a/n: I think I under-appreciated Boromir when I first read Lord of the Rings. But the more I read it, the more I realized he is one of the strongest characters in the whole story, even if he dies in the first bit. The scene, in Peter Jackson's The Fellowship of the Ring, where he is shot by orcs is one of the best parts of the movies too (topping, I think, Gandalf's fall in Moria).
Lament for Boromir
One did not love Boromir only to forget him once he was gone.
Miriel sighed and rested her arms against the battlements of the sixth circle of Minas Tirith, gazing down on the Fields of Pelennor below. They were just beginning to recover their greenness, after the trampling of the recent battle. The Shadow had dispersed in the East. A breath of healthy air was blowing over the land – but as yet there had been no news since the army of the West had marched away to Mordor. It was too much to hope they had succeeded.
She sighed. What the city would do now, without the valour of Boromir?
Lord Denethor had gone mad, it was said, and Faramir lay at death's door in the Houses of Healing. There was little hope left, the people murmured, not after spending so much of their strength to beat their foes back from the city's walls. The very same people who used to gather courage from the mere sight of Boromir riding through the streets, and proclaim loudly that the city would never fall as long as such a valiant man was still alive in it.
Her heart clenched. Boromir had ridden away from the city, and word had come back that he was no more.
He had died a heroic death, of course. Miriel had heard the tale repeated beside many a fireside in Gondor, since the full story been heard in the throne room from the visiting halfling's mouth. Boromir was, perhaps, even more revered in death. But that could never atone for the burden of missing him.
She had hardly been the only girl in Gondor who had loved him. Nor the only girl in Minas Tirith. She had seen the cow-eyed maidens throng his horse as he returned victorious from battle, burying the pavestones beneath his feet with flowers, so he need not ever touch the ground all the way from the main gate to the Citadel. They had clamoured for his attention as he passed in the market, and would not let him stand partner-less if he showed up to dances. Would not let him rest his feet for a moment, if he showed any inclination towards dancing at all.
She wondered if any of them thought of him now. She wondered if they knew the unrelenting ache in her heart, the surety that the world would never be the same again. Or had their devotion been merely a passing fancy – a game to bide their time away – a competition to see which female could capture the hand of the most valiant man in Gondor?
He'd been so full of life – that was what drew Miriel's eyes to him. He fought and danced and drank with the same fervour, he enjoyed every outpouring of respect but never required it, he accepted all female attention with pleasure yet never led one female to think herself preferred over all others. Whatever good life had to offer, he accepted. Perhaps because he shouldered the responsibility of whatever evil there was as well.
Miriel, sincere and guarded, could not imagine ever facing life as he did. Did not know what it was to possess an open heart. So perhaps she'd envied him. Perhaps hoped if he paid attention to her, she'd learn from him. Or perhaps just revelled in how he reminded everyone around him that they were alive.
But he was dead. He'd been conquered by the whims of life, when he'd appeared to be the only one who had any control over them. Boromir was dead, Lord Denethor was dead, Faramir was dying… Death surrounded Minas Tirith, encroaching in its walls.
The army of the West had ridden into the East.
Was there any hope for Gondor left?