Anguish Eternal
You know of the less than honorable practices of your men, of exhilaratingly primal brawls, of drink and whores in taverns, and of stolen lust before battle. You know and have for your part, even joined in less than occasionally.
Every time you brawl you remember the feel of an enemy's flesh parting beneath your sword. And when you're drunk, oh when you're drunk. That is possibly the worst of all, for your sweet, innocent brother's face comes into your mind and you remember just what you're fighting for. The whores, they remind you of your human weakness and lack of restraint, and much the same are your feelings after the intensity of a brief moment of lust before the never-ending bloodbath begins. And every time you drink too much or beat another soldier senseless, or take the willing and oh so warm body beneath you, you will yourself to forget.
But life is not so kind as to allow even a moment of respite. So you continue the endless battle against your father, against Sauron, and most of all against yourself. You throw yourself into hopeless conflict, praying to the Gods. Gods who you know don't exist. For if they did why would they allow such a chaotic maelstrom to be so lovingly bestowed upon your tormented soul?
They're never answered, your prayers. It does not seem so large a thing to ask for but a little peace. But you're not important enough to acknowledge and so are forced to slodge through life as if it were mud.
Would you sound weak to another's ears? Probably. But those other's ears do not know of a life where you wish every day to not wake up the following morning. Where you see the White Tower and think only of throwing yourself off. Where every night you dream of fleeing this life and everything in it. And most of all, you wish to have never existed.
It's not as if you really matter. You bring nothing special to this life. It's not as if your place in Gondor couldn't be replaced by another, better person. The dreams are merely that, dreams. A façade is perfected and you are left cold, barely alive if that, with naught but dreams and a lone good memory, of something your mother used to chant, something you think she made up herself:
Rain pours down crowded streets
Feral spirits haunt the corrupt
But those with hope are spared
Given eternal divine protection
And hope for our dreams
If only she had known how wrong she was.
Disclaimer-I don't own any characters portrayed here nor am I making any profit from this work of fiction.
Author's Note- I case you hadn't already known the person speaking or rather thinking is Boromir and I'd be most obliged to know what you think of my portrayal of him.