A/N: This is in answer to all those who bastardize Boromir; I wanted to give his side of the story as he's subject to the power of the One Ring. I feel sorry for him, which other people don't seem to. :P It's irritating to read about him being a complete @$$ all the time. He wasn't like that. He and Aragorn were very similar, except Aragorn was strong enough to throw off much of the Ring's influence. This was written pretty much on the spur of the moment after one too many 'Boromir is a Bastard' fics. Expect grammatical errors. I apologise in advance... ^_~;;;
BTW, if you're wondering, this is all from Boromir's POV so if some things appear skewed or wrong, it's because it's his perception. Simple, no? XD
--Neverhere



The Warrior's Weakness




It calls for me. Sometimes it calls so loudly it screams. And when it screams... oh, by my ancestors, it hurts. It hurts. It hurts so much I cannot breathe - in my dreams I struggle for breath, paralysed by need, unable to fight these night-demons that invade my mind and thoughts. It screams for me when I so much as walk past the halfling; its eldritch screech echoes in my mind like the terrible wailing of a Nazgul, only louder, heavier, greater - sometimes I fear it will split my skull, and I can do nothing to stop it. It is a scream without words or tone, voice or form; it is the scream of want, of lust, of desire. It wants me. I can feel it scythe through my brain as a sword through flesh, keen with the brilliant warmth of hot, furious fire; it wants my hand to bear it, to feed it the heat of my body, to bear it on my hand. Not the halfling's. Mine.

I need that Ring.

Sometimes, when he stops and touches it without realizing what he's doing, I can feel the bile rise in my throat. Mine. That Ring is mine. But at the same time it isn't mine, it can't be mine... but it is! It calls to me, every day, every hour, every labouring moment of the day when I try to block the seductive feeling that floods through my body every time I think of it, but it gets harder and harder and...

I am failing them.

I cannot think. My thoughts are skewed, my dreams are twisted, my mind is pierced with holes. It is destroying me and I can feel it, the need, the desire for possession wearing away at my soul, eating at me, trying to rid me of myself... I must have it.... I must! Who else?! It must me I! Who else can carry that precious gleaming burden? Not the halfling, surely! A small creature, no more suited to battle than a child! How can such a one protect... that... precious golden Ring? He cannot! And... to destroy it...

It cannot be destroyed. That power is great enough to enrich us, to defeat the glowering evil that is Sauron, to restore all that is bleeding away from our lands! How can we destroy such a precious gift? Were I to wield it, I could save Gondor, Rohan, the Elves, the entirety of Middle-Earth - I could be a hero, my lands and family would be safe, and peace would be everywhere... and I could be free from this crippling want that pervades me so easily! By the stars, such a thing cannot be destroyed! Elrond was wrong, so very wrong! How... how can such a tiny... tiny, precious, sun-gold thing... be dangerous?

I laugh at the idea. It is beautiful. It should be mine. Mine. Too precious to be held by a halfling. Mine.

Pain. So very painful. I am torn in two every moment, torn between the word of Elrond and the seductive murmurings and lustful wailings of the Ring. Sometimes it whispers, so softly, as if an Elf were humming a lullabye. So beautiful. Why must we destroy such a beauty? Such a precious, pretty thing! We could use it to save ourselves, our lands, our families, friends, lovers, allies...

And him. He thinks he is greater than us all, with the blood of kings in his veins. His blood can flow as easily as mine in the midst of battle! He thinks his rule would be better than ours, yet we have managed to keep Gondor alive in our capacity as the Stewards of Gondor for the millennia since Sauron was defeated that first time, under Mount Doom. We are mighty. We know the country that he has abandoned without the quirk of a thought in that skull of his; he could have staked his claim a long time ago, but the time has passed. Now it is not so simple. We know the land better than he. He is easily the Aragorn named Strider by the halflings, Aragorn the Ranger, Aragorn the beloved of an Elf, Aragorn the battle-scarred and battle-weary, but Aragorn the King of Gondor...

It is not his title. He has earned naught. When he has proved his right to take the crown, I shall duly bend knee to his claim. But he has not. He deserves nothing yet.

It sparkles. It calls to me. It's mine, the precious little thing. To touch it... just once...

I know what the halfling plans. He will trade it for his tiny inconsequential life! He will betray us to the odious dark shadow over Mordor, and lead us to our deaths, and let our world tumble and crumble about us because he is cowardly and I--

Such thoughts. Such evil, dark, wrong thoughts. Just a look at his face and I know the truth. He is struggling to bear it. He recently recovered from the bite of that blade from the Nazgul - too weak. How can he make it to Mordor in this state? He cannot. If I were to take it from him, relieve him of this burden that it pains him to carry, he would thank me. I could quench this lust for the small precious that he carries about this throat by hanging it about my own. I could. That would be all; I would not wear it, ever, it is far too precious for that...

He touches it sometimes, without noticing that he does. It calls to me so seductively I cannot look away, my mind is trapped, my will is warped - and I need it so! He touches it! Why should he touch it?! It is mine! Mine! MINE!

It glimmers gold in the bright sunshine. So beautiful, precious...

Mine.

Sometimes I fear I am losing my mind.

Precious. Mine.

But I must stay me. I must not fail them - the Fellowship, Gondor, anyone! I must keep my will!

Mine.

We will defeat Sauron. We will. I know it, deep inside - we will succeed!

Mine. Precious.

I will resist this desire. It is wrong, so wrong, it shouldn't happen - I will fight it. As I fought the orcs and troll in the depths of Moria before Gandalf fell, I will fight.

Precious.

But I do not know how long I can withstand this onslaught. I fear what it will drive me to do. I am ashamed to admit that I am... I am afraid. The temptation will get too great. How much longer will it be? No matter. I will fight. As best as I am able, I will always fight, always, even on the verge of death I shall keep fighting the battle and keep... fighting... it...

My preciousss.