A/N: First of all, I want to thank everyone who offered feedback on chapter 1. I'm sorry it's taken so long to get chapter 2 up, but life went a little crazy on me for awhile. I'll try to update faster in the future.
I especially want to thank my betas and support team Ariel and Donna. Without the two of you, I would still be just dreaming about writing instead of doing it.
Disclaimers in chapter 1.
It was a dream. It had to be, Boromir thought as he slowly drifted back towards consciousness. Please. Please, let it have been a dream.
For a brief moment he thought perhaps it was. Just some terrible nightmare. He hadn't fallen under the Ring's power. He would open his eyes and see the seven remaining members of the Fellowship. But upon moving, the sharp pain in his shoulder told him that it wasn't a dream, and his sense of failure came crashing down on him once more.
Aragorn had tried to reassure him, to convince him that he was not to blame for falling into its snare. "The Ring took you." But how could he know for sure? He was the only one it seduced: it had been offered to Aragorn and he had had the strength to refuse it. Frodo was able to carry the Ring and not be touched by its malignant power.
Why me? Boromir wondered. Why did it set its sights on me? Did it sense some weakness, some quality that I lack? Or is there another reason? Did it find some spark of evil in me that it brought forth?
"The ring is beyond our reach now." Aragorn had said.
Then why can I still feel its presence?
He could feel it clinging to him, seeping into his pores, coating his skin, burrowing into his soul. The foul stench of it was all around him. Boromir felt as though he had been wallowing in the sewers of Osgiliath for days. He felt dirty.
He cautiously moved towards the river's edge trying not to re-injure his arm. Removing his clothing, he ignored the bitter cold and submerged himself into the river. He moved his hands over his skin, rubbing away the dirt and sweat and blood that was coating it. He dunked his head again, running his fingers through his hair. Again and again Boromir washed himself, scrubbing until his skin was red and raw. But still he could feel the Ring. As if it had left behind some residue of evil that he would never be rid of. The icy waters of the Anduin bit at his flesh, making his teeth chatter and his chest tighten to the point where he could barely breathe. Reluctantly, he returned to shore.
Drying himself with a blanket, he quickly began to put on his shirt and mail. Boromir winced as he moved his arm. Remembering Aragorn's warning to keep his arm still he slowed his pace, allowing his injured muscles to adjust to the movements. As he reached for his tunic he stopped suddenly and looked at it. It was made from the finest silk and decorated with elaborate gold embroidery. It marked its wearer as one born into the best of families. It was the garment of a Noble, not a traitor. Boromir felt his chest tighten. This simple piece of fabric that he once wore with pride now represented all he was not. Next to it he saw where Aragorn had placed the broken pieces of the Horn of Gondor. Passed down through many generations of his family, it had been carried by each ruling Steward since the beginning of the line. And now that tradition was ended because of him.
Because of my failure. It all comes back to that. I was weak, and now all that I hold dear is either destroyed or in greater peril than before.
He turned his gaze away and finished dressing. The world suddenly began to spin and he had to sit down to avoid passing out. The few hours of sleep he had had were not enough to restore his strength, but Boromir knew that with Orcs patrolling the area, the less time he spent in one place, the safer he would be. He began to gather the supplies that he would need for the journey home. Aragorn and the others had left behind much for they needed to move quickly. He had watched the Orcs that had taken Merry and Pippin. They moved with a speed he had never seen before, and Aragorn had wasted much time tending to his injuries.
If Aragorn fails to catch up with them…No! He wouldn't, couldn't think that way. They would be safe. Yes. Aragorn will find them. Rescue them. He has to. Boromir took a deep breath, trying to calm his mind. He has to.
He felt numb. Not just from the cold, he felt as though something inside of him had died. He had seen it in soldiers before. Men, who had once been full of life, suddenly became empty shells. They had seen too much. Too many of the evils of the world to ever find peace again. They no longer lived; they just merely existed.
Is that to be my fate? To go through life never feeling again? Is that my punishment for falling to the Ring? It would have been better if I had died in battle. A stray thought then came to his mind. Maybe I did die. As strange a thought as that was, Boromir considered it. All that Boromir of Gondor was, is now gone. The honor. The pride. The belief that he was a noble man who would never willingly cause harm to an innocent. All gone.
It could be so easy. Just disappear somewhere, Rohan perhaps. His name might be known but few people here had seen his face. A new name, a new life. One that did not have so many black marks against it.
That's it. It's the only way. He decided. I'll become someone else.
He began busying himself about the campsite in preparation. He placed the broken horn at one end of his tunic and carefully began to wrap it, as if he were swaddling a newborn. He placed it, along with the cloak and golden belt that were his gifts from the Lady Galadriel, into one of the Elven boats.
He then turned his attention to his vambraces. From somewhere deep inside him he heard an anguished cry. They had been a gift from his uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, when he became Captain. Faramir had been given a similar pair in turn when he too had achieved the rank of Captain of the Rangers. He clutched them tightly to his chest. He knew they should be left with the rest. But no, these he would keep. A reminder of who he had once been. Reverently he traced the silver outline of the tree of Gondor that adorned them.
The tree of the king. Aragorn.
He knew now that Aragorn was meant to be the King. He had seen it in him during their long journey together. In the way he had taken command after Gandalf's fall, the way he argued their case when confronted by the Galadhrim, in the way he had tried to offer him comfort in Caras Galadhon. He could see this, and yet Aragorn himself could not. He knew Aragorn doubted his own strength, and he had tried on several occasions to make him see the truth, but the ring had clouded his mind. His words, intended to hearten Aragorn, instead came out as a spiteful accusation:
"Have you so little faith in your own people? Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in men. But you will not see that. You are afraid! All your life, you have hidden in the shadows. Scared of who you are, of what you are."
He had wanted to tell Aragorn of his faith in him. Wanted to tell him that he had been wrong when he had said that Gondor needed no king. Gondor did need its king. Gondor needed him. Lying on the forest floor, watching as Aragorn fought for both their lives he had wanted to tell him that he finally understood Galadriel's message to him. "Sill there is hope left" she had said in his mind. It was Aragorn. Aragorn was their hope. Now he feared that he would never have the chance.
There's one more failure to add to your list. He heard a voice in his head say. You've failed your king as well. You thought you would have been the Steward who saved Gondor, restored it to its former glory. Powerful and fierce enough to inspire fear in the hearts of its enemies. Yet benevolent and wise towards its people. You were a fool.
He forced the thoughts from his mind. There was still more to do. He knelt down on a rock that hung over a small still pool at the river's edge. Dipping his hands into the water he wet his face and pulled his dagger from its sheath. He held the blade at an angle against his skin and began scraping his beard from his face. It was unusual to see a man without a beard, but not so much so that he would draw attention to himself. The blade was not nearly sharp enough for the task, but he ignored the cuts and burning, and did not stop until he was satisfied every whisker had been removed. He then grasped a handful of hair and began cutting away his long locks, until his hair was cropped close against his scalp. Once finished, he leaned over the edge of the rock and gazed into still waters below it. It was the face of a stranger that reflected back to him.
Straightening up, he turned towards to the Elven boat he had prepared earlier. All the vestiges of his former life, save his vambraces and weapons, were carefully arranged and waiting for him. Before moving forward in his plans, he stopped to consider his shield. It was a valuable defense if he were caught in battle. But it was too identifiable. The brass band in the center was decorated with seven stars at the top, and the wings of the sea kings along the bottom, symbolizing he was a nobleman of both Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth. No, he could not risk keeping it. With a sigh, he placed it at the stern of the boat.
Besides, Aragorn carried no shield in battle. He didn't need to. I've grown too dependant on it.
It was time. He straightened his shoulders and prepared himself for what he was about to do. He grasped the side of the boat and waded out into the river until he was waist deep. With one great push he sent the boat and its contents off on its final journey, down to the falls of Rauros and beyond. He watched unmoving as the small craft disappeared over the edge of the falls, and then slowly returned to shore.
He gathered his weapons and the few supplies he would be taking with him. Double-checking that he had remembered the athelas and the draught Aragorn had left him, he paused briefly, and looked around the campsite.
Here is where Boromir drew his last breath. Here is where the Captain of Gondor fell in battle, defending his companions. They will look for his coming from the White Tower, but he will not return. Rest in peace Boromir, son of Denethor.
He turned from the place that was his past, slung his pack over one shoulder and walked away. A new life had begun.