This is a 500 word ummm, drabble? Though I really don't know what that means. I ramble on for a bit, I just hoped that I managed to convey a feeling in my ridiculously short composition. I like Boromir. This is the movie Boromir, though he may parallel the book one too, I can't really recall too much of him, partially because I'm watching the movie right now, not reading. I feel bad for him, and wish him happiness, though this isn't the story for it. He's already dead here. I think I stole some of what he said, and none of pretty much anything is mine. Neither is the Robert Jordan ages come again thing. It's changed, but I'm pretty cure didn't make it up. It's too lyrical. Read:
The little boat tumbled down the roaring wall of water. The mist from the waterfall fell around him as he also fell to the depths of the river Anduin, laid to rest, a warrior's death, sword in hand. A noble death, it would please him, were he there to see it.
But he was riding along the plains of Osgiliath, the hooves of his horse beating out the tempo for the sound of triumphant silver trumpets. It was his last dream, not for glory but a chance at peace, to see what he struggled for so long commemorated in this vision of the shining white silhouette. It was as he remembered it in old, as it is only imagined now. For nothing could amount to that city, the city of Gondor.
The gates were open; there was no fear, or battle-wear to be seen anywhere in the place or around it. The deep-seated fear of Mordor was gone, for there was no menacing mountain on the horizon, no Barad-dur to worry the soldiers. Though still far away, he knew that people were there to greet him. No sadness, no anger, only the sound of the horns beckoning him towards his White City.
The wind whipped his hair out of his face, and the cares of his life were blown silently into the winds of time, falling into the earth to be lost and to be later found. Accounts of that life were of that world. All that was left was him and the plains and Minas Tirith.
He closed his eyes, and all was well, the music rang in his ears and the memory of the elf-queen's words in his mind faded, for he had paid his debt, regretted and resisted that power, gone to the light, though he could not see it then. He had died an honorable death, with Aragorn as his captain and king. The hobbits had been saved, and would soon be safe from harm and the scars of this world.
Drinking in the sights and sounds of this life and age, there was a smile on his lips. All would remember the Third Age of Middle Earth as the one to remember, until myth became legend and the worlds were made anew and ages came again.
He did not think of being remembered himself, though not complaining if he was, just as long as they had lived to be remembered, his efforts were well worth dying for. Those hobbits held the fate of them all; they had to survive to save everyone. And they would. All of them had lives to live and deeds to do. He had done his.
After riding a timeless passage, stars wheeling overhead, sun in the sky, his horse reached the gates of Minas Tirith and his eyes were wide open as if to see every detail, catch them all before they could change. He was here again, here at last. A Lord of Gondor had returned. Boromir was home.
Read and Review, I haven't even read any of the Lord of the Ring fics yet, it's just really early in the morning and I wanted to get this down and post it. BTW when I said that there were only the plains, him and the city, the horse is still there but, that didn't seem poetic. Sadly enough, that was also the only name of a river I could remember, so that's what I put down, if you tell me the real one, I'll fix it. Tell me what you think, because I don't know what I think yet. Thanx! -Silveni Jinx