"All roads are open to you, my son, and the choice is yours. The days appointed to you are not yet completed, but if you decide so you may stay here with me now. Yet I will open to you any world you wish to enter. Only, this time the decision is final."
They were standing on the top of Amon Hen, and Boromir's eyes drank in the rich green of the forests, the silver sheet of Anduin, the blue ridges of the distant mountains. The warm sun of Middle-earth was caressing his face and bare shoulders and tugging at his heart. Return! He could return to Gondor! Even the wounds, even the pain, even the Dark Lord himself, had lost their menace. His hope was stronger, his spirit's armour impenetrable. Middle-earth! His home.
An eagle was crying up in a sea-blue sky, enjoying its freedom in a wide, sweeping, circling flight full of power and graceful ease. Far below, still looking down from the heights of the old Numenorean watchtower, Boromir, son of Gondor, saw his body float down Anduin towards the Rauros Falls. Now was the chance to return. The sun was sparkling on the water, and the distant roar of Rauros was drawing him, beckoning him. Following the course of the river in his mind, he could see the White City, imbibe the beauty of its towers. His pride. His home. His people. The country he had sworn to fight for. The pearl of Gondor that needed every man – especially its captain. Minas Tirith. Resplendent like the sun on the water – and as transitory?
With furrowed brows he looked into Galathorn's face, searching there for the right decision. It obviously did not matter to Ilúvatar. In a way, Ilúvatar was all that mattered to Boromir, but He would be with him everywhere. "You are needed wherever you go," the mysterious eyes seemed to say. "That's why I must leave the choice to you." Boromir sighed. Gondor was calling him, pulling him strongly in the mighty voice of the River. And yet … the sparkling sun on the water … light blue eyes twinkling with joy … a smile, a laughter like sunrise, pearling and beautiful like the crystal veil of the waterfall …Yes, he needed her. And yes, she needed him. And three times yes, she needed Galathorn!
Oh how he wanted her! 'In good and in bad times.' And how much more even he wanted her to see. To meet the Healer. To have that vacuum filled. To be loved back from darkness into the light of life.
He could tell her. Perhaps no one else ever would. Show her. Try. Try with all he had, with all he was.
Then another thought crept into his mind, furtive and menacing like a spider looking for prey: What if she did not return his love? She had never made that clear explicitly. He was sure now of his feelings for her, but what about her feelings for him? The sunlight seemed to dim, the water to lose its lustre for a moment. Boromir faltered.
Then he set his jaws firmly, doggedly. 'Even so,' he thought, 'Even so.' His heart was aching, exulting with love, a deep, intense, sacrificial love he had never known before, would never have been able to muster himself. Galathorn! Give me her sadness. Let me bear it for her. Let me fight it for her. Let us fight the demons.
'What if you won't find her?' the doubting voice in his head started to nag again. 'What if you'll look different? What if she won't …' Boromir cut it short, brushed it aside like an irksome fly. Even the smallest chance made it worth trying. 'For your happiness, I would give kingdoms and princes.' (And ask nothing in return.) For her happiness, Someone had died.
For the last time, Boromir, son of Ilúvatar, breathed in the sweet scent of the pine forests, filled his lungs with the fresh, fragrant air of Rohan, and then sighed a deep sigh, exhaling Middle-earth.
"Galathorn. I have decided."