who was rather worse for the wear, but that's not to be mentioned) was guarding them, Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas fell asleep.

The dark figure crept toward the group, sword in his hands, murder in his heart, bloodlust in his mind. He slunk through the grass, the noontime sun shining down on his foully gleaming eyes. He fixed those hateful eyes on his targets. Ah, perfect. Sitting ducks. He let a growl come from his throat, gaining suddenly fluency in the Black Speech of Mordor. "Aararakga giamlbetru nissssssh..." he hissed, which roughly translated to "My precious is a chew toy." But no matter, it wasn't as if his victims could understand him anyway. He cackled evilly and prepared for the kill.

Legolas woke up to a dark figure looming over him. He groaned. "C'mon, Aragorn, I just fell asleep... I was having the most wonderful dream about rabid fangirls chasing me..."

Suddenly he saw that it was certainly not Aragorn who stood over him. Aragorn didn't roar like a pissed-off football player. Aragorn didn't hold a sword-point against his neck! He curled into a ball and whimpered. "Oh-Valar-I'm-dead-I'm-so-dead-save-me-save-me-save-me..."

Then his quiver of arrows was ripped off him. Probably to make it easier to stab me in the back! Legolas thought, terrified. He waited for death to take him. He began composing his will:

Father, you can keep that revolting T-shirt Gildor Inglorion gave me that says "DOWN WITH THE SILVAN ELVES, UP WITH THE NOLDOR". Feel free to shred it into tiny pieces. That's what I've always wanted to do.

Aragorn, you can keep that love note I wrote to Galadriel but never had the guts to give to her. (Gimli keeps stealing my women.)

Hobbits, you can keep all that pipe-weed I stole from you. Consider it a gift. Please don't tell Aragorn that I've been smoking.

Gimli, you can keep that bow that Galadriel gave me when we left Lothlorien. I heard it's got elf-hair in it. You can add some more to your collection.

But all he heard was the sound of somebody roaring, and the sound of metal on metal. Oh, Valar, a battle! All over lil' ol' me! he gloated. But when he opened his eyes, he didn't see a battle.

All he saw was Boromir, who was repeatedly thwacking his sword into Legolas's quiver, snapping arrow after arrow in half. "Ha! Take that!" he cried with mighty vehemence.

Legolas stared at him, perplexed. What happened to the vicious orc that was going to kill me? What happened to my tragic death? What happened the Battle of Legolas?

Gimli and Aragorn had been awakened by the sound of Boromir beating the shit out of the arrows. "Boromir! What in the name of Sauron are you doing?" Aragorn cried, stumbling to his feet.

"Cut it out, laddie, ye're driving me as mad as ye are yerself!" Gimli asserted in his customary unnecessary Scottish accent

Apparently all the arrows that been suitably smashed to smithereens, because Boromir stopped attacking them. He looked at his companions, a wild look in his eyes, fear written on every scar of his face, desperation etched into his irises. For a moment, he looked as if he was about to burst into tears. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas suddenly felt quite sorry for him.

Then he kicked the pile of smashed arrows and said, "Little bastards. Taunting me. By the Valar, I hate those damn things. It's like they're magnetically drawn to my flesh." He held up an arm, which was covered in scars from his recent run-in with death. Looking at the others, a confused expression came to his face. "What?" Boromir asked, puzzled. "Why are you awake? Do you want to keep moving already?"

Aragorn and Legolas couldn't believe how stupid they had been. Gimli could believe it.

"Um... sure," said Aragorn tentatively, quite unsure of what to say.

"Take it away, laddie!" Gimli said.

Legolas looked sadly at his newly arrow-less bow. "Uh... if that's okay with you, laddie- er, Boromir, mellon nin... mellon ninny."