Man of Gondor

There was a confusion of images. His little ones, dragged away from him, fighting like bears all the way. Helpless fury. Noise. Pain. Through the pain a voice, raw edged, speaking low and urgent in his ear, the pressure of a strong firm hand, and then everything fading into blessed peace.

Boromir of Minas Tirith, Captain of the Tower Guard and heir to Denethor, ruling Steward of Gondor, slept, and as he slept he dreamed his brothers dream. They had shared many dreams before. By some sibling telepathy, they even thought each other's thoughts, or they had at one time. Lately they had not been as close as they once were, but this dream was more vivid than any other they had shared before, save perhaps one.

It might have been a waking vision, or a memory. He dreamed that he stood watch on the banks of the Anduin, half asleep with weariness, his eyes dazzled by the moonlight on the water. His gaze was drawn to the north, as it had been for many months, mechanically now. Little hope remained that he would see the one he looked for. Even a small hope was enough, however, to keep the boy within searching, long after the man had despaired. A very little hope was enough to send the heart of the boy leaping into his throat at the sight of a strange prow on the river, even as the soldier looked on with wary detachment. Boromir recognized the elvish boat as it floated by, felt his pulse quicken with his brother's. He saw the body inside, and the familiar face, serene now in the repose of sweet forgetfulness. He felt his brother's keen, cool intellect engage, quickly memorizing every detail of the scene. At the same moment, he felt Faramir's heart as it finally accepted the truth that it had feared for days: Boromir was dead. A sharp stab of loss shocked him to his core. He heard his brother call his name.

His eyes snapped open. It was pitch black, but he knew where he was. The details of his final battle became clearer in his mind. He had continued to fight long after he knew he was dying. For his little ones. Aragorn had comforted him, swore that the Tower of the Guard would not fall. Aragorn had forgiven his weakness, praised his valor. It was that praise that carried his spirit here. He was in the Halls of Waiting, among the honored dead of Gondor.

The light grew, or his eyes adjusted. All around him, to the limits of his vision, he saw dim rows of seated figures. Among them he recognized many of his ancestors, and famous men and women from Gondor's history. Nearer to him, he saw friends and relatives, people he had loved in life. He recognized the faces of many good men who had died under his command. He had taken great risks in his career, and paid a great price for his victories. All had their eyes closed. Most dreamed peacefully, but some twitched and grimaced as if troubled by painful memories. He rose from his own seat stiffly. As he turned to look around him, he saw his mother, not far from him. Her face was radiant. She looked ageless, serene, and even more beautiful now than she had been in life. He took an eager step toward her but stopped short. He would not trouble her peace.

He turned away, and as he turned he knew suddenly why his brother's dream had come to him here, in this place. His brother was dying. Faramir's spirit wandered in a dark and feverish dream, and sometimes he cried out Boromir's name. He would see his brother again soon. Would Faramir wake and talk to him, or would he sleep in peaceful stillness like his mother, leaving him bereft still.

He took a step, stumbled, and realized that his eyes were blinded with tears. So spirits could weep. A moment later he was on his knees, pressed down by grief. Minas Tirith was under attack. The whole city was dying. For a terrifying moment he was inside the mind of his father, the Steward of Gondor, watching his people die, watching his son die, and then, weighed down by unbearable torment, his fathers mind slipped away from him again. Boromir could no longer feel him at all.

He looked around wildly. With an eerie silence the hall was filling with the spirits of the dead. Men he had commanded, men he had fought with. Boromir, who had never lacked courage, who had borne countless wounds with grim stoicism, felt his entire being tremble and hid his face in his hands.

He could still hear his brother's voice, very close now, and very weak. Another voice joined it, and still another. High clear voices, like the voice of a child, or a hobbit. A surge of anger shook him, and gave him the strength to stand. Not his hobbits. Not here. They should not die so young, so pure of heart. He would give anything to save them. He had given everything, but it had not been enough.

He knew that Aragorn's praise had been just. He had reclaimed his honor in the end. He had died in a feat of selfless valor worthy of the heroes of old. He had paid for his foolish lust for the ring, but he had failed where it mattered most. He had failed those he should have protected. He had let his father down. He had not been there to defend his people. He had attacked the Ringbearer, and left his brother in Gondor to die. And his Shirelings, brave beyond their size but no match for the evil of the world, were dying too. Would he even be allowed to see them?He squared his shoulders. His brother and his father at least would be here soon. He would meet them like a soldier. He would confess his faults. He would ask their forgiveness.

"You carry more burdens than you need to, man of Gondor." The voice resonated through his body, seeming to come from the floor itself. A dark figure, too tall to be human, moved toward him, drifting like smoke. The lines of its face blurred and shifted fluidly, only the black eyes remaining still. "Your attack on the Ringbearer forced him into a decision he had been avoiding. He has made his way to Mordor with his servant Samwise. The fate of the Ring is in their hands, as it was meant to be. And the fate of Gondor is in the hands of her king. Aragorn has kept his word to you. The Tower of the Guard will not fall, unless all of the West fails."

Boromir bowed his head in acknowledgement, but the unblinking gaze drew his eyes again. "I am lord of the halls of Mandos. I have not spoken to a waking spirit for many years. Those under my care sleep, and dream their memories, until Iluvitar gathers them to his Light. Yet you dream the dreams of the living, and you wake. Your brother lies close to my gates now, but the Heir of Isildur may yet call him back. Your father's spirit has passed beyond my care. He lies now in the house of my sister Nenia, lady of Sorrow. His burden is greater than yours, for he has taken his own life."

Boromir started, and opened his mouth, but Mandos held up his hand, and Boromir's voice died in his throat. "He would have taken Lord Faramir with him, for even in his madness he could not bear to be parted with his last remaining son. He would have, were it not for the actions of the smallest of the Tower Guard. Peregrin Took now stands at the doors of the Houses of Healing, holding vigil for his new lord, and for his beloved cousin Meriadoc, who fell in battle on the Pelinor Fields. The hobbits honor your memory. They have both turned soldier."

Boromir felt a seat pressing against the back of his knees and he sank into it. Wonder and weariness swept over him. He felt his eyes begin to close. A hand like a cold mist was laid on his forehead. "Sleep, Lord Boromir. Dream. We will speak again when you wake." As the voice drained away from him, he caught one last, faint, murmur. "Did you think, man of Gondor, that your love was not returned?"

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