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Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3770 (76900 total)
Summary: “You are a warrior,” says Aragorn. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?”
In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live,” Aragorn commands. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
A/N: Boromir Lives AU. Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still.
Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.
~
If there is need to go to Rivendell, Faramir had said, send me in Boromir’s stead. Or better yet—
He had glanced toward Boromir then, the two of them sharing a look of unspoken understanding, as they stood among the ruins of Osgiliath: the hope that they would leave for Rivendell together, or not at all.
Send us both, Boromir had said to Denethor immediately, knowing what was in Faramir’s thoughts. That we may travel the fell roads together, and watch out for one another. What better way to ensure the weapon of the enemy comes to Gondor? Their time together was rare enough as it was, and the journey would allow them to enjoy each other’s company once again.
That their father would grant their wish had been a wild hope; instead, he had soundly mocked Faramir’s request and denied Boromir’s, his rationale being that he had tasked Boromir alone with this, and would not be swayed. And while both brothers reasoned that this was not done to spite Faramir—that it was because Gondor could not spare both its Captains on a months-long journey to Rivendell, for only a chance at the weapon of the enemy and an explanation of their shared vision, a cryptic poem sent from the Valar themselves—both he and Faramir had been disappointed by the decision.
Still, Faramir’s words back then had heartened Boromir. Had bolstered him on his long journey from home, for Faramir had offered at least to take his place, if not to accompany him.
But now, now—
Boromir sinks to his knees, defeated, the Uruk’s arrows buried deep in his flesh. And even as pain lances through his chest, his shoulder, brutal and biting and sharp, Boromir can think only of how thankful he is, that Faramir had not come in his stead. Had returned to his Rangers in Ithilien, where he might fight his battles with the enemy with an army at hand.
No, even if Faramir could take my place now, I would not wish it, thinks Boromir. I could never wish it. He could lose all else—his honor, his pride, his life—but he would not lose Faramir as well.
If this is the price for Faramir’s safety, I would pay it.
He wonders now if the weight of premonition had sat heavy upon his brother’s shoulders even before his departure. Not long before Boromir left, they had clung to one another in the night, as they had done when they were children, the two of them small, scared. Huddled together in Boromir’s bed, anxious at their parting.
Boromir. Faramir’s fingers had clutched too tight at Boromir’s shoulders. Your journey will be fraught with peril. I speak not only of the way to Rivendell; I have seen…
His voice had caught in his throat then, and Faramir had only wound his arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. Clung tighter, as if he could not bear to let Boromir go.
What is it you have you seen? Boromir had urged.
But in this, Faramir would not tell him, as if bound by childish belief that voicing his vision aloud would make it come true. Have care in your journey, Faramir had said instead. They had spoken little of Faramir’s visions after that, preferring instead to share kisses and meaningful touches enough to tide them over for the time Boromir would be away.
He thinks of Faramir now; wonders if this moment must have been what Faramir saw in his vision.
Of Boromir fallen to his knees, broken and beaten. The sound of Uruk-hai thundering past him, as if he were no more than a mote, an ant to be crushed, now that they had captured his Halfling friends. Of Boromir looking up into the dead eyes of the Uruk that laid him low, its bow centered to strike the fatal blow.
The sight of this foul creature, so lightless, cold, and unfeeling, is far at odds with the pristine woodland beauty surrounding them. A sharp contrast against the smell of dry leaves and the rustle of them underfoot. The rich scent of the earth. The way the sun seeps through the canopy of trees above, scattering swathes of shining gold along the ground. Even with the taste of blood in Boromir’s mouth, the sick heat and tang of it, his heart beats all the faster for his injuries, and he senses everything around him with stunning clarity.
With a great effort, Boromir tries to will his arm to move, to take up his sword once more. But the Halflings behind him are long gone now, captured like so much livestock for the slaughter. There is nothing left to fight for.
No—there is Faramir, Boromir remembers. I would fight to see him again. To hold him once more. But his limbs hang like anvils at his side, numb weights that will not obey his orders to simply move.
Faramir, he thinks, mournfully. The brother that eagerly awaited his homecoming. The brother he had loved, and been loved by in return.
The woods are silent now; there is no twitter of birdsong in the trees, nor the flutter of wings. No scampering of the woodland creatures, or wind rustling the leaves of the trees above. It adds to the inherent wrongness of the forest, lending power to the creature standing before him.
The Uruk draws its bow once more, a telltale grind sounding as the bowstring pulls taut against its yew frame.
Faramir, Boromir thinks. A litany of Faramir Faramir Faramir that has nothing to do with how right his brother was, or how afraid he had been for Boromir, but of how much Boromir misses him. How sorry he is that he will never see Faramir again. And how dearly Boromir wishes the sight of him could be the last thing he would see before he left this world—though he doubts Faramir would want to see him; would his brother not be ashamed of him, instead? Trying to seize the ring from one so small and vulnerable, one he had sworn to protect?
I have failed you, Faramir, Boromir thinks, resigned. And you, Merry and Pippin. Frodo.
I have failed you all.
The Uruk will not miss from this distance; its next arrow will pierce through Boromir’s heart.
Then Aragorn lunges through the trees, a blaze of righteousness and fury, his sword held high as he gives the Uruk as good as he gets. Never once relents, even when the towering Uruk beats him down, each of its strikes meant to kill, each brutal blow drawing blood. Aragorn continues doggedly on, deflecting its deadly strikes and matching it in battle prowess as he cuts the Uruk down to size.
Boromir manages to crawl away, finding an embankment not littered by the corpses of Uruks he has killed, before rolling gingerly onto his back. It will not be long now—blood has seeped through the fabric of his tunic, soaking his surcoat in a mess that is cold and wet and dark. He gazes up at the sky, feeling every inch a failure; he had not brought home the ring as his father wanted. Nor would he return to Faramir as he had promised. And he had all but lost the trust and respect of his comrades.
There is weakness, yes, Boromir said to Aragorn, before their company set out upon the Anduin, a poor attempt to outrun Saruman’s army. And there is frailty. But there is courage also, and honour to be found in Men. But you will not see that!
Except it was Boromir who had not seen; had not realized that he was the embodiment of all the weakness and frailty he had spoken of, and none of the courage and honour.
“Boromir!” Aragorn calls now, loping toward him. His face is streaked with a mess of blood and grime and sweat, but still he stumbles toward Boromir as if his own injuries mean nothing. Cradles Boromir, supporting him. “Be still,” he chides, as Boromir tries to rise to his elbows and fails, falling back weakly.
“They took the little ones,” Boromir manages, despite the fresh well of blood that rises to his lips and seeps from his wounds. “And Frodo—where is Frodo?”
“I let Frodo go,” says Aragorn, solemn.
“Then you did what I could not.” Suddenly, Boromir finds it immensely difficult to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “I,” he says, hesitant. “I tried to take the ring from him.”
Aragorn’s eyes remain clear, blameless, as if Boromir’s actions were no fault of his own, and his hands close gently around Boromir’s shoulders, as he assesses the damage the Uruk’s arrows have wrought. “The ring is beyond our reach now,” he says.
Boromir releases a soft sigh of relief at that; he will not be tempted by it again. Will not hurt others for the sake of it.
“It is over, then,” he says at last, his breaths growing ever shallower. “The Fellowship is sundered, our friends in the hands of the enemy. I have failed you all.” He would ask for forgiveness, but in the face of all he has done, does not think he deserves it. Does not think he has the right to ask for or deserve anything, least of all this unexpected gentleness from Aragorn.
“No, Boromir, you fought bravely. You have kept your honour,” Aragorn says. The words hearten Boromir so, a plain reflection of his earlier words, of there being courage and honour to be found in Men, giving him the strength to hold on a moment longer. Aragorn takes this moment to close a hand around the arrows, to pull them out, but Boromir’s hand closes tight over his.
“Leave them!” Boromir hisses through the pain. He shakes his head, inhaling a soft, whistling breath before speaking. “It matters not if I have fought bravely this day. If I have fought with honour. The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin.” With only my brother as its last bastion against the dark; our father’s mind has turned to madness by now, consumed as it is by weapons that serve only the enemy’s purpose.
Aragorn continues on as if he has not heard Boromir’s request, carefully removing the arrowheads and quelling the flow of blood that wells forth with strips of cloth torn from his tunic. Thankfully, those arrowheads are not so large and barbed that he must dig deeply for them. “I do not know what strength is in me,” Aragorn says, sincere, “but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”
Our people. Boromir huffs a shallow laugh, even as blood stipples his lips and pain lances sharp through his ribs. So Aragorn has finally acknowledged the race of Men as his own. But the hour in which he does so is late; Boromir can feel blood soaking through the layers of his garments now, wet and filthy and cold. The fresh flow of it, a liquid red heat that surges into the rags Aragorn presses to his wounds. He will not live to see Aragorn lead their people to victory, or the fall of Mordor and all he has fought against all his days.
His life ebbs away with each beat of his heart, taking him further from this world. Further from Faramir.
Boromir scrabbles weakly for his sword, and Aragorn allows him the press of it against his chest, though it does not stop his efforts at quelling the flow of blood. Does not keep him from nodding at Legolas in a moment of wordless, desperate communication. Boromir watches Legolas disappear swiftly beyond the crest of the hill, before turning back to Aragorn.
“I would—” Boromir manages, his words bogged down, heavy, as every part of him feels. It pains him to even draw breath, but if these words are to be his last, he would make them known. “I would have followed you, my brother. My captain. My king.” He draws his sword closer to his chest, for this oath of fealty. The oath to end all oaths.
It crushes him to know it is the last he will ever swear, and he sees something crumple in Aragorn’s expression the same, before Aragorn sets his lips and furrows his brow.
“You will yet,” says Aragorn, his determination renewed, as he guides Boromir’s sword arm to the side. Legolas has returned with a cluster of broad-leaved weeds in his hands, and Aragorn crushes the leaves now, wetting them with water from his water skin to form a mulch in his hands. Presses the mixture against Boromir’s wounds, as he whispers old words, the likes of which Boromir has only heard from Gandalf, or from Faramir’s studies. A sweet fragrance, subtle and light, rises from the crushed leaves of the weed—no, herb that Aragorn hopes to heal him with.
This must be the fabled athelas, Boromir thinks hazily. Kingsfoil, in the hands of the King.
“Come, Boromir,” Aragorn says, the words piercing through the veil that seems to have descended over Boromir, a gossamer-fine grayness that seems as though it will bear him away from this place. This pain. Boromir can hear the pleading in Aragorn’s voice, for him to stay awake. An entreaty for him not to slip into eternal slumber. “You said Gondor would see this done, would see the ring destroyed. You will stay true to your word, will you not?”
Yes, Boromir thinks, for Gondor, as trite as that sounds. And for Faramir. For a safer world in which his brother could be the scholar he wished to, and not the warrior life he was born into.
He hopes Aragorn will live up to his promise that he will not let Minas Tirith fall; that at least his brother will be able to live in an era of peace. But no sooner than the thought comes, it skitters away, like a wisp of forgotten fog, and Boromir’s eyes slip shut once more, until he believes he is being borne along a floating cloud. One bearing him to a place of blissful light, urging him to succumb to it, to give in and let himself partake of this paradise. For a moment he can see a glade, bright, with birdsong and light, and his only lament is that Faramir is not there—
Aragorn grips Boromir’s shoulder again, shaking him, and pain spears through him like a shock of lightning, waking him again, shattering the pristine and lovely image.
“You are a warrior,” Aragorn insists. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? One you have sworn to protect?” Clearly, Aragorn has realized that an appeal to his honor is not working, and is trying for the softer emotions. Something must change in Boromir’s expression, because Aragorn presses on. “A lady-love?”
A love; his only love. In his agony, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live. Live, that you may see him again, when we return to Gondor, victorious,” Aragorn declares. “Let the thought of him sustain you, even more so than the desire for silver trumpets to call you home. Beyond your need for the tower guard to take up the call of the Lords of Gondor having returned.” He grips Boromir securely, heartened that at last he has found what will give Boromir the will to live. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
Aragorn knows of Faramir by now, even if he does not know him by name, from the little Boromir had shared of his brother throughout their journey. And now, as he binds Boromir’s injuries with a roll of bandages from Gimli’s supply, keeping them clean until they can be stitched lest his wounds open again, Boromir breathes in deep, the memory of Faramir giving him new purpose.
Yes—yes, the thought of Faramir is what will get me through, Boromir decides, fierce. It takes a tremendous amount of focus, but the memories soon come easily enough; he begins recalling the easy cadence of Faramir’s voice, coupled with the sea-blue of his eyes. The gentleness of his fingers, so at odds with the battle-roughened callousness of his skin. The strength and heat of his embraces, both before and after a battle, then those when there had been no battles at all, simply the two of them sharing heat and warmth and love. Just remembers Faramir—the way he kisses, and teases, and laughs—and oh that is Aragorn digging out the last, the deepest of the arrowheads, and blood surges from the wound instantly, hot and wet and red, before Aragorn presses another clump of shredded athelas to it.
Even so, the pain is unbearable, and as Legolas and Gimli hurry to hold him down, Boromir cannot tell whether he has thought Faramir, please, or screamed it, or sobbed it, just knows that his brother’s name in his head or on his lips is the only thing that sustains him through this suffering.
Suddenly, there is a touch of fingers to his forehead, his cheek, light and cool and comforting, and the agony abates, if only for a moment. “Rest, Boromir,” Aragorn says. His voice sounds as if it comes from a great distance away. “Rest now. The worst is over.”
Boromir blinks, blearily. Watches as Gimli hurries over with a rag, one wet with cool water, and presses it to Boromir’s forehead. Boromir is grateful for the gesture, small as it is, and makes a muffled noise of appreciation, but Gimli only looks upon him, worried.
“He burns hotter than the greatest Dwarven forges,” he hears Gimli say, when Gimli lifts the rag to soak it anew and presses a calloused hand to Boromir’s brow. Only then does Boromir realize that the Uruk’s arrows must have been tipped with poison, and a fever is beginning to set in. “We should stay and make camp,” Gimli says. “Let Boromir have a night’s rest, before we set out to find the Uruks that took Merry and Pippin.”
Aragorn shakes his head, grim. “We cannot tarry here,” he says, eyeing the sun as it sinks slowly beyond the treeline. “By nightfall these shores will be crawling with Uruks.” He hefts Boromir’s weight up until Boromir is draped across his shoulders, and secures Boromir’s legs in the crook of his elbows.
Boromir swallows an indignant squawk at being carried like this; the last time had been as a child, perched on his father’s shoulders as they gazed out from Minas Tirith’s highest circle, at the sprawling lands and hills that made up Gondor. And the time after that, it had been Faramir he had carried, laughing, through the halls of the White Tower, as his brother bounced on his shoulders, whooping with a rare and precious joy.
The memory of Faramir is strangely calming, Boromir’s fit of pique dissolving as soon as it is roused, and he lets Aragorn carry him like a child, out toward the shore where they had left the boats. Watches sleepily as Legolas and Gimli each heft the weight of an Elven craft between them, portaging it over the land, following the Anduin’s downward slant.
Surely they did not think to carry the boat to the foot of the Falls of Rauros, the slope being treacherous as it was?
“This,” Gimli grunts, his chest heaving with the effort, “was much easier when we could draw upon Boromir’s strength.” Boromir had helped their company carry the boats past the rapids of Sarn Gebir while Gimli had trodden alongside the Halflings, relieving those who required it in turns.
Aragorn laughs. “I shall let Boromir know this when he wakes; those words will surely be a comfort to him.”
The words reach Boromir regardless, as if through a thick haze, and a small smile graces his lips as Gimli’s words register.
Gimli allows himself a chuckle, before lowering his voice. “I admit I have not always appreciated Boromir’s worth in the Fellowship,” he says, confiding in Aragorn solemnly. “But what right have I to judge his worth?” He shakes his head and sighs, dejected. “We have quarreled as well, but what brothers-in-arms have not? I would not wish this on any friend of mine…or a brother.”
Oh, Gimli, thinks Boromir, moved. They had passed much of their time together on this journey in a quiet and mutual indifference, having had little reason to converse . And while Boromir had noticed Gimli regarding him differently—first, after their discovery of his cousin Balin’s tomb in Moria, when Boromir had pressed a hand to Gimli’s shoulder in sympathy, and again, after the loss of Gandalf, when he held the Dwarf as a gesture of comfort—he had not thought Gimli could feel this way.
Gimli says no more after that, only huffs and puffs in immense exertion, while Legolas navigates the way down with an easy and effortless grace.
Boromir lets his head loll against Aragorn’s neck, his eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion. He has heard, from the men he commanded, that in times of peril one’s life might flash before their eyes, with moments of happiness or anger or sorrow. But the peril is past for now, and he finds himself drifting instead into a soft, peaceful sleep. One that guides him along a path of much-loved and well-trodden memories, the ambience dream-like and warm.
The memories come easier in sleep, than when Aragorn had urged him to summon the strength to remember.
Here is where he will find respite from the pain and weariness that harries him, Boromir decides, as he hears the distant crackle of a familiar fire from years ago. Feels the heat of it against his skin.
Here is where he can be with Faramir, despite his brother being so very far away…
“Boromir?” Aragorn tries, nudging him with a shoulder.
But Boromir has already slipped into the world of dreams, his lips parted in a small smile.
Good, thinks Aragorn. It will make this leg of the journey that much easier on Boromir. He continues onward down the perilous slope alongside the Falls, glad for this reprieve, and for Boromir, too, that he has dreams to ease his fevered rest, so that he may find peace in his slumber.
(tbc - Chapter 2)
End Notes
OST:
- Boromir, against the Uruk: Amon Hen – Various
- Boromir, swearing his fealty: The Departure of Boromir – Howard Shore
This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3770 (76900 total)
Summary: “You are a warrior,” says Aragorn. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?”
In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live,” Aragorn commands. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
A/N: Boromir Lives AU. Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still.
Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.
If there is need to go to Rivendell, Faramir had said, send me in Boromir’s stead. Or better yet—
He had glanced toward Boromir then, the two of them sharing a look of unspoken understanding, as they stood among the ruins of Osgiliath: the hope that they would leave for Rivendell together, or not at all.
Send us both, Boromir had said to Denethor immediately, knowing what was in Faramir’s thoughts. That we may travel the fell roads together, and watch out for one another. What better way to ensure the weapon of the enemy comes to Gondor? Their time together was rare enough as it was, and the journey would allow them to enjoy each other’s company once again.
That their father would grant their wish had been a wild hope; instead, he had soundly mocked Faramir’s request and denied Boromir’s, his rationale being that he had tasked Boromir alone with this, and would not be swayed. And while both brothers reasoned that this was not done to spite Faramir—that it was because Gondor could not spare both its Captains on a months-long journey to Rivendell, for only a chance at the weapon of the enemy and an explanation of their shared vision, a cryptic poem sent from the Valar themselves—both he and Faramir had been disappointed by the decision.
Still, Faramir’s words back then had heartened Boromir. Had bolstered him on his long journey from home, for Faramir had offered at least to take his place, if not to accompany him.
But now, now—
Boromir sinks to his knees, defeated, the Uruk’s arrows buried deep in his flesh. And even as pain lances through his chest, his shoulder, brutal and biting and sharp, Boromir can think only of how thankful he is, that Faramir had not come in his stead. Had returned to his Rangers in Ithilien, where he might fight his battles with the enemy with an army at hand.
No, even if Faramir could take my place now, I would not wish it, thinks Boromir. I could never wish it. He could lose all else—his honor, his pride, his life—but he would not lose Faramir as well.
If this is the price for Faramir’s safety, I would pay it.
He wonders now if the weight of premonition had sat heavy upon his brother’s shoulders even before his departure. Not long before Boromir left, they had clung to one another in the night, as they had done when they were children, the two of them small, scared. Huddled together in Boromir’s bed, anxious at their parting.
Boromir. Faramir’s fingers had clutched too tight at Boromir’s shoulders. Your journey will be fraught with peril. I speak not only of the way to Rivendell; I have seen…
His voice had caught in his throat then, and Faramir had only wound his arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. Clung tighter, as if he could not bear to let Boromir go.
What is it you have you seen? Boromir had urged.
But in this, Faramir would not tell him, as if bound by childish belief that voicing his vision aloud would make it come true. Have care in your journey, Faramir had said instead. They had spoken little of Faramir’s visions after that, preferring instead to share kisses and meaningful touches enough to tide them over for the time Boromir would be away.
He thinks of Faramir now; wonders if this moment must have been what Faramir saw in his vision.
Of Boromir fallen to his knees, broken and beaten. The sound of Uruk-hai thundering past him, as if he were no more than a mote, an ant to be crushed, now that they had captured his Halfling friends. Of Boromir looking up into the dead eyes of the Uruk that laid him low, its bow centered to strike the fatal blow.
The sight of this foul creature, so lightless, cold, and unfeeling, is far at odds with the pristine woodland beauty surrounding them. A sharp contrast against the smell of dry leaves and the rustle of them underfoot. The rich scent of the earth. The way the sun seeps through the canopy of trees above, scattering swathes of shining gold along the ground. Even with the taste of blood in Boromir’s mouth, the sick heat and tang of it, his heart beats all the faster for his injuries, and he senses everything around him with stunning clarity.
With a great effort, Boromir tries to will his arm to move, to take up his sword once more. But the Halflings behind him are long gone now, captured like so much livestock for the slaughter. There is nothing left to fight for.
No—there is Faramir, Boromir remembers. I would fight to see him again. To hold him once more. But his limbs hang like anvils at his side, numb weights that will not obey his orders to simply move.
Faramir, he thinks, mournfully. The brother that eagerly awaited his homecoming. The brother he had loved, and been loved by in return.
The woods are silent now; there is no twitter of birdsong in the trees, nor the flutter of wings. No scampering of the woodland creatures, or wind rustling the leaves of the trees above. It adds to the inherent wrongness of the forest, lending power to the creature standing before him.
The Uruk draws its bow once more, a telltale grind sounding as the bowstring pulls taut against its yew frame.
Faramir, Boromir thinks. A litany of Faramir Faramir Faramir that has nothing to do with how right his brother was, or how afraid he had been for Boromir, but of how much Boromir misses him. How sorry he is that he will never see Faramir again. And how dearly Boromir wishes the sight of him could be the last thing he would see before he left this world—though he doubts Faramir would want to see him; would his brother not be ashamed of him, instead? Trying to seize the ring from one so small and vulnerable, one he had sworn to protect?
I have failed you, Faramir, Boromir thinks, resigned. And you, Merry and Pippin. Frodo.
I have failed you all.
The Uruk will not miss from this distance; its next arrow will pierce through Boromir’s heart.
Then Aragorn lunges through the trees, a blaze of righteousness and fury, his sword held high as he gives the Uruk as good as he gets. Never once relents, even when the towering Uruk beats him down, each of its strikes meant to kill, each brutal blow drawing blood. Aragorn continues doggedly on, deflecting its deadly strikes and matching it in battle prowess as he cuts the Uruk down to size.
Boromir manages to crawl away, finding an embankment not littered by the corpses of Uruks he has killed, before rolling gingerly onto his back. It will not be long now—blood has seeped through the fabric of his tunic, soaking his surcoat in a mess that is cold and wet and dark. He gazes up at the sky, feeling every inch a failure; he had not brought home the ring as his father wanted. Nor would he return to Faramir as he had promised. And he had all but lost the trust and respect of his comrades.
There is weakness, yes, Boromir said to Aragorn, before their company set out upon the Anduin, a poor attempt to outrun Saruman’s army. And there is frailty. But there is courage also, and honour to be found in Men. But you will not see that!
Except it was Boromir who had not seen; had not realized that he was the embodiment of all the weakness and frailty he had spoken of, and none of the courage and honour.
“Boromir!” Aragorn calls now, loping toward him. His face is streaked with a mess of blood and grime and sweat, but still he stumbles toward Boromir as if his own injuries mean nothing. Cradles Boromir, supporting him. “Be still,” he chides, as Boromir tries to rise to his elbows and fails, falling back weakly.
“They took the little ones,” Boromir manages, despite the fresh well of blood that rises to his lips and seeps from his wounds. “And Frodo—where is Frodo?”
“I let Frodo go,” says Aragorn, solemn.
“Then you did what I could not.” Suddenly, Boromir finds it immensely difficult to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “I,” he says, hesitant. “I tried to take the ring from him.”
Aragorn’s eyes remain clear, blameless, as if Boromir’s actions were no fault of his own, and his hands close gently around Boromir’s shoulders, as he assesses the damage the Uruk’s arrows have wrought. “The ring is beyond our reach now,” he says.
Boromir releases a soft sigh of relief at that; he will not be tempted by it again. Will not hurt others for the sake of it.
“It is over, then,” he says at last, his breaths growing ever shallower. “The Fellowship is sundered, our friends in the hands of the enemy. I have failed you all.” He would ask for forgiveness, but in the face of all he has done, does not think he deserves it. Does not think he has the right to ask for or deserve anything, least of all this unexpected gentleness from Aragorn.
“No, Boromir, you fought bravely. You have kept your honour,” Aragorn says. The words hearten Boromir so, a plain reflection of his earlier words, of there being courage and honour to be found in Men, giving him the strength to hold on a moment longer. Aragorn takes this moment to close a hand around the arrows, to pull them out, but Boromir’s hand closes tight over his.
“Leave them!” Boromir hisses through the pain. He shakes his head, inhaling a soft, whistling breath before speaking. “It matters not if I have fought bravely this day. If I have fought with honour. The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin.” With only my brother as its last bastion against the dark; our father’s mind has turned to madness by now, consumed as it is by weapons that serve only the enemy’s purpose.
Aragorn continues on as if he has not heard Boromir’s request, carefully removing the arrowheads and quelling the flow of blood that wells forth with strips of cloth torn from his tunic. Thankfully, those arrowheads are not so large and barbed that he must dig deeply for them. “I do not know what strength is in me,” Aragorn says, sincere, “but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”
Our people. Boromir huffs a shallow laugh, even as blood stipples his lips and pain lances sharp through his ribs. So Aragorn has finally acknowledged the race of Men as his own. But the hour in which he does so is late; Boromir can feel blood soaking through the layers of his garments now, wet and filthy and cold. The fresh flow of it, a liquid red heat that surges into the rags Aragorn presses to his wounds. He will not live to see Aragorn lead their people to victory, or the fall of Mordor and all he has fought against all his days.
His life ebbs away with each beat of his heart, taking him further from this world. Further from Faramir.
Boromir scrabbles weakly for his sword, and Aragorn allows him the press of it against his chest, though it does not stop his efforts at quelling the flow of blood. Does not keep him from nodding at Legolas in a moment of wordless, desperate communication. Boromir watches Legolas disappear swiftly beyond the crest of the hill, before turning back to Aragorn.
“I would—” Boromir manages, his words bogged down, heavy, as every part of him feels. It pains him to even draw breath, but if these words are to be his last, he would make them known. “I would have followed you, my brother. My captain. My king.” He draws his sword closer to his chest, for this oath of fealty. The oath to end all oaths.
It crushes him to know it is the last he will ever swear, and he sees something crumple in Aragorn’s expression the same, before Aragorn sets his lips and furrows his brow.
“You will yet,” says Aragorn, his determination renewed, as he guides Boromir’s sword arm to the side. Legolas has returned with a cluster of broad-leaved weeds in his hands, and Aragorn crushes the leaves now, wetting them with water from his water skin to form a mulch in his hands. Presses the mixture against Boromir’s wounds, as he whispers old words, the likes of which Boromir has only heard from Gandalf, or from Faramir’s studies. A sweet fragrance, subtle and light, rises from the crushed leaves of the weed—no, herb that Aragorn hopes to heal him with.
This must be the fabled athelas, Boromir thinks hazily. Kingsfoil, in the hands of the King.
“Come, Boromir,” Aragorn says, the words piercing through the veil that seems to have descended over Boromir, a gossamer-fine grayness that seems as though it will bear him away from this place. This pain. Boromir can hear the pleading in Aragorn’s voice, for him to stay awake. An entreaty for him not to slip into eternal slumber. “You said Gondor would see this done, would see the ring destroyed. You will stay true to your word, will you not?”
Yes, Boromir thinks, for Gondor, as trite as that sounds. And for Faramir. For a safer world in which his brother could be the scholar he wished to, and not the warrior life he was born into.
He hopes Aragorn will live up to his promise that he will not let Minas Tirith fall; that at least his brother will be able to live in an era of peace. But no sooner than the thought comes, it skitters away, like a wisp of forgotten fog, and Boromir’s eyes slip shut once more, until he believes he is being borne along a floating cloud. One bearing him to a place of blissful light, urging him to succumb to it, to give in and let himself partake of this paradise. For a moment he can see a glade, bright, with birdsong and light, and his only lament is that Faramir is not there—
Aragorn grips Boromir’s shoulder again, shaking him, and pain spears through him like a shock of lightning, waking him again, shattering the pristine and lovely image.
“You are a warrior,” Aragorn insists. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? One you have sworn to protect?” Clearly, Aragorn has realized that an appeal to his honor is not working, and is trying for the softer emotions. Something must change in Boromir’s expression, because Aragorn presses on. “A lady-love?”
A love; his only love. In his agony, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live. Live, that you may see him again, when we return to Gondor, victorious,” Aragorn declares. “Let the thought of him sustain you, even more so than the desire for silver trumpets to call you home. Beyond your need for the tower guard to take up the call of the Lords of Gondor having returned.” He grips Boromir securely, heartened that at last he has found what will give Boromir the will to live. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
Aragorn knows of Faramir by now, even if he does not know him by name, from the little Boromir had shared of his brother throughout their journey. And now, as he binds Boromir’s injuries with a roll of bandages from Gimli’s supply, keeping them clean until they can be stitched lest his wounds open again, Boromir breathes in deep, the memory of Faramir giving him new purpose.
Yes—yes, the thought of Faramir is what will get me through, Boromir decides, fierce. It takes a tremendous amount of focus, but the memories soon come easily enough; he begins recalling the easy cadence of Faramir’s voice, coupled with the sea-blue of his eyes. The gentleness of his fingers, so at odds with the battle-roughened callousness of his skin. The strength and heat of his embraces, both before and after a battle, then those when there had been no battles at all, simply the two of them sharing heat and warmth and love. Just remembers Faramir—the way he kisses, and teases, and laughs—and oh that is Aragorn digging out the last, the deepest of the arrowheads, and blood surges from the wound instantly, hot and wet and red, before Aragorn presses another clump of shredded athelas to it.
Even so, the pain is unbearable, and as Legolas and Gimli hurry to hold him down, Boromir cannot tell whether he has thought Faramir, please, or screamed it, or sobbed it, just knows that his brother’s name in his head or on his lips is the only thing that sustains him through this suffering.
Suddenly, there is a touch of fingers to his forehead, his cheek, light and cool and comforting, and the agony abates, if only for a moment. “Rest, Boromir,” Aragorn says. His voice sounds as if it comes from a great distance away. “Rest now. The worst is over.”
Boromir blinks, blearily. Watches as Gimli hurries over with a rag, one wet with cool water, and presses it to Boromir’s forehead. Boromir is grateful for the gesture, small as it is, and makes a muffled noise of appreciation, but Gimli only looks upon him, worried.
“He burns hotter than the greatest Dwarven forges,” he hears Gimli say, when Gimli lifts the rag to soak it anew and presses a calloused hand to Boromir’s brow. Only then does Boromir realize that the Uruk’s arrows must have been tipped with poison, and a fever is beginning to set in. “We should stay and make camp,” Gimli says. “Let Boromir have a night’s rest, before we set out to find the Uruks that took Merry and Pippin.”
Aragorn shakes his head, grim. “We cannot tarry here,” he says, eyeing the sun as it sinks slowly beyond the treeline. “By nightfall these shores will be crawling with Uruks.” He hefts Boromir’s weight up until Boromir is draped across his shoulders, and secures Boromir’s legs in the crook of his elbows.
Boromir swallows an indignant squawk at being carried like this; the last time had been as a child, perched on his father’s shoulders as they gazed out from Minas Tirith’s highest circle, at the sprawling lands and hills that made up Gondor. And the time after that, it had been Faramir he had carried, laughing, through the halls of the White Tower, as his brother bounced on his shoulders, whooping with a rare and precious joy.
The memory of Faramir is strangely calming, Boromir’s fit of pique dissolving as soon as it is roused, and he lets Aragorn carry him like a child, out toward the shore where they had left the boats. Watches sleepily as Legolas and Gimli each heft the weight of an Elven craft between them, portaging it over the land, following the Anduin’s downward slant.
Surely they did not think to carry the boat to the foot of the Falls of Rauros, the slope being treacherous as it was?
“This,” Gimli grunts, his chest heaving with the effort, “was much easier when we could draw upon Boromir’s strength.” Boromir had helped their company carry the boats past the rapids of Sarn Gebir while Gimli had trodden alongside the Halflings, relieving those who required it in turns.
Aragorn laughs. “I shall let Boromir know this when he wakes; those words will surely be a comfort to him.”
The words reach Boromir regardless, as if through a thick haze, and a small smile graces his lips as Gimli’s words register.
Gimli allows himself a chuckle, before lowering his voice. “I admit I have not always appreciated Boromir’s worth in the Fellowship,” he says, confiding in Aragorn solemnly. “But what right have I to judge his worth?” He shakes his head and sighs, dejected. “We have quarreled as well, but what brothers-in-arms have not? I would not wish this on any friend of mine…or a brother.”
Oh, Gimli, thinks Boromir, moved. They had passed much of their time together on this journey in a quiet and mutual indifference, having had little reason to converse . And while Boromir had noticed Gimli regarding him differently—first, after their discovery of his cousin Balin’s tomb in Moria, when Boromir had pressed a hand to Gimli’s shoulder in sympathy, and again, after the loss of Gandalf, when he held the Dwarf as a gesture of comfort—he had not thought Gimli could feel this way.
Gimli says no more after that, only huffs and puffs in immense exertion, while Legolas navigates the way down with an easy and effortless grace.
Boromir lets his head loll against Aragorn’s neck, his eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion. He has heard, from the men he commanded, that in times of peril one’s life might flash before their eyes, with moments of happiness or anger or sorrow. But the peril is past for now, and he finds himself drifting instead into a soft, peaceful sleep. One that guides him along a path of much-loved and well-trodden memories, the ambience dream-like and warm.
The memories come easier in sleep, than when Aragorn had urged him to summon the strength to remember.
Here is where he will find respite from the pain and weariness that harries him, Boromir decides, as he hears the distant crackle of a familiar fire from years ago. Feels the heat of it against his skin.
Here is where he can be with Faramir, despite his brother being so very far away…
“Boromir?” Aragorn tries, nudging him with a shoulder.
But Boromir has already slipped into the world of dreams, his lips parted in a small smile.
Good, thinks Aragorn. It will make this leg of the journey that much easier on Boromir. He continues onward down the perilous slope alongside the Falls, glad for this reprieve, and for Boromir, too, that he has dreams to ease his fevered rest, so that he may find peace in his slumber.
(tbc - Chapter 2)
End Notes
OST:
- Boromir, against the Uruk: Amon Hen – Various
- Boromir, swearing his fealty: The Departure of Boromir – Howard Shore
This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
