Canon: Book and movieverse.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I have no money. Sorry.
Note: This represents a misspent tea break a few months ago. Just a bit of prose that serves no real purpose. (I know, I have a Boromir obessession. This is dedicated to everyone else who has one too!)
He worries me. Restrained violence dictates his movements, working itself through muscle and sinew like poison, his large frame tense and stiff as he paces, over and over the same path, muttering and flexing his huge hands as if they themselves searched for a weapon independent of his conscious will. I watch him from behind an oak, pensive. I have watched him often like this, unable to sit still in silence, always needing to move, driven to pace like a caged animal. He will not speak to me when he is like this. There are times, in the evenings mostly, when we may converse like two friends, perhaps even more, when his gaze is lazy on my face, and his fingers warm on mine. And he will gaze away, into the far distant past, and tell me of his home, all white and silver, and lost to him. And of his family, brother and father, also lost. And he will sob, keen racking heaves of loss and despair and hatred to all things, and I will hold him as always, and bow my head beneath his stricken accusations.
Maybe I should have left him, broken and bleeding on the rocks at the base of the Rauros, dead to all but me and mine. Maybe I should have passed over his beautiful face, his eyes closed, but not peaceful in repose, and felt nothing, remained unmoved by the sight of him. Maybe I should have pushed his little boat further out still, directed its rush away from the falls, downstream, and out to the sea. Away…
Maybe he is right that I am selfish to keep him here with me, when the battle rages in vein and mind and soul, compelling him to take up hated metal weapons once again, and rejoin mortal concerns.
He is right, I should let him go, at least to the Afterlife reserved for his kind, for he cannot rejoin a world to whom he is dead.
And yet… I cannot face the day should it come at all, that I should lose him utterly. For he is mine and in an odd way, I am his. As it should be, for the healing of the dead is a process of mutual recognition. He wanted to live so very badly, to undo some deed committed, (although things, once done, cannot be taken and reshaped), that he came eagerly into my light, and surfaced with his eyes wide open. Yet he grieves, my warrior, he grieves every day, worrying at his confinement.
I love him so, and weep secret tears that he should be thus.
And yet… He is mine, my Boromir, and I should rather have him alive and hating me than gone from me forever…
