A/N – Sorry this is coming to such an abrupt end. Unfortunately, Boromir ends abruptly.

Thanks again, very very much, for the reviews. It's been requested that I do a sequel, since the problem with telling this from Boromir's POV is that Merry and Pip are left rather unresolved. I AM considering it. Still there's an AU about Merry with the ring burning a whole in me. Why, I ask you, why are so many people writing Merry as evil? I just don't understand it.

Still, here's this, and it's all done, so. Enjoy. J

Shirebound…thanks for everything. You make me want to write more in this fandom just to hear what you have to say about it. You're the best.

Annaicura…I emailed you, but I'll say thanks again. You're nicer than I deserve. And thanks for wanting to pimp me on your own story. J

Zebra Wallpaper…danke, darling. I'm glad you like Boromir in this. It actually took writing this story and thinking from his POV for me to realize what a really misunderstood character he is.

And Pansy Chubb…yeah, it would have been nice to give Boromir a happy ending. Unfortunately I decided at the start not to make this AU.

Thanks again to everyone, and I look forward to hearing what you think about the end.

***

As it went with all battles, the attack seemed sudden and instant. One moment he sat there, in his misery in the grass of the woods, surrounded by quiet. The next minute there were shouts in the trees and sounds of battle and the harsh voices of orcs in the air.

He jumped to his feet instantly, drawing his sword.

He was a failure, perhaps. He had lost his mind to the ring, had become what Aragorn had always thought he would. He had attacked his own ally, sent poor Frodo running scared. He was weak, and he at last understood what all the warnings had been for. Too late.

But he was still who he was. Weak or strong, he was Boromir, son of Denethor, and he would fight.

He went tearing through the trees, sword drawn and practically humming for blood in his hand. The sounds of battle went on further in the trees, yet he hesitated. Should he return to the campsite first and see if there was any of the fellowship still there to report their situation?

The decision was made in the form of light, high voices shouting in the trees.

His hobbits. He turned towards their voices and ran.

They were shouting. Foolish, stupid as children. How could they possibly not know better than to…

"It's working!" Pip's breathless voice became intelligible suddenly.

"I know it's working. Run!" His Merry.

So they shouted deliberately? To draw the enemy to themselves?

To draw the enemy away from something else.

Frodo.

Boromir tightened his grasp on the hilt of his sword. His hobbits were going to kill themselves out of loyalty to their friend. But not if he had anything to do with it.

He finally overtook them when they stopped, about to be overtaken on all sides by orcs. He ran full-tilt into the fray, stopping between their small bodies and the approaching orcs.

The battle was upon him instantly, and he became a soldier once more.

He saw the enemy that seemed to lead these orcs. He recognized that the creatures were not of a race he had ever seen before. He saw their size and strength, and didn't care. He sliced at the orcs and the new enemies alike.

But there were too many. Countless numbers were closing in, and countless more were appearing every moment.

He backed up closer to them. "Run! Go!" He half-turned to go with them, grabbing the horn that ever stayed hung at his side. For the first time since leaving the walls of his city, he lifted the horn and sounded its call.

The orcs hesitated at the deep, loud blast of the horn of Gondor, but the hesitation only lasted a moment.

He backtracked, desperately trying to stay between the enemy and his little ones. Impossible when the enemy came from all sides.

Seconds were an eternity at war, and after the next few eternities he became aware of orcs falling around him, untouched by his sword. He watched one get struck a hard blow in the head with a stone, and he smiled grimly.

His hobbits had retained their aim.

He lost himself to the fight, striking and slicing at every dark figure that came his way.

And then. A sudden, unpredicted force in his chest. Instant numbness all over his body.

His arm lowered, the sword suddenly useless as his body ceased to obey his commands. His eyes dropped down, and he noted the length of black-feathered arrow that passed into his flesh. He stumbled. The ground seemed eager to meet him, and he hit one knee before catching himself.

His eyes came up and there were his two hobbits. Shock coated their features, and they ignored, for a moment, the enemies around them to stare at Boromir. They were hardly helpless, these hobbits, but against so many they would be lost.

He would not give in to a single arrow and allow that to happen.

He struck out the moment his body would listen to his orders. And the battle continued as orcs approached, believing him weak, and fell to his sword.

Another blow, like a solid punch to his chest, forced him to his knees before he could register what happened.

He didn't have to look to know there was a second arrow. He did have to look to see his two hobbits, to see the horror in their eyes, to strengthen him so he would not give in to a darkness that called to him. He met Merry's eyes for a moment, gaining there the strength he needed.

With a hoarse battle cry he raised to his feet and hacked at the swarming bodies of the enemy. His arm was slower, his steps clumsier, yet he was still Boromir, and he still fought.

In the midst of the fight something made him turn his head, and he watched the approaching body of one of the large, strange new enemies. The creature was fitting an arrow with black feathers into his bow, his eyes unwavering on Boromir.

His fate was made clear to him, and he could do nothing but wait for it to find him.

Another blow, seconds later, and he was driven back to his knees.

There would be no fourth. There would be no finding of strength, no rising to his feet.

There would be no more fighting for Boromir.

He turned his head to them, the two hobbits, and saw them as if across a great distance. He saw, though it was blurred, the fierce pain rise on Merry's face. He saw his sweet little hobbit grab for his sword. Pip followed him an instant later, and the two charged the orcs.

Merry sliced one well-placed blow that took a hand off at the wrist, but there wasn't a chance for a second.

The orcs were not fighting them, Boromir saw through his hazy vision. They were after them. Too many arms for the hobbits to fight reached for them and grabbed them. They were lifted into orc arms.

Boromir watched them beat and kick violently at their captor's bodies. But such little fists wouldn't make an impact. He heard their screams, their shouts of his name, their anger and pain. Not weakness, not cries for help. They were voicing their own battle cries even as they got carried from the field of the fight.

They were out of his sight in an instant, and his head had no more strength to stay up. He sagged, bowing in against himself as the endless bodies of orcs and other creatures tromped past him as if he were already dead, following the trail of those who had taken his friends.

One pair of feet stopped in front of him, holding there until all others had gone by.

Boromir raised his eyes with difficulty, and saw the creature who had fired the arrows that had killed him, loading one last into his bow.

He was looking his death in the eyes.

He was Boromir, son of Denethor. He was the leader of soldiers, the son of the Steward of Gondor. And he would lift his chin and show no fear. He would meet his death with pride.

The bowman was averted, though. A blurred form attacked him, and his arrow fired harmlessly into the ground.

Aragorn, a faint thought identified the form.

But death was still on him, and he had not escaped it even with Aragorn's aid. He fell, hitting the ground heavily. The numbness spread through his body, becoming a deep ache that was still not like the pain he would have expected.

Later – it could have been moments, could have been hours – Aragorn's face appeared against the sky, bending over Boromir with sorrow in his eyes.

Boromir fought against the haze threatening to swallow him. He swallowed and gasped out air and spoke with all the urgency he could still feel. "They took the little ones." There was still life in him to fight and he tried then, struggling to sit up.

"Stay still." Aragorn held him down gently and looked him over, unable to hide the grimness in his reaction.

Boromir blinked to clear the haze, knowing there were things just as important as the two captured hobbits, though not as urgent in Boromir's own heart. "Frodo…" He got out, grabbing at Aragorn. "Where is Frodo?"

Aragorn met his eyes. His voice was low. "I let Frodo go."

Boromir nodded faintly. "Then you did as I could not. I tried to take the ring from him." He got out the confession bitterly. Aragorn let Frodo go. Maybe Aragorn was as strong as those around them had held that he was.

For the sake of Gondor, for the sake of his hobbits, Boromir hoped it was true.

Aragorn didn't seem surprised at the confession. "The ring is beyond our reach now."

Boromir swallowed, feeling the iron of blood in his mouth. "Forgive me," he gasped out. "I did not see…" His eyes slid shut, and he forced them open again. The darkness that was overtaking him showed him many visions – Merry and Pippin fighting their captors. Frodo's eyes, scared and helpless, scared of Boromir as evil overtook him. The fall of Gandalf. The silent strength of Aragorn, holding them all together in ways Boromir had not seen before.

He swallowed again, and the taste of blood was stronger. "I failed you all."

But Aragorn's eyes did not show the scorn they had showed previously. There was no sign of the contempt he had now and then shown towards Boromir, or Boromir's people.

Boromir wondered hazily if those things had been a result of the ring on Aragorn's mind.

Aragorn spoke with conviction and sincerity. "No. You fought bravely. You have kept your honor."

It was approval, and though hard won, this time it was not reluctantly offered.

Strange, the thoughts that run through a dying man's head. Boromir had time to wonder, and almost be amused at the thought, what Aragorn would say if Boromir told him he fought to protect the lives of two little hobbits that he had half fallen in love with during this quest.

But then Aragorn's hand was on the arrow that jutted from his chest, and Boromir felt a wash of pain wipe away his thoughts. He gasped out. "Leave it! It is over." He met Aragorn's eyes, focusing with difficulty. "The world of men will fall," he managed, throwing Aragorn's own beliefs back at him, challenging him to do something about it. "And all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin."

Aragorn met his fevered gaze, and a conviction seemed to harden him, tightening up his jaw. He reached out and grasped Boromir's hand, though Boromir could hardly feel it. "I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you…" His voice was thick with conviction Boromir could hear through the fading darkness of the world. "I will not let the white city fall, nor our people fail."

"Our people." Boromir repeated the words, and let go. "Our people." Content to die now, now that he had seen the heir of Isildur and knew him to be set to the cause of Gondor.

He would let go now.

He reached out blindly for his sword. It was not right for a soldier of Gondor to die without his sword in his hand.

Aragorn saw what he was after and a moment later the cool hilt of the sword was set into Boromir's grip.

Boromir looked up at him, and the world around Aragorn faded. Aragorn himself was fading. "I would have followed you, my brother. My captain." He breathed the words out, pride in his eyes. For his city, his people. Even himself. And for Aragorn, for the quiet strength of a man who may yet rise up to lead Gondor to victory. If only Boromir could have lived to see it. "My king," he spoke last, and felt a little more of him let go at the granting of the title.

Aragorn's eyes washed with tears, with grief that Boromir knew he would deal with silently and stoically. Emotions he would hide from others, to protect them.

The realization hit him, and almost seemed funny. Boromir would have smiled, but those days had past him. He had felt the joys of life, and was lucky to have done so. But now he was a soldier again, and soon he would not even be that.

He shut his eyes and cast a prayer for his comrades, for those two dear hobbits who had changed him so much.

And then he knew no more.

The End