"Only a remnant of our foes came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath. I was of the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind us. Four only were saved by swimming: my brother and myself and two others. . ."
-Boromir to Elrond Half-Elven (The Fellowship of the Ring: Many Meetings)
His ears were ringing, though whether with the echoing call to retreat or his own exhaustion he could not tell. He believed every thrust and parry of his sword would be his last, but then another one of the devilish creatures would advance upon him and somehow he would find the strength to drive his blade home once more. Every bone in his body ached from his efforts, and his senses swam. As he withdrew his bloodied blade from some now-lifeless carcass, he fell against the pile of rubble behind him. He knew this street, he realized between desperate gasps for breath. There was an excellent pub at the far end where he had spent many an evening before a roaring fire, enjoying good food and drink and the company of his men. Or rather, there once had been such a place – now it was merely a pile of debris with hardly a stone left upon a stone.
He was roused from his thoughts by the high, swift song of an arrow near his ear. A foully misshapen orc fell upon the dead one at his feet, a dark shaft with familiar feathering sticking out of its back. With a gesture borne more of instinct than thought, he thrust his own sword through the sturdy yet strangely frail body and ensured the creature's death. He looked about to see who had come to his aid and could not help but smile. Above him in the darkness he could distinguish a shadowy figure perched in the ruins of a tower, and from the lithe way it moved Boromir knew it could be none other than his brother, Faramir.
Boromir faintly heard his brother shouting, but could not make out the words over the din of battle. It had been raging so long now that Boromir hardly noticed it anymore – or perhaps he was merely becoming deaf: either was quite possible now. With great effort Boromir attempted to focus his attention upon the words Faramir was now nearly shouting in his ear.
"Boromir! I have ordered what men are left to retreat from this madness! Osgiliath is overrun, and something foul is on the wind."
Boromir nodded his agreement, but felt compelled to point out between heavy breaths that "The Steward will be most displeased with us, little brother."
Faramir's countenance twisted with dry humor as he slung one of Boromir's arms over his own shoulders and helped him to run down the narrow alleys towards the river. Faramir moved as one who knew his purpose and terrain well, and despite the rampant destruction all around them his feet never faltered. "The Steward will be displeased with me, Boromir," he replied with a tired smile. "But it is just as well that the loss of Osgiliath fall on my shoulders, for I believe my reputation will suffer the loss better."
"You do yourself little credit, Faramir," Boromir snapped impatiently. His flagging energy sparked at the thought of his brother taking full blame for the complete rout that this was. Their company had been attacked unawares at night by overwhelming forces that had quickly overrun what was left of the eastern banks of the city. It angered Boromir to reflect that despite this, Lord Denethor would likely take a harsh view of Faramir's leadership, as it had been Faramir's company that had been in the field when the mysterious dark riders had led the first charge, and therefore had suffered the worst losses.
It was just as well that the prince's thoughts so roused his flagging spirits, as a squadron of orcs appeared around the corner and surprised them. The princes' entire lives, short as they had been, had been spent in preparation for just such moments as these, and they fought well together.
While Faramir defended himself well, he rarely attacked unless victory was assured, and preferred the distance and safety offered by the bow over the close combat of swords. Boromir, on the other hand, threw himself now into the fray with a loud cry and such energy that it was bewildering he should still possess after so long an engagement.
It was not long before there were eight more corpses festering in the unusually sweltering spring night – the stench of so much death was enough to turn even the strongest of stomachs. Boroir leaned over and grasped his knees as he once again tried to catch his ever-elusive breath. After a long moment he straightened and glanced over at his brother, who was wiping the blood from his sword with one of the orc's crude garments before sheathing it.
"When I ordered the general retreat I instructed our captains to row or sink any remaining boats on this side," Faramir explained as though sensing his brother's question. "They should currently be attempted to destroy the bridge. If we can keep the waters of the Anduin between Mordor and Minas Tirith, we may be able to return with greater numbers and reclaim this night's losses."
"Ever the strategist," Boromir remarked fondly. "I assume you instructed them to wait until we were also across the river before they demolish our only means of escape?"
Faramir grinned. "Why, did you forget how to swim, brother?"
"Not at all," Boromir replied lightly. "But you know how unfashionable it is to be seen bathing in armor."
Faramir's quick laugh was a comfort to his brother's heart, but joy turned to concern as Faramir's face twisted with sudden pain and he grasped at his side. Boromir saw with dismay that the strange discoloration of his brother's tunic was no trick of the moonlight, and rebuked his younger brother sternly for not mentioning a wound earlier. Faramir insisted that it was only superficial, and in deference to the urgency of their situation Boromir did not insist on tending to it immediately. There was a decided quickening of their steps, though, as they resumed their journey to the bridge. Both brothers were so weary by now that it was not immediately evident who was helping the other as they scurried towards the water's edge.
As they ran, Boromir's thoughts wandered far afield. Though flying boulders were destroying the buildings around them and reducing the proud streets to dust, the sounds of battle faded until the only noise that filled his ears was that of his brother's increasingly labored breathing. Faramir had ever been the less hardy of the Steward's sons, but he more than made up for his physical weaknesses with sheer power of will. Boromir had little doubt that Faramir's tendency towards stubbornness was only fostered by their father's habit of constantly belittling the skills and efforts of his youngest son, but there was little Boromir could do but pick up the pieces after every argument and watch over his little brother like a hawk does its prey. He had promised their mother, after all.
The bridge was near at hand now. The sound of hammering floated on the wind over the swift waters and spurred the princes on towards the place where the men of Gondor worked furiously to weaken the pillars of the one surviving bridge that connected the Great River's banks for hundreds of miles. When they caught sight of the princes, the soldiers began to shout furiously. Two ran towards them to offer their assistance, all the while waving at something upon the eastern bank. It was Faramir who realized that their cries were not ones of encouragement, but of warning, and the younger prince turned to see that at least ten hellish beasts were bearing down upon them. He stopped abruptly to grope for arrows only to discover that he had but one remaining, and the pain of his wound made it impossible for him to fire even that one.
Between the roar of the water and his own heart, Boromir had not heard the soldier's warning cries and had barreled on towards the other side of the bridge. He was more than half-way across when he realized his brother's absence. He turned to see Faramir collapse to the ground some distance behind him as the younger prince's strength finally failed him, and vaguely recognized the anguished cry that rose over the din as his own. There was a confusion of shouting and running as a soldier ran past him to Faramir's aid and another grabbed at Boromir's own elbow. The weakening bridge was swaying dangerously now, and Boromir and his helper were thrown off their feet. Boromir watched in horror as the far edge of the bridge collapsed under the added weight of the attacking orcs and Faramir was sent tumbling into the river below.
Boromir gained his footing and leapt after his brother without hesitation, his sole thought to protect Faramir from the falling sections of the bridge. The coldness of the water as he hit the surface nearly stole his breath away, and a curious lethargy washed over him. It would be so much easier, the thought came to him, to let the quiet waters carry him away towards peace rather than struggle now. A loud splash recalled him to his purpose, though, and Boromir flailed about wildly in search of his brother in the dark waters. At last Boromir saw his brother's tawny hair bobbing just barely above the surface not far from his outstretched hand. Faramir was clinging desperately to one of the bridge pilings with one hand; the other was curled protectively around his wounded side.
Fueled by the sight of his brother's plight, Boromir managed to swim to Faramir's side and drag him towards the far bank. He muttered meaningless words of comfort in Faramir's ears despite needing the strength of each breath, and tried not to panic as his little brother's grip on his own tunic weakened. Had his life not endangered by the sight, Boromir would have wept to watch the centuries-old white stone crashing all around them into the Anduin with resounding finality. Hands stretched out to bring them to the safety of the opposite shore, but none could pry the limp form of Faramir from his brother's arms. Boromir continued to cradle the bloodied head in his arms tightly, and did not notice when the silver sliver of a moon above was at last consumed in a deafening cloud of darkness.