In Dreams - Boromir

Rose G

Gandalf rolled over again, convinced that he was lying on a stone if not a rock garden. Next to him, Aragorn's silver grey eyes drifted shut and the man sighed softly as sleep reclaimed him. It was Boromir now who shifted uneasily, cried out in his sleep.

Poor Boromir. I do not know what troubles him, but whatever it is, it grows on him. I just hope that it is not the Ring. All the same, I would not like his dreams tonight.

'No, Father, no!' The scream was ripped from the man's very soul, a scream of agony beyond bearing. Faramir turned his head, sickened but made no reply. Denethor and Boromir stood high above Minas Tirith, on the seventh wall of the citadel. Beneath them, marching over Pelannor Fields came Orcs and Easterlings, cave trolls and the Haradrim.

'Father, it is mine.'

'Boromir, the Ring could save your people. Save Minas Tirith at least and Middle Earth if lucky. If you will not use it, then you could at least allow me the use of it. People should not perish for so small a thing.'

The younger man lept backward, heedless of the drop and the ease with which arrows could reach him. Glancing at his city, he saw it as a ruin, covered in blood and shrouded in smoke.

'It is mine, Father. Mine and it is precious to me.'

Faramir, peering through the dust had the strange impression that his brother was crouching slightly, one hand held flat over his Ring. Beneath the three men, the Gates were struck with a deafening crash; Grond rammed against them, wielding by two cave trolls and with a shrieking of tortured steel, they fell. Orc feet beat in a hasty, iron shod rhythm as they marched into the city that had never fallen. Boromir shuddered; they sounded for all the world like drums in the deep.

'It is mine. My precious.'

'And Minas Tirith would be yours, my son, but only if you allow me to use the Ring. Otherwise, you will have nothing left to rule. I would not keep it, you must know that, or do you think no more of your father than of some sneak thief?'

'When the time is right, Father, I will use the Ring. Sauron himself cannot face it, but I would not use for something so small as Minas Tirith. It is not worth it. Your pathetic city can fall; if I wished I can claim Valinor for myself if I so wish.'

Boromir raised a shaking hand to his face and brushed away tears that he had not felt fall. Below, Orcs were marching up Rath Dinen, the Silent Street and entering the Sixth Citadel. Men, his men were fleeing, blood dripping from wounds and proud livery being discarded. As he watched, the Standard of the Stewards, already begrimed with ash, fell and was blown away on the wind, carried towards Minas Morgul.

'Why should I save your city, Father? What aid have you ever given to me?'

Denethor lunged forwards, one hand reaching for the Ring. Boromir slipped one finger into the golden band and stepped backwards. He slipped on the stones. Boromir fell - fell and fell and fell, screaming.

Watching in horror, Faramir saw the Ring fall alongside his brother's body; saw the Nazgul swing their steeds towards Boromir and heard the Orcs pause in their work. Sauron's eye swung towards Gondor. And still, Boromir fell.

He woke with a start, soaked in sweat and with the sensation of falling still twisting his stomach until he felt sick. Gandalf looked towards him and shook his head. If his screams did not call all spies in the area to us, then nothing ever will. Aloud, he said 'Gondor will not fall, Boromir. Go back to sleep.'

Boromir closed hi eyes, only to see the Ring burning before them. He sighed and sat up, forfeiting all chance of sleep that night.