Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Boromir’s survival was not a divine intervention, though it surely felt like it.

When he recalled the events that transpired after his departure, so to say, there were some moments that he had no memory of, with some gaps having been filled by Elves, but not all. Some things, however, he remembered with surprising clarity.

Like Amon Hen. Every second was burned into his mind and he knew it would stay there for the rest of his life. But he remembered little of what happened after he passed out. His body was retrieved from the shore, but he didn’t know how he had gotten there.

He woke up because of a touch. Through his eyes, half closed and sensitive to light, but surprisingly clear and attentive, he caught a sight so beautiful, so unearthly, he could only stare in disbelief. He’d thought he was dead, had it not been for the pain. Sharp, quickly spreading through his whole body like a disease, making him nauseous, making him beg for the end.

There was a creature made of light holding him for a while. Their touch was gentle and their whispers comforting, though he didn’t understand their speech. He didn’t recognise their face either, later learning them to be a scout of Lothlórien, who upon seeing what he thought was a corpse, accidentally found the alive, but with a weak pulse, Captain of Gondor. Noting the urgency, he departed from his fellow guards and rushed to their realm with the hope Lady Galadriel will be able to save him.

He had apparently voiced his admiration of the Elf’s looks, however slurred his words were, he was understood well, for after he woke up, a long while later, the man was barely able to look at him, without a very alarming blush covering his face.

Boromir did apologise for his directness and blamed it on his severe blood loss. He didn’t retract the statement, for he was a very handsome fellow, even without his skin shimmering in the sun.

His time in Lothlórien felt more like fantasy than reality. He woke up from a dreamless slumber, convinced he had closed his eyes for a moment and learnt a week has passed. He was dazed and frantic and eager to get out of the bed, but he wasn’t allowed to leave yet. He was examined carefully and to his own surprise (not to the Elves, for them it must have been commonplace) he noticed he was healed. His wounds left scars, of course. Big and shiny lines in three separate points on his shoulder. They were ugly, to put it bluntly. According to the medics, the arrows that hit him have been tainted with. By the time they’ve been taken out, they have spread their poison already and caused irreparable damage.

He had been told that if he didn’t strain his arm, it shouldn’t hurt at all. This advice was paired with a scolding tone and a glare, but they both knew the minute he left, he would not be careful.

His conversations with Lady Galadriel were scarce, but each of them brought some new revelation, or quite the opposite.

She had informed him of what had happened while he was gone. To say he was terrified would be an understatement. It seemed, since his failure, the situation got progressively worse and worse. He’s heard of the displacement of the Rohirrim, and the journey Frodo decided to take in alone and would have, had it not been for Sam, who in his stubbornness (and love, Boromir was sure) joined him in his quest.

“Not all is lost yet.” She said, looking far away as if gazing into the future. “There is still hope, though it is fading. I’m giving you a second chance. Use it wisely, Boromir, son of Denethor.”

Never before had he felt as small and dependent as in that moment. He was utterly at her mercy, powerless and so painfully mortal, it made him recoil in fear.

He was on the road the same day. He was, very kindly, given a horse named Hiswë*, an animal of rare beauty, steady on his legs and faster than most. With his sword by his side and enough food to last for days, he rushed to Gondor. The Fellowship was broken and all of them were scattered across Middle Earth. He had no way of knowing who, if anyone, he would meet on his way, but he knew that he belonged in Gondor. He belonged with his people.

There was one important thing, however, that was missing from his equipment. Somewhere along the way he must have lost the Horn. He shuddered at the thought of who might have found it. Anyone from Gondor would know he would not abandon it unless he had fallen in battle. It was dear to him, an artefact of hundreds of years, something from home. It would be nearly impossible to retrieve it now.

There was another, stranger thing. His vambraces were gone and he didn’t recall taking them off. They must have fallen off somewhere, perhaps alongside the Horn. It felt strange to not have them tightly embracing his wrists at all times; the ones the elves gifted him were a bit loose; but he’d survive.

He owed the Elves a lot. He had no idea how he could repay them for their hospitality. When asked, they claimed they didn’t need anything. His manners told him otherwise. He should ask someone who was more knowledgeable on their customs to guide him. Someone like Aragorn.

Life-debts aside, there was a great war awaiting them, one that would undoubtedly decide the future of the world. Even in the best case scenario lives would be lost and every life was one too many. In the worse case- He feared Gondor might be wiped off the face of the earth. Sauron’s army was powerful and Men had few allies. He had to be there. Even if only to watch his city fall. He had to know he tried to save it.

Admittedly, he strained himself and his horse far too much than was prudent. Going against the medical advice he was given had instantaneous consequences. Whether the pain in his shoulder came from the actual injury, or from his own head was unclear, but if he had to bet, he’d choose the latter, for it intensifies, sending hot waves over his body, each time he worried.

Seeing the White City on the horizon made his head spin. It was as beautiful as before. A serene, steady figure welcoming him home. Just a day more and he’d be there, he thought and charged forward.

He stopped briefly to get some rest and eat. He was so close now, so close it made his heart ache, but the exhaustion won over and Hiswë was getting fussy having been running with almost no breaks for days and refused to move. He laid his back against a tree and closed his eyes for just a second. Just a second to quiet his head-

He was woken up abruptly by a loud noise. He jumped to his feet and looked around, but there was nothing. The sound appeared again, the horse stumbled back and neighed.

He shushed it. “Listen. Do you hear this?” Hiswë watched him with keen, clever eyes. “Worry not. There is no need for you to join the battle. Take me closer and I’ll let you go home.” The horse snorted, as if understanding. “Good boy. Let us go.”

The forces of the enemy were grand but most were still far away. He watched them and rode to the front of the City. There he stopped and got down. He brushed the horse’s mane.

“Go back to your Lady.” It hung its head low, almost touching him with its nose. “Do not worry about me. I will be fine. Go.” He unfastened the equipment and set it free.

His city was slowly being surrounded by an army of an overwhelming number. The clatter of armour and the rhythmic stamping of thousands of feet was banging in his ears. He took a deep breath. This, he knew how to do. He gripped his blade and charged on.

Battles, in their nature, reminded Boromir of a living organism. They moved with its people, forward, then back, then forward again. Like breathing. For every breath you take, you must let one go. It shifts, spreads and shrinks as time passes, as cells in it die one after the other, leaving only the strongest few. It dwindles, and suddenly stops.

There is a comfort to be found amongst this dance of terror and death. He was right where he should have always been. At home, protecting his people. Just like he promised.

He fought alongside his fellow Gondorians, clad in elegant silver. His army, the people he had trained and those that he remembered playing with as a child. He watched them die, and watched them mourn and scream as another person was pierced by arrows, or had their limbs either injured or cut off completely from their bodies. The organism screeched loudly as if cut and more and more blood scattered across the field, sinking deep into the soil beneath their feet.

He was getting breathless, but he did not stop for even a second. He killed and killed and killed more and more-

Then an odd thing happened. The time slowed down as the battlefield was flooded by an ocean worth of warriors. A huge army that didn’t belong there. Its Men were translucent but with a particular green hue. They flew over the ground and slashed every orc, their heads falling off their bodies and hitting the ground with a distinct thud.

He knew what they were. He’s heard enough tales to know what hid in the mountains. The kings of old have once again raised their swords in unity.

‘Finally’, he thought. Finally Aragorn gave up his pointless fight against fate and rose to his duty.

Boromir remembered standing there, amid his fallen comrades and looking first up, to the sky. A small droplet of water fell at his face, followed soon by another. And he stood for a while in the drizzle and wondered how much of the blood shed that day would go down with it lower, towards the sea.

Then, the pressure in his ears gave out and he could hear the havoc around him. He could hear the screams again, the cries, this time not drowned out by the whistle of the swords and the hum of the arrows.

When he touched his face, to get the rain out of it, it came away bloody. Then, he felt the pain. He touched his forehead and hissed. There was a gash near his hairline.

Somebody bumped into him. That brought him back to earth and he realised the tough part has only just begun. The battle might have been won, but their fate had not been decided yet, for it was still in the hands of one, tiny Hobbit.

Now came the part of counting their losses. Searching through the field and piling up the bodies. He feared for his brother. Oh, how he hoped he wouldn’t have to pick him up from the fallen.

He walked by the corpses, moving some with his hands to uncover their faces. Some he recognised, some he didn’t. He winced each time he touched an orc’s cadaver. The stench of their bodies made his already weakened head spin.

No matter how hard he looked, Faramir was not there. He wasn’t lying on the ground, but neither was he standing and helping the hurt. He wasn’t there at all. Where was he then?

After what felt like hours, he stumbled upon someone he knew very well. Éomer was hugging the body of a blond man- No, a blond woman. He was holding Éowyn. What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she inside with the other women and the children? Éomer did not raise his head when he came closer and called his name. He stared blankly at his sister, disconnected from the world around him.

Boromir knelt next to him and touched his arm. “Let’s carry her inside.”

His friend looked up at him then, his eyes wide in surprise, his mouth opened and trembling, gaping at him. His face was wet from the tears and the rain. His hand was shaking as he raised the left one to touch his face, as if to check if he was real.

“Boromir?”

He hasn't seen his friend quite as grief-stricken as now in his whole life. His voice was rough when he responded. “I’m here. How is she?”

Éowyn's lower body, the part not propped up by her brother, laid seemingly lifeless on the ground, covered in grime and sweat. She has put up quite a fight, if he were to judge by the decapitated beast and a dead Nazgûl. She must have killed him. No wonder, he mused. She was always very brave. He leaned forward and touched her forehead. She was still warm.

“How are you here? They said you were dead!”

He suspected that, of course, yet still a shiver ran up his spine. “They were wrong.”

“This is a miracle.” The Rohir mumbled under his breath, looking starstruck. “A damn miracle.”

Boromir placed his hands underneath Éomer’s and tried to pick Éowyn up, but he wasn’t letting her go.

“Give her to me, I’ll bring her inside. Let me help you.”

He finally relented and allowed him to carry her. Before getting up from the ground, he, just like Boromir had done before, raised his head to the sky, and whispered. “Thank you and thank whatever force that has brought you back.”

He did bother to correct him that the ‘force’ was nothing other than a work of Elves and he should not ascribe it to any higher power. The Valar had nothing to do with it. They probably didn’t even know of his existence, nor did they care.

They walked quickly, for Éowyn’s life was at stake. He could feel warmth leaving her body with each passing second. Boromir took a deep breath. He never suspected he’d find himself in this situation, carrying a maiden out of a battle. He held her tighter, pressing her against his chest. Just a bit more and they’d be inside.

Suddenly Éomer stopped and grabbed his arm. He looked pale. “Boromir…” He began.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt also?” He asked, turning to face him. The Rohir didn’t seem to be injured, but perhaps it was concealed by his clothes or his armour. He looked him over once more, but he didn’t appear to be bleeding. He might have suffered a head wound.

Éomer shook his head, but Boromir wasn’t fooled. He was in a serious state of distress. “No, I’m fine.”

Boromir glared at him sceptically. He looked anything but fine. Was he sure his head was alright? “We don’t have time for talking.” He protested. He hoped his friend was not panicking. It would be odd, after all he was no stranger to death, or battle.

He didn’t budge. Instead he took a deep, but shaky breath and wiped sweat off his forehead. “I must tell you something.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No!” Well alright then, Boromir nodded encouragingly, though remained worried for his friend's sanity. He finally blurted it out in one single breath. “Théodred is dead. I’m so sorry-”

At first he was sure he must have misheard him. It was so loud after all, so many voices overlapping, screams and cries, he could have- Maybe he was talking about his uncle? They had such similar names. But the broken apology made it clear he heard him right.

There was a ringing in his ears, and he realised no outside sound could reach him anymore. His chest felt tight and he pressed Éowyn closer.

Dead.

No, Théodred wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.

He was supposed to get married, start a family. He was supposed to have children! That was the plan. That was meant to be his future.

What did he mean, dead? He was alive just a second ago, just three years ago they saw each other for the last time- Oh… Was it really their last? Would he never see him again? Never see the way the light reflected in his green eyes?

Boromir was going to be sick.

Éomer shook his shoulder. He was saying something, though what it was, Boromir didn’t hear.

“What?” His own voice sounded distant to him, like spoken miles and miles away.

The Rohir was visibly relieved for a second, glad he wasn’t gone completely, then he looked panicked again. “I’m so sorry. I’ll tell you everything later. Let’s just get her inside, please.”

Later. Please. Yes, he would deal with this later. Currently, healing Éowyn and finding his brother was of utmost importance.

“Right. Right.”

The rain was getting heavier and heavier as they approached the entrance to the White City, so they sped up. Once inside, they had to push their way around, there were so many people cramped up in the corridors made only for travel. People were frantically looking for their family, yelling their names, bringing the injured to the infirmary. Horses were running around loose, having lost their owners, either in battle or in the turmoil. Some, turned their heads around at the sight of them, probably wondering whether or not they’ve just seen a ghost, or if he was just an extremely similar looking man. That, or they’ve noted the wounded person he carried was a woman.

Once they got higher, passed through one more corridor, climbed one more staircase, they noticed a familiar figure.

He stood there, in the middle of the room, in his usual clothes, but more filthy than before, covered in sweat, dirt and blood. He held a sword that Boromir recognised very well, but it was not the one he wielded when they parted.

He looked more beautiful than ever before.

Aragorn was deep in conversation with one of the medics, when they approached him.

Boromir, for the first time in his life, was truly speechless. There weren’t any words that he could say that would ease the situation, that would explain anything that has happened and that would apologise without this turning into a hours long conversation, where only he would speak. They haven’t had the time for that. Not yet. Not while the war wasn’t over. Not while thinking about what happened made him want to bury himself six metres under the ground.

Thankfully Éomer stepped in, “Aragorn, Éowyn was hurt in combat. She needs your help.”

At these words, their conversation stopped, the other man mumbled something quietly then went back to his patients and Aragorn turned to them. He was worried, his furrowed brows, creating a deep line through his forehead. Good. He’s made alliances and meaningful ones. Ones he likely wouldn’t have, had he still just like Gandalf, held a deep mistrust for the people of Rohan.

Then, his eyes widened, He blinked once, twice.

Boromir couldn’t help but smile. A weak, shy thing, and he felt his lips tremble a little from the cold and the exhaustion, but a real smile nonetheless. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Put her on a bed. I’ll be there shortly.” He spoke to Éomer, but his eyes hadn’t once left Boromir.

Éomer took his sister into his arms and passed them, looking around the room for an empty bed. That might have been all in his head, but to Boromir, once he had left, it seemed he and Aragorn were the only ones in the whole of Arda. The crowd around them was moving and talking loudly, some people bumped into him and didn’t bother apologising, but he could swear he heard the other man's heartbeat.

“Are you really here? Or are my senses deceiving me?” He asked, sounding as astonished as he looked. If Boromir didn’t know better, he'd say there was hope in his eyes.

“I am.”

At that, Aragorn strode the distance between them and embraced him in a tight hug. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you alive and well.” He was so close, his breath tickled his skin. He could almost feel the curl of his lips on his neck.

Boromir melted into his touch. He closed his eyes and for a moment he could pretend nothing was wrong at all. That there weren’t weeks worth of gaps between them. That the world wasn’t ending at all, like it wasn’t possibly the last time they saw each other.

“How? We were sure you were gone.”

So was I. That’s why I said goodbye.

His throat was tight. “I was breathing, but just barely. I do not blame you.”

“Had we known, Boromir, I would have never left you.”

Realistically, even if they had realised he was not dead, it wouldn’t be a far reach to say they would have still left him. It wasn’t the nicest of perspectives, but he wouldn’t blame them for it either. They had no way of curing him, barely had any cloth to dress his wounds, much less the herbs and the precious time to help him properly.

“Let us not dwell on it.” He responded.

Not when he still felt the river on his skin and the metal in his flesh. Not when the sheer want for the Ring still hung above him like a noose, though distant now, unreachable, it hadn’t stopped haunting him. Especially so at night.

“Perhaps you are right, friend. What matters is that you are here.”

His heart stopped when he heard Aragorn still considered them to be friends after what had happened. He had expected to be thoroughly interrogated, accused of witchcraft or something of that sort for his miraculous return, but what he got was undisputed acceptance. And a smile.

Éomer came back and placed his hand on his arm. “Can you help her?” In a tone clearly distraught at the prospect it might soon be too late for her. “She’s getting colder.”

He smiled, in a comforting way, like a true King should. It made Boromir think, ‘yes, with him here, everything will be better’. “I’ll do everything in my power. Lead us.”

People said that the hands of a true King heal. Boromir always imagined it was a fable, not to be taken literally, that perhaps it was a note to his ruling abilities - the right King would not let his people to live in sickness and torment - but no. They were right.

Watching Aragorn heal was an experience he was more than privileged to observe, the King gently caressing Éowyn’s pale face with a damp cloth. His moves were slow and deliberate. He was whispering something to himself, not once losing focus on his task.

Boromir knew soon he’d have to search the whole city for his brother and he should be doing it now, but he couldn’t avert his eyes, not for a moment. Maybe if he waited, they’d go look together. No, who was he kidding. Aragorn would stay and tend to the sick. But, perhaps, he could push him in the right direction.

He could also ask some questions. Mostly about the little ones. He had lost sight of them over a week ago. He’d failed to protect them, but someone else could have saved them. Someone more competent than him. Someone with a clearer head. With the right vision.

Someone, who opened his sharp eyes and spoke to Éomer. “I will need your help.”

“What do you need? I can go-”

“No.” He interrupted. “I need you here. Give me your hand.”

Éomer was taken aback. “My hand? Of course. But may I ask for what?”

“Watch.” He answered as he pressed the Rohir’s hand to his sister’s chest and on command Éowyn woke up.

She opened her eyes, then closed them immediately, due to the light and groaned. Éomer jumped up to her and grabbed her face. He was crying again. Boromir watched them, happy to see them reunite and in one piece, but he backed away. He didn’t think showing his face to her now was a good idea, she’d only be confused and might panic.

“Oh, sweet sister. You’re awake!” She opened her mouth. “No, don’t try to speak. Everything is fine. You’ll be fine.” He turned to Aragorn. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You are a miracle worker.”

“I’m nothing of that sort. She woke up to you. I’ll leave you now, make sure she doesn’t strain herself.” He looked at Boromir. “Shall we?”

Boromir nodded, not certain what he was agreeing to. He walked him out of the room, onto a smaller one, less crowded.

Aragorn gestured for them to sit on a bench. “I was thinking you’d like to know what happened after… Since you’ve departed from us.” He chose his words carefully, cautious not to cause offence, or hurt. Very considerate of him, but Boromir would prefer for him to be direct.

“I will not rest before I find my brother.”

“Right. Of course. Could I join you? I’ve found it’s easier to do things in pairs than alone.” He smiled.

“You may. Especially if he is wounded. Have you met him already?” They were walking up the stairs now, since Aragorn claimed there was no man under that name in the lower floors.

“I did not. When we arrived the fight had already begun.” Boromir feared what that meant for his brother. Was it possible he was not a part of the battle at all? Aragorn continued. “What should I look for? Does he look like you?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Usually those who had not met both of their parents said yes. Aragorn, to Boromir’s shock, admitted months ago his real age and spoke of his brief time in Gondor under a secret identity. “You said you knew my mother.”

Aragorn nodded. “I did.”

“Look for her.”

They passed through many rooms yet he was in none of them, neither amongst the standing, nor those on the makeshift beds. They didn’t see his father either. He hoped to find Faramir first. The thought of his little brother believing he was dead for any longer than necessary was killing him.

He couldn’t wait to find him and scoop him into the longest hug they’ve ever shared.

Then, finally, once they’ve reached the castle he noticed a guard he recognised well. He stood next to a tall and white figure. It glowed against the dark stone, separating itself clearly from the people around it. It reminded him of someone.

“That’s Gandalf.” Aragorn smiled once more. “This was a quest of many miracles.”

Curious. Last time he was grey.

Gandalf, though his comeback was a surprise, was not what took his attention. It was Faramir, who he realised was propped up against the wall. He was unconscious. His hair and clothes stuck to his skin. They looked wet.

He ran up to him, his heart racing, and gathered the hair away from his face. His forehead was burning up. There was no reaction from him. The liquid he was covered in wasn’t water like he suspected, but something thicker with a distinguishable smell.

“Is he ill?” He turned to the wizard.

Gandalf did not look surprised to see him at all. He answered loudly. “Not ill, Boromir, but badly injured.”

“Can you fix him?” He spoke to both him and Aragorn. “Is this oil?” He asked, wiping his hand on his coat.

“Boromir, is that you?” A tiny voice emerged from behind him. Pippin stared at him with eyes the size of plates. There was barely a scratch on the boy, save for a small one on his cheek. He didn’t appear to be limping and wasn’t crouching down from pain.

Pippin was fine, he realised with glee. They got back the little ones. But where was Merry?

“It is me.”

Before he had a chance to react, the Hobbit ran up to him. Boromir was crouching down, so the kid didn’t have to reach high as he wrapped his little hands around him. He was trembling and soon he realised Pippin was crying.

He stood up shakily, still holding him close. “Hey, don’t cry.”

That seemed to ignite him more. He exclaimed. “Aragorn told me you were dead!” And punched his back with his fists.

“We should carry him someplace comfortable so you can heal him.” Boromir heard Gandalf speak to Aragorn. He nodded and with the help from the guard he picked him up.

Boromir rushed to assist them, but the Hobbit’s grip was surprisingly strong. Gandalf leaned in towards him and whispered. “He saved your brother’s life. Had it not been for his quick thinking he’d be gone.”

“Did you really?”

Pippin nodded weakly. “Your father is crazy. He tried to set Faramir on fire. I had to stop him!”

“He tried to do what?” He glanced back at his brother, now laying on a bench with Aragorn hovering over him. “Pippin, where is my father?”

***

“How much do you know?”

The revelation about his father’s death began a real chaos. As the information set in; that he had lost two people and almost a third; Pippin began to panic. Through his mumbling he learned two things. One, that he became a part of the Gondorian guard, the details of how it came to be were spared (Boromir swore to ask him about it later) and the second was that he and Merry were separated and his whereabouts were unknown.

They moved Faramir to a lower floor, onto a bed next to Éowyn’s. She perked up at hearing the name ‘Merry’ and confessed they rode to battle together. Boromir offered to go find him and Pippin insisted he must go with him, so they left Aragorn and Gandalf with the sick and began searching. Thankfully, though battered and shaken, Merry was alive. Watching the friends reunite was truly heartwarming. He used to be terrified they would get hurt or worse, so having them both so close at the reach of his hand, calmed his heart significantly. They brought him back to the City so he could rest.

Later, he joined Aragorn and Éomer in one of the bigger halls they’ve designated as a dining space. They sat at one of the tables, further away from the crowd. They’ve received plenty of stares, but nobody bothered them.

He swallowed the food. “Little more than what you told me. Most I’ve found out today.”

Knowing the Hobbits have been taken care of was a relief. Seeing his little brother in this state of distress was not easy, but at least he would be well eventually. The deaths, both of his father and of Théodred, he hasn’t processed yet. They occupied his mind constantly, but not intrusively, more like a dark shadow looming from the corner of his eye. Always present, but with enough work, possible to ignore.

Aragorn looked at him, taken aback. “I assumed The Lady allowed you to gaze into the Mirror.”

Éomer chimed in. “I’ve heard of it. It allows you to see the future, doesn’t it?”

“Only sometimes and to very few people.” Boromir answered him, then Aragorn. “She offered. I didn’t want to.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to pass up such an opportunity.” Éomer sighed. “Wouldn’t it give you comfort to know what waits ahead of you?”

Aragorn shook his head. “It is not our place to judge Boromir’s choice. None of us have been offered this gift, we can’t know what that’s like.”

“Not even you? I’d have thought with how much time you spend around Elves, she’d have asked you.” The Rohir said curiously.

“She hadn’t. I haven’t been to Lórien much. I am not sure what I’d do given that choice.” He shook his head again. “We are here to discuss what happened and so, I shall tell you the story. You must know Frodo departed from us and headed to Mordor and that Sam has joined him. Brave Hobbits they are, but not the luckiest. It is not their fault, but they have unknowingly chosen the most dangerous path there is. We have no way of contacting them and can only hope they get there in one piece.”

“Are you telling me the fate of the entire Arda will ultimately be decided by luck?” Éomer dropped his fork.

Boromir looked away.

If they were to fail, if the Hobbits got lost or captured, if they died half-way through, killed by the toxic smoke or the poisonous plants, if Sauron got his Ring back and destroyed all life and beauty, it would not be because of ‘bad luck’.

It would not be the Hobbit’s fault, for their hearts were too pure to answer the call of the Ring. It would not be the fault of the Elves who send them there, or poor Bilbo Baggins’ who has found the wretched thing, or Gandalf’s who in his eternal wiseness decided who should be the ringbearer and did not take it himself.

The only one to blame would be the fool who let his own desires and fears possess him and gave into the easiest of temptations.

“None of us could have changed this. We have to believe there is a force out there greater than us that looks out for Frodo.”

He looked up to watch the face of the man who did what he could not. He was calm, at peace with whatever was to come, but full of hope. Ready to take his sword and lead his - their - people to their victory or peril.

He was always an honourable man. One, any would follow into battle with impeccable trust.

“We have to help any way we can from here.” Aragorn declared with determination.

Éomer was as mesmerised by his confidence as Boromir. “You said he’s with a friend, did you not?”

“Yes, Sam is accompanying him. I spent a lot of time around just the four of them and I have to admit I’ve never seen such devotion like the one Sam has for Frodo.”

“Then I am glad he’s not alone.” And he went back to eating.

The love between the little ones was not as much of a consolation as others though it was. Yes, the Hobbits were creatures of innocence and they lacked greed, yes they loved each other dearly, but if Frodo felt a slither of what Boromir did when around the Ring, one wrong move and their bond would be broken. He could hope Frodo didn’t break, but as months passed the world turned darker and with it the forces of evil became stronger, more cunning, more insidious.

“He could have gone with eight more people.” He murmured finally, breaking the silence. The words slipped out subconsciously, though they were true, he didn’t exactly want to voice them.

Aragorn glared at him. “You shouldn’t wish for a different outcome when this one hasn’t failed yet. There is still hope. You were saved. Don’t you think there might be a purpose for you here? That the world is not ending yet and it needs your input in it?”

‘The world has been ending for months.’ He wanted to respond. ‘Can’t you see that?’

He still felt the arrows in his arms; long gone now, ripped out of his flesh quickly; he remembered that moment of indignity like it was yesterday, perhaps he still felt the damp mud on his skin and the humid air and the mind-numbing pain. When he closed his eyes at night, not really sleeping, but not fully awake either, he saw the black eyes of the one who had decided his fate and saw death.

These days when his mind was plagued by The Ring’s venom might have passed, but the fear remained. The shame was an ever present noose on his neck. The hope… The hope he had lost so long ago returned slowly, in faint waves, as he looked at the heir of Isildur.

“You vastly oversell my importance. But I will fight. Whatever the outcome might be, I will fight by your side. Is that good enough for you?”

His gaze softened. “For now it is. Now, let us finish quickly and find Legolas and Gimli. We shall plan our next move.”

**

During the first night everything in his room felt unfamiliar. It’s been over a year after all. A year of sleeping (or not) outside, in forests, caves or on mountaintops covered in snow has vastly unprepared him for this moment. Yes, the conditions in Lotrien were much better and he had been given his own bed, yet he used it scarcely.

Now, laying between clean and soft sheets he couldn’t find ease. He kept turning from one side to the other, or rather tried to, for his shoulder forbid him from it. He settled on staring at the ceiling. It was painfully quiet. He was used to noises, either the Hobbit’s snoring, the shuffling once someone decided to leave their bedroll, or the general sounds of nature.

He thought briefly of opening his door to welcome the noise from the corridors, but decided against it. There was nobody in his wing, save for Legolas and that’s if he stayed anyway. Faramir remained amongst the sick, as did Éomer and Gimli, who got a minor head injury in the battle. Aragorn was offered the royal rooms, yet chose a regular one meant for guests.

He sighed. He was tired, extremely so, having travelled nonstop for days, then he fought and strained his arm. Aragorn banished him to bed and said he, himself, would retire soon. It was a lie, probably, but he didn’t argue.

Still, he would manage. He’s felt like this before, like a stranger in his own bed. It was during a very unpleasant time, when he was entering adulthood. ‘Becoming a man’ as his father would say. He did not look back at these few first years in the army with fondness. Some memories still had the power to make him sick.

“Great.” He muttered. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about his father.

Forget resting. He’d get no sleep anyway. At least awake he could do something useful. He pushed away the sheets, dressed himself in something more appropriate and left the room.

He stopped by Legolas’ room and knocked. No answer. He doubted the Elf was asleep, he was probably with Gimli. Their friendship was an unusual one and certainly unexpected. From what he observed they’ve gotten even closer since he last saw them. They were both odd to him, but probably not more than he was to them. From the entire fellowship he was the closest to the Hobbits and Aragorn, even if sometimes the man looked weary of him. He couldn’t blame him.

It was for the good, that the room was vacated. Had Legolas been there, he’d have to talk to him, or apologise for bothering him and leave. Either way it’d be awkward. How does one admit that they feel uneasy in their own room and just need company?

He entered the medical wing (that is to say, the biggest open hall in Minas Tirith). The cots filled the entire space, with barely any room for a person to walk by. Most were asleep, so he was careful as he passed them. Behind there was a different room with more privacy. There was his brother, Éowyn and the Hobbits. Merry insisted on being close to her. She stood up for him, they rode together into the battle, he said. She was his friend.

In the left side of the room was a sleeping Gimli and Legolas, who leaned against the wall. His eyes were closed, but with the way his ears moved, Boromir knew he was paying attention to what was happening.

He closed the door behind him with a clank and immediately two pairs of eyes were on him. Merry was still too weak to walk by himself, but Pippin was not and he jumped abruptly - almost knocking down the entire contents of the cabinet with his elbow, but managing not to wake anybody - and hugged him again. This time Boromir was standing, so he ended up hugging his leg more than anything.

“Will you sit with us, Boromir?” He asked, pulling on his tunic.

He smiled. “Sure.”

“I’ll bring you a chair!”

“I-” He meant to say, he’d get it himself, but Pippin was already out the door, leaving it open. He could see him look around for an empty seat. Boromir doubted he’d be able to pick it up at all, let alone bring it here.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Legolas whispered. He sat near him now, probably ready to indulge in a conversation.

“Yes.”

“Me neither.” He glanced back at his companion. “I worried too much.”

Gimli looked peaceful, lying motionless on the bed, quietly snoring. Strange to see such a hot-tempered fellow so calm.

“I’m sure he'll be fine. Dwarves have thick heads.”

Legolas turned his gaze at him again, a fond look on his soft face. “I know. Doesn’t make me worry any less.”

Pippin came in, dragging a wooden chair behind him. There was a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead. He seemed pleased with himself. “Now you have a place to sit!”

“I could have brought it here myself, but thank you Pippin.”

“You’re welcome! Now, can you tell us a story of how the Elves rescued you?” He sat down and looked up at him with a wide grin. His face was clean, he must have washed off all the grime and dirt; and tears, he remembered; he looked so tiny compared to the chair and Boromir was reminded that he was still a child.

“I don’t know. You should be sleeping.”

He tugged at his sleeve. “Please, I can’t sleep without a story!”

“That’s a bold faced lie, Pip.” Merry propped himself up. “But, I’m with you on that one. I'd like to hear it myself.” He coughed and Pippin turned to him concerned. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Do you need me to bring you anything?” Boromir asked, also worried. “Water?”

“No need.” He took a deep breath. There was no rattle or a wheeze. “Now, share. What happened to you?”

“It’s an unremarkable story, really. They fished me out of the water and took me to Lady Galadriel. I slept a lot, which you should do also-”

He was interrupted again by Merry. “Do you want to hear what we did?”

He found himself nodding along. He really shouldn’t indulge them, they should be resting, but he was too tired to fight them and they were really persistent.

Pippin became animated. “Oh, yes, we befriended a tree!”

Merry rolled his eyes. “He was an Ent.”

The remark didn’t bother him. He began gesturing widely. “A big, talking tree. Bigger than you. You wouldn’t believe how big it was.”

“He!”

Boromir chuckled. “If his size resembled a regular tree, I could believe it.”

“It did.” Legolas chimed in. “ I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate being called ‘it’.”

“Like you’d know! You didn’t befriend them!” Merry bridled as if he wasn’t the one correcting his friend just a second before.

“Right! We’re the experts.”

Only then Boromir realised how much he missed these two and their ridiculous antics.

Pippin continued. “Can you believe Treebeard thought we were orcs? He didn’t know what a Hobbit was.”

“To be fair, I don’t think many know what a Hobbit is.” Legolas mumbled. Boromir agreed.

The kids were more talking between themselves at this point than to either one of them. Recalling the tale as if it was a competition, which one of them said something first. “But then, he called the other Ents and they talked really slowly and decided we were not. Orcs. Of course.”

“Of course.” He hummed.

“And then they destroyed the Black Tower and we got high.”

“Excuse me?”

“We found them amid an obscene amount of food; most of it eaten; and bags of pipe weed.” Legolas smiled slightly. “Saruman kept quite the stash.”

“I still have some of it left. Merry gave me the rest for my trip, but I didn’t have the time yet.” Pippin rummaged through his bag. “Here! You can smoke with me.”

“Hey! You’re going to smoke my weed with Boromir? What about me?” Merry reached for the bag.

“It was a gift. I'll decide what happens with it.” Pip swatted his hand away. “So, what do you say?”

Boromir was tempted, but weed energised him. If he agreed, he could say farewell to sleeping that night. “Maybe later. You are welcomed, however, to share with Merry.”

“See? He’s on my side. Now, pass me the pipe.” He smiled gleefully. “Thank you, Boromir, I can always count on you.”

That did not sound like a good idea at all. “Now, I’m not sure you should be smoking now. You have been hit pretty badly-”

“It’s just a few bruises!”

“I don’t think so.”

“I agree. You shouldn’t be smoking. The hit, though thankfully not serious, did shock your body. You shouldn’t try your fate like this.” Aragorn stood behind them, leaning against the opened door. Boromir didn’t even hear him come in. He leaped across the room and snatched the packet away from the Hobbit’s hands. He then placed it in one of his many pockets and said. “I’ll keep it for now. It will be safe with me.”

“Safe! I bet we’ll never see it again.” He sighed. “It’s your fault, Pip. We could have smoked it in secret.”

“It’s not my fault. I didn’t offer you any. You stole it from me.” He pouted and crossed his arms.

Boromir pointed towards his seat, offering to switch with Aragorn, but he shook his head and whispered, “I can stand.” To each his own. The Hobbits were still bickering amongst themselves.

Merry lamented. “Oh, but I’m so weak and hurting, you could have taken it back with no problem.”

Aragorn laughed. “I thought you were feeling well. When did it change? You know, such rapid changes in a person's well being could be a sign of a serious condition.” And he came closer, standing right next to Boromir, and leaned in as if to examine the boy further.

Merry moved away from him, almost falling out of the bed. “I’m fine! Never been better!”

Aragorn laughed. “That’s good to know. Now, I’ve brought some goods.” He began searching through his pockets.

“Unless it’s a pie, I don't want it.” Pippin protested loudly.

A pie, Boromir wondered. Ah, he would kill for a pie. The battle was not yet won however and while he could dream about changing his ‘travel’ diet, he could forget about it in the near future. The Hobbits, though, seemed to be spoiled by stolen (rightfully reclaimed) treasures of Isengard and did not want to give them up.

“You can forget about it. Believe it or not, it isn’t not easy to find sweets in the middle of a war. But, I do have bread and apples. And water.” He placed all his finds on the table.

He shuddered. “Ew… My mother will kill you once she finds out what you’ve been feeding me.”

“It’s this or nothing.”

“I have some candy in my room.” He said, remembering that indeed, he did have some of Rohirric confectionery in one of his cabinets. He rarely looked there. It was for Faramir mostly. It should still be there, if his brother didn’t go through all of it already.

“You do?!” His eyes became as big as plates and they glimmered with hope. Hobbits, he wondered, were special creatures.

“I believe so, yes.”

Pippin stood up, looking exasperated. “What are you waiting for? Bring it!”

“I sincerely hope you’re joking. You can wait till tomorrow.” He raised his eyebrow. No way he would go the way to his room twice just to look for candy that might not even be there.

“No! I’ll die without it!” He was raising his voice. If he kept that behaviour up he’d soon disturb the others.

He sighed. “You’ll live. Patience is a virtue. It will taste even better tomorrow.”

“It will not. Whoever told you that was a big fat liar.”

“Tomorrow or not at all.” He said, trying to sound as stern as possible. It’s been a while since he had to parent someone. Funny, not even during their quest, before he- Not even then, had he had to parent them. Back then, it would seem, they needed an older brother. Someone to guide them, yes, but mostly to talk to and look up to. Now, having seen war, having experienced death, they must have missed their parents. He would gladly do this job again, no matter how exhausting, just to help them get by.

“Fine. But you better keep that promise, or I swear on my mother’s flowerbed you will regret this.”

Merry fake-shuddered. “Uff, trust me when I say, Boromir, you don’t want to mess with him after that threat.”

He chuckled. “As if I'd even mess with a Hobbit’s food. I’m no fool.”

The conversation between them died down, as the little one’s absorbed themselves in the food Aragorn brought. How they managed to keep their hands from it for so long was a mystery. Maybe their motivator was an idea of scrounging better food. Anyhow, they stuffed their mouths with ‘disgusting’ and ‘stale’ bread (it was fine, Boromir tried it) and that prohibited them from talking.

“I thought we agreed you’d be resting.” Aragorn put his hand on his good shoulder.

“I thought we agreed you’d be too.” He retorted. “How do you plan on leading the nation while passing out of exhaustion?”

“I was hoping you’d lead them with me.”

Oh. That was an unexpected proposition, but not unwelcome. He suspected Aragorn would be willing to share power, especially so early on. He just didn’t expect it’d be him he’d share it with. It required a lot of trust, to lead a nation together, and Boromir wasn’t deserving of it. He has yet to prove himself after-

Aragorn took a great gamble giving him this gift. To refuse it would be impolite. And untrue to his heart’s desires. He’d do it, even if it was a test. He would lead his people. Side by side with a king.

“I-” Deep breath.

“Be quiet.” Legolas whispered. “They’re sleeping.”

And indeed, once he turned, he noticed the two of them snoring quietly. Boromir was always impressed by the Hobbit’s ability to sleep just about everywhere and under any circumstances. No matter the rain, snow or noise, they’d drop like the dead, but only if they had company. During their journey Boromir never once saw them sleep apart. They always piled up on top of each other, he guessed to keep each other warm. Or to not feel lonely.

That was the case here as well. Pippin climbed up to the bed and nested against his friend, mindful of his injuries. If there was room for a grown man on the bed, Boromir would surely go to sleep right then and there.

“It must be a sign for us to follow suit and get some shut eye. We have many tough days before us.” Aragorn gathered his possessions. “Come with me. I believe we are all going in the same direction.”

**

It was quiet in the forest.

Unusually quiet. That was the first thing he noticed, this deafening silence. No birds were singing. Even the wind, that he knew was there because of the swaying trees and the chilly feeling on his skin, wasn't paired with its distinct whistle.

He was leaning against a tree, watching the world around him utterly confused. He tried to move, but it was futile. The world spun around him. The trees seemed to cave in over him, crushing him with their weight, but going straight through him. Their edges were blurred, their almost reflective green crowns glistened in the sunlight, though he couldn’t really see the sun. He couldn’t stand staring at them for too long.

He would conclude he was alone in this place, whatever it was, had it not been for the fact he felt like he was being watched. But he saw nothing, not a single soul in front of him and he couldn’t turn, so he was stuck waiting. He wasn’t exactly sure for what yet.

Then, finally, he heard something. A loud, pitched screech from somewhere behind him. It rippled through the air quickly, violently tearing apart the silence, filling the space with itself. His ears were ringing and as he reached to cover them with his hands he realized he couldn’t move them either.

He looked down and they laid limp beside him. They looked almost detached from his body. Something strange caught his eye. That’s impossible! He blinked, but no, his eyes didn’t deceive him. His arms were covered in blood. Was it his blood? Was it someone else's?

He began to panic. He didn’t remember getting here. Where was ‘here’ anyway? The scene felt vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The sound appeared again, this time much closer, as if someone was growling right into his ear. He leaped forward, but his body stayed still. What was happening? Was he going to die? Was this animal, this thing going to kill him? It was getting closer, the sound louder and louder, surrounding him, splitting his head, pulling at his heart-

He opened his mouth to scream for his mother, but no sound came out. The animal let out one last roar and all turned to black.

He woke up drenched in sweat. What a bizarre dream, he shuddered. He hasn’t been this terrified since- No matter, there was a battle tomorrow and the morning would come at any time now. He should try to sleep a bit more. He got out of his bed and went to his closet. He opened the lowest cabinet. It wasn’t the smartest idea, perhaps, to be drinking before a big day, but he needed something to knock him out. There. He read the label and, satisfied with the percentage, took a couple of good swings and went back to bed.

***

In the end, when the war was fought, when all of their enemies were defeated and his arms hurt like a bitch and he watched the Mountain spit fire from its mouth for the first time in many, many years, perhaps even all his life, he felt not all was lost.

That there might be a future. That Middle Earth would flourish. And that he might be able to see it.