Happiness
"Happiness feels a lot like sorrow; so let it be, you can't make it come or go
But you are gone- not for god but for now, and gone for now feels a lot like gone for good"
The Fray
The war had ended with a happy enough climax, a great bloody battle that people could remember with pride, and a final push of strength from the apparently weak that people, listening to the stories, could relate themselves to. They were satisfied enough, those who were left- perhaps not entirely happy, for losses and injury were rife in the sides of Man and Elf, but in the end the right side had won, and peace prevailed, and the land was hopeful again. The Dwarfs found their gold, and stood firm to rebuild the walls of Minas Tirith, and their Glittering Caves echoed with the sound of falling hammers.
Honour and bravery were restored to the lands of Middle Earth. No longer did the people of Minas Tirith stare up at those mountains with foreboding, no longer did the shadow of Mordor creep across the land. The Riders of Rohan could once more feel wind in their hair without grief or worry, and the Shire felt itself re-born under the careful hands of one gardener. The Ents returned to their quiet life of solitude, and although there were still some shadows left untouched, those were small ones, everyday ones, that could be overlooked. Ones that were, in fact, part of how the whole fabric was made up.
The world was good again.
The Elves left the land soon enough, for the most, and though their light had faded the beauty of their silent woods remained, and the age of Man reigned strong and vigilant. Elrond left his dear Rivendell and took with him the grief he felt for his daughter, and found happiness again with his beloved across the sea. Gandalf too, mission completed, sailed away, and with him went Frodo, who could eventually feel at rest, and the weight from his shoulders could finally leave him. Legolas and Gimli went, on one day later than the others, their duty done and the beauty of the eternal lands too much of a temptation.
Dear, loyal Samwise Gamgee, had the best of perhaps two worlds- he had the joy of a loving family and a beautiful life, and then sailed away to find peace with the one he missed so dearly, as was his right as a Ring-Bearer. Merry and Pippin found happiness with coy young hobbit maidens, and then lived out the autumn of their years surrounded by the memories of their heroic deeds, in the lands of Man, where they had found their own courage, their own strength. They remained with the men of Gondor and Rohan, and were glad they had been a part of something so great.
Aragorn got his happy ending. He found his strength and his glory, he restored his throne and Kingdom, and he was rewarded for the rest of his life. He found his own peace in the arms of Arwen and the smiles of their children, and the gold of his crown shone bright across his lands and those who still dwelt in it, like the fair Lady of Rohan. Eowyn may not have had the first man she loved, but she found more happiness than she had ever thought she could with the second son of Denethor, for Faramir gazed on her with only love and temperance, and they spent their days in the beauty of the Kingdom, living out their lives in laughter. Faramir soon forgot the face of his father, the rage of the Steward, and found at last his own harmony.
He never forgot his brother, but as time passed the memory faded into warm sentiment, and memories are wont to do so.
But Boromir, brave, noble, misguided Boromir, was not fated to have a life such as this.
Boromir never got his happy ending.
He did not get quiet reflection, or warming love, or the peace of family. He did not get to ride the long journey to the everlasting shores. He never got to see his White Tower that he defended so long again, and never again did he ride across the plains of Gondor to Dol Amoroth to see the place where his mother came from. He never heard the silver trumpets call him home. He was not able to see the face of his benevolent but distant father one final time, nor the adoration in the eyes of his men. He did not hear the words of his brother, calling out his name in affectionate greeting, ever again.
The Horn of Gondor never blew across the golden lands. It did not ring from the white gates. It did not echo over mountain top nor carry with the wind.
The sound simply stopped.
Instead he was lost to the water of Rauros, lost to death and the shadows and the misery that is indomitable mortality, and as he died, staring up at the leaves above him, he wondered why he had never thought that he might not have made it this time. He had always assumed that he would.
He would miss his home.
He did not realise that when he was leaving it, he would never be able to see his return.
He felt his eyes flicker shut, one last time, as his heartbeat slowed.
Perhaps, if he had known, he might have done things differently.
Perhaps, if he had know his fate, he might have found happiness along the way.
But then, fate is fate, and if he was to die here, at least it was a death in the glory of youth and battle. At least he did not wither out, and at least his sword had flashed once more in the uncaring golden sunlight. He had died in the call of his duty, and if that were the role destiny had handed him, then he hoped he had done it well enough to be remembered with honour. If his body ever found its way back to Gondor, at least he would not be there with it to see the grief of those he was leaving behind. At least now he had done something meaningful with his short existence. Perhaps now the King would return, and the Ring-Bearer would be safe.
At least now, others may find happiness.
His final thought, as he heard his name being called, was that at least he wouldn't have to see the unhappiness if the strength of man failed.