The battle was as dark, as hopeless, as their worst thoughts had dreamed it might be. Surrounded by enemies at all sides, it wasn't a fight to escape, to live through. It was a fight fought for its own sake. Diversion, distraction. They only fought to keep the enemy fighting long enough that others out in the land beyond might have time to accomplish something great.
He tried his best to keep his eye on Pip - the smallest and weakest shouldn't have even been there, much less fighting on his own. But battle was what it was, and before long Pip was out of his sight and he was too busy trying to stay alive to search the little hobbit out.
He got a wicked blade slice in his arm, and a quick, hasty movement that bent his body nearly backwards had reopened the healing wound in his side. A rake of black fingernails on his face was a token from his slaughter of a large, fierce Uruk.
The screams and cries from all over the field spoke of the inevitable defeat to come. More and more men joined the ranks of wounded and dead, and more uruks and orcs filled in the places they left. Boromir fought, hacking at every black limb that came his way, and he let go of hope for survival and the future.
He had two reasons not to mourn this last battle - he had left the two people he cared for most in safety, and though their end might follow soon at least they wouldn't die at the gates of the black land itself. They would maybe have time to mourn for him, at least a little.
He fought all the harder for knowing he wouldn't last out the day. It gave him a feeling, oddly, of invulnerability. He didn't tire, he didn't fear. He would spend the rest of his life in battle, killing, and he'd make sure that life wasn't wasted, even if it was only a few minutes longer. He was the Steward of Gondor, the leader of his land, and he would die only when a mountain of his enemies had died around him.
But around him, all of the sudden, with nothing he could point to and call a reason...the enemy simply stopped. The fighting orcs, the uruks, and the enormous mountain trolls, all stumbled to a halt and stood blinking around them stupidly. Many were cut down where they stood by energized soldiers not willing to waste the reprieve.
Boromir caught his breath, though, and looked around for the companions he had lost. He saw Gandalf easily enough, still glowing white through a stained robe. Pip was next, hacking away at an enormous troll who had frozen with the hobbit in his grasp.
Boromir moved to him instantly, and though he moved fast he was still not fast enough to escape the notice of a troll. But the troll was dumb with whatever was stunning their enemies, even when Boromir lifted his sword and sliced a hacking blow on his arm. The troll made a noise, a low sound of distress and pain, and Pippin fell gasping to the ground. Boromir hefted him up and crouched. "Are you alright?"
Pippin nodded shakily, pale but staying on his feet. "What's happening?"
"I don't know." Boromir straightened and looked around, but in that instant the scene around them changed again, and the frozen, stunned bodies of their enemies reanimated. But the attack didn't resume. The beasts were scattered suddenly, shouting and panicked as if they had just lost a war Boromir hadn't seen being fought.
It was Aragorn who made him realize. The future king of Gondor hefted a bloodstained sword in the air, and let out a scream of triumph. In that scream was the name Frodo.
Boromir breathed in, and as others took up the cry he gave it himself, the name wrenching joyously from his throat as his shoulders loosed a long-held weight and he realized what was done.
"Frodo?" Pippin grasped at his arm, staring around them as some fighting resumed. The men were not generous in their victory, and the panicking orcs were struck down if they didn't run fast enough. "Frodo!"
"He's done it! He's succeeded!" Boromir hefted the hobbit suddenly, letting out another cry of victory. Elation filled him and he lofted Pippin high before letting him get his feet again. "Frodo!"
Pippin laughed, wonder in his face, and he held up his own small sword and echoed the cry. "Frodo!"
Boromir laughed as he lunged at an orc that ran too close and struck the beast down. He laughed and cried out and called the name of that amazing hobbit who had somehow achieved the impossible.
And he called, while his screams were just a small part of a huge noise, for Merry, for the one he wished most was there to share the victory with him.