The Tragedy of Boromir
As the dark waters of the Anduin swirled fitfully in the night, Boromir likewise writhed in the torment of dark dreams. Black shapes lunged at him out of the shadows, baring yellowed teeth and brandishing crude, yet horribly effective weapons. He raised his arm to block, but it was terribly heavy, almost leaden. Besides, he realized with horror, he had left his sword back at the barracks. Instead, he held a small stick clutched in his hand, more of a twig, really. Ducking at the last second, he fled.
It irked him to run from Orcs. Even in his nightmares, when he was helpless, he hated running from an enemy like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. But how was a man to fight against such overwhelming odds with no effective weapon? There had to be something to fight with! Casting about desperately, he sought to pierce the blurriness of the dream-mists for a sword, club, or even a heavy rock. He searched in vain, though. There was nothing to use against the enemies closing in around him. Really, he could do little except stand there and wait to die.
And then he saw it.
Like a ray of sunlight punching through an overcast sky, the One Ring shone practically at his feet, blazing with magic ready to strike down his foes. He could easily reach it before his adversaries, even though he could see that they were desperate to obtain it…and use it against him.
All he had to do was reach out and take it…
His fingers twitched reflexively toward it, but he paused. A warning bleated weakly at the back of his head, almost insignificant next to the inexorable call of the Ring. And yet, he gave it heed, for he trusted his deep, inner instincts, as all great warriors must. For a Man to bear the Ring was perilous, or so said the Council of Elrond. Apparently the Ring could bend the notoriously mortal race to its insidious will more easily than any other.
His Gondorian pride rebelled against the thought. The Ring corrupted the hearts of lesser Men. Captain-Generals of the White City did not succumb to the will of dark magicks. Renowned sons of the Steward did not turn to evil because of an innocent band of gold.
He reached for it again, but something still held him back. Isildur's Bane. The son of Elendil was of the line of kings, of the true blood of Númenor. Surely he was not a lesser Man, but the Ring had been his downfall, thus earning it the title Isildur's Bane.
Boromir's hand trembled. He was not so prideful as to think that he was greater than that ancient king. In his inner turmoil, he did not notice that his enemies had halted in a ring around him, hands on their weapons, watching him with bloodshot eyes. All Boromir could see was that shining golden band, a trinket of incredible power, lying within his reach on the ground. If he would just take it for himself, he could save his own life.
And not only that, but with the Ring he could destroy all his enemies. With such a talisman of power, all men would congregate under his banner in flocks and droves: his countrymen, the Rohirrim, the men of Erebor, and even the lesser men in Eriador. All would journey to Boromir the Mighty, and in a single glorious stroke they would storm the gates of Mordor. They would rend them to pieces and unleash their holy fury on the plateau of Gorgoroth. Boromir himself would use the power of the One Ring to utterly destroy the foundations of Barad-dûr, and Sauron would fall. The glory of Men would be restored, the Orcs would flee to their holes, not to return for a thousand years, and the citizens of Gondor would set Boromir up as the first King of Gondor since the time the last line was broken and end this Stewardship nonsense once and for all.
All he had to do was reach out and take it…
He bent toward the Ring, and the circle of enemies around him tensed. The warning in his mind threw forth one last pitiful argument. The victory of Gondor will be assured by strength of arm and valor of spirit, not by esoteric wizardry! But even in his heart, he knew this was not true. That was the preferable way, of course. Boromir was a born warrior, and he firmly believed that a sharp sword was more predictable and honorable than wizardry. However, he had seen the horrors of Mordor. He had watched men die under the wicked blades of screeching orcs—friends he had grown up with and known all his life. He shuddered at the memories of swinging his broadsword wildly, feeling fatigue make each stroke weaker, less effective. And for every orc he killed in the narrow streets of Osgiliath, at least two more jumped to take its place. He had had many great victories against Mordor, but he and his father, Denethor II, knew the true strength of their enemy. Gondor simply did not have the means to perpetually repel Mordor's forces of evil.
This was the reason he had taken his brilliancy off the field of battle and into Imladris, home of the aloof, arrogant Elves. Though his pride cringed at the notion, when the blades of Men failed, one must turn to the magic of Elves.
And, lo and behold, they had practically handed him the one thing that could possibly save his faltering country.
All he had to do was reach out and take it…
He could bear it no more. He leaped for the One Ring. His enemies lunged for him. He felt his fingers close around the cool gold, and a jolt of power surged through his arm like lightning…
"Boromir!"
Boromir awoke suddenly. Aragorn's face was just a few inches away from his. The horizon was aglow with predawn light, and the Fellowship was groggily rolling up their sleeping blankets. Sam was starting a fire for their breakfast.
Aragorn clasped his shoulder. "Wake up. We must leave within the hour, prince of Gondor."
With that, he left to help Merry and Pippin gather firewood.
For a while Boromir could only sit there in a daze, shocked at the vividness of his dream. Then, he felt his eyes drawn irresistibly to Frodo, who was blearily rubbing sleep from his eyes.
What the halfling carried could save his country.
Whatever Boromir did, he did it for the good of Gondor.
For Gondor.