#can u imagine boromir is like please give me the ring and frodo is like thwoop no

[sys-garden]

Thinking about frodo with a hand fan, the ones that go thwoop. yeah <3

[azems-familiar]

i would have followed you

an old LotR oneshot i never posted. Boromir’s death (mostly the movie scene, with a few book details thrown in) from his POV.

He runs through the forest, skidding over dry leaves and frozen, winter-brown underbrush, a thick carpet of death shredding beneath his boots. The metaphor feels almost apt, in a sense, foreboding in a heavy way he cannot begin to understand but does not dare ignore. The Uruk-hai are coming, are here, just ahead, and he failed Frodo but he will not fail the other Halflings.

(they are so young and innocent and utterly unprepared, even after moria, they will not survive for long alone, and the chief gave orders to find the halflings, and)

(he will not fail them, young merry and pippin, even if it claims his life)

His sword slides from his sheath, leaping fluid and silver into his hand, and not even the familiar wrapped hilt can ease the horror smothering his lungs; and so he lets the fear fill him, lend speed to his legs and strength to his sword arm, and he has just enough time to regret the absence of his shield before the Halflings come into view, trapped by Uruk-hai, one foul beast lunging with sword upraised--

He doesn’t think, just launches, catching the orc’s black blade on his own, kicks the creature in the crotch and shoves it away. There’s no time to think, even to breathe; he can do nothing but fight, one Man against easily one hundred Uruk-hai, but he is Boromir, son of Denethor, a Man of Gondor, and the blood of Numenor flows still through his veins, faded and fallen though it may be.

But he cannot do it alone.

He fumbles at his belt with his left hand, wrenches the great horn of Gondor from where it has hung for leagues upon leagues of perilous travel, and sets the silvered mouth to his lips and blows a mighty blast. The great cry shivers through the air, sends a new rush of strength through his limbs, causes the ferocious Uruk-hai to hesitate in their brutal onslaught; but no help answers.

(all hope is not lost; surely aragorn will come)

He drops the horn, gestures furiously at the Halflings, retreats from the again-advancing orcs, pausing for a swift exchange of blows with one that ends in his sword driving through the orc’s chest; behind him, Merry and Pippin fling stones at the iron-clad Uruk-hai. Several of the beasts fall, but there are so many more, and still help does not come.

(perhaps aragorn did not hear)

He spares the little ones a glance; they are as wild-eyed and fierce as he imagines he is, but there is such fear and trust and desperation there, and it nearly breaks him. He raises the horn to his lips once more, looses another blast; leaps back a step and parries a blade slicing at his legs, and channels all the desperate need into one final breath.

The cry the horn releases is like nothing he has ever heard before; fierce and proud and noble, a defiant shout in the face of black evil, a fist raised in the face of the Enemy, and it is so powerful the horn splits in two in his fingers. He lets it fall, tethered still to his belt by the leather cord, and lunges forward at the lead Uruk-hai with teeth bared in a feral grin. For surely Aragorn has heard the last echoing call; even now the Captain of their Fellowship must be flying through the forest, Anduril wreathed in red flame in his hands. Boromir needs last only a little longer, and then there will be aid. The Halflings will be safe, for no Uruk-hai can withstand the combined force of two Men of Gondor such as they.

The softest of sounds, nearly lost in the clash of blade against armor, trembles through the air; the familiar music of a bowstring. He turns, eyes straining to make out the form of Aragorn, or Legolas, but there is nothing.

The black-feathered arrow drives deep into his flesh, the head vanishing within him until the tip grinds into his bones, and his eyes catch upon the cruel, imperious Uruk-hai standing tall and grasping a bow before his knees give out and he falls.

(where are you, aragorn?)

The pain takes a breath to register, and then it breaks over him like the sea, and he is drowning in a flood, a deluge of white-hot flame, scorching his lungs and blistering his skin and turning him to ashes, and

(the halflings)

The image of the Halflings flashes into his mind, and somehow the pain falls away, and he breathes in the scalding air and surges to his feet, lashing out, another orc falling to his sword, black blood dripping thick and hot from the blade, and he twists towards another orc and then--

(aragorn, please)

The second arrow flies deep into his gut, stealing his breath and flinging him backwards and down to his knees, and this time there is no kind moment of respite before the pain hits; clawing his insides and shredding him, tearing his mind and body to ashes and dust, blood bubbling up in his throat, steaming and metallic and tasting bitterly of failure and death.

(must not)

(fail)

(aragorn w h y)

A screaming, wordless howl of anguish and frenzied rage tears itself from his lips, and he flings himself at the Uruk-hai again, choking on pain, and he wants nothing more than to fall to the ground and rest but he is alone and there are the Halflings--he must not--cannot--Frodo and the Ring and give it to me!

[ m y  k i n g  i  n e e d  y o u ]

(he is fire and flood and broken glass, shattered rock, the crumbling stone balustrades of osgiliath and the dead-and-faded white tree, and all is darkness and eternal night about him, and the walls of minas tirth are broken and decayed, the gates naught but twisted heaps of blackened wood and tarnished silver)

(and the third arrow is a strike from the hand of sauron himself, molten-hot and whispering, and the white tree burns to ashes in the courtyard of his fathers)

(he is )

(must not fail must not the)

(why did you abandon)

(my king)

(everything is a blur, lost in the endless night, the realm of the dark lord, and screams, and he has failed)

And then the last Uruk-hai, the one with the bow, stands stern and smirking before him and with a cruel half-laugh he stares down the shaft of another arrow and this one will kill him and Aragorn--

Green flame crashes into the orc, and there is a streak of red blazing brightly, and they have finally come but it is too late, they are gone, he lost them, and

(there is something heavy and hot on his chest, and he is staring up at the stark branches, stripped of their warmth and their life by winter’s chill, and he cannot breathe)

(someone kneels over him, and if he could only focus his eyes, and there is a flicker of dark and noble eyes)

(it cannot be)

“They--” and he cannot breathe through the pressing on his chest but he must speak, he failed, “they took the little ones--”

Aragorn’s voice, choked and desperate, forces out words he cannot understand, and his own blood is thick on his lips and coats his tongue, and--

“Frodo, where is Frodo?”

There is a pressure on his shoulder.

“I let Frodo go.”

The blur resolves into a fuzzy, vaguely remembered image of Aragorn’s face, and Boromir finds the man’s eyes.

“Then you did what I could not,” and he must be honest because he has nothing left, and he has failed them, and he must say it… “I tried to take the Ring from him.”

“The Ring is beyond our reach now,” and Aragorn is soft and gentle and quiet and he hurts and--

“Forgive me, I did not see…” and a breath, thick and burning, and “I have failed you all.”

“No, Boromir. You fought bravely,” and is it his imagination or does Aragorn’s voice crack and shiver? “You have kept your honor.”

He feels Aragorn trying to bind the wound, and there is no point, and he must say something yet--

“Leave it!”

The darkness covers his eyes and he cannot see and his King is there and--

“It is over… the world of Men will fall and all will come to darkness, and my city will fall…” He chokes in a breath. “Aragorn…”

“I do not know what strength is in my blood,” the other man says, low and urgent, “but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail.”

[ o u r  p e o p l e ]

(does he speak?)

(there is nothing left in him but there is still yet one thing)

Something presses the hilt of his sword into his hand, and he clutches it reflexively, somehow jerks it to his heart in a rough mockery of a salute.

(who is he saluting?)

(there is something

       someone

                                                      important)

“I--” and there is only one thing, he must not fail now-- “I would have followed you, my brother…” and the darkness is so thick now, and he cannot see, and there is nothing left in his lungs, but he must-- “my captain…”

(more he is more and he must)

(it is so dark now)

(he will not let the white city fall)

“My King.”

[azems-familiar]

i would have followed you

I watched Fellowship of the Ring today and, as usual, was hit with feels at Boromir’s death. For some reason, I decided to write this... 

Here follows Boromir’s death, from his perspective; a merging of the movie and book canon in 1,583 words of pure angst. Have fun.

He runs through the forest, skidding over dry leaves and frozen, winter-brown underbrush, a thick carpet of death shredding beneath his boots. The metaphor feels almost apt, in a sense, foreboding in a heavy way he cannot begin to understand but does not dare ignore. The Uruk-hai are coming, are here , just ahead, and he failed Frodo but he will not fail the other Halflings.

(they are so young and innocent and utterly unprepared, even after moria, they will not survive for long alone, and the chief gave orders to find the halflings, and)

(he will not fail them, young merry and pippin, even if it claims his life)

His sword slides from his sheath, leaping fluid and silver into his hand, and not even the familiar wrapped hilt can ease the horror smothering his lungs; and so he lets the fear fill him, lend speed to his legs and strength to his sword arm, and he has just enough time to regret the absence of his shield before the Halflings come into view, trapped by Uruk-hai, one foul beast lunging with sword upraised--

He doesn’t think, just launches, catching the orc’s black blade on his own, kicks the creature in the crotch and shoves it away. There’s no time to think, even to breathe; he can do nothing but fight, one Man against easily one hundred Uruk-hai, but he is Boromir, son of Denethor, a Man of Gondor, and the blood of Numenor flows still through his veins, faded and fallen though it may be.

But he cannot do it alone.

He fumbles at his belt with his left hand, wrenches the great horn of Gondor from where it has hung for leagues upon leagues of perilous travel, and sets the silvered mouth to his lips and blows a mighty blast. The great cry shivers through the air, sends a new rush of strength through his limbs, causes the ferocious Uruk-hai to hesitate in their brutal onslaught; but no help answers.

(all hope is not lost; surely aragorn will come)

He drops the horn, gestures furiously at the Halflings, retreats from the again-advancing orcs, pausing for a swift exchange of blows with one that ends in his sword driving through the orc’s chest; behind him, Merry and Pippin fling stones at the iron-clad Uruk-hai. Several of the beasts fall, but there are so many more, and still help does not come.

(perhaps aragorn did not hear)

He spares the little ones a glance; they are as wild-eyed and fierce as he imagines he is, but there is such fear and trust and desperation there, and it nearly breaks him. He raises the horn to his lips once more, looses another blast; leaps back a step and parries a blade slicing at his legs, and channels all the desperate need into one final breath.

The cry the horn releases is like nothing he has ever heard before; fierce and proud and noble, a defiant shout in the face of black evil, a fist raised in the face of the Enemy, and it is so powerful the horn splits in two in his fingers. He lets it fall, tethered still to his belt by the leather cord, and lunges forward at the lead Uruk-hai with teeth bared in a feral grin. For surely Aragorn has heard the last echoing call; even now the Captain of their Fellowship must be flying through the forest, Anduril wreathed in red flame in his hands. Boromir needs last only a little longer, and then there will be aid. The Halflings will be safe, for no Uruk-hai can withstand the combined force of two Men of Gondor such as they.

The softest of sounds, nearly lost in the clash of blade against armor, trembles through the air; the familiar music of a bowstring. He turns, eyes straining to make out the form of Aragorn, or Legolas, but there is nothing.

The black-feathered arrow drives deep into his flesh, the head vanishing within him until the tip grinds into his bones, and his eyes catch upon the cruel, imperious Uruk-hai standing tall and grasping a bow before his knees give out and he falls.

(where are you, aragorn?)

The pain takes a breath to register, and then it breaks over him like the sea, and he is drowning in a flood, a deluge of white-hot flame, scorching his lungs and blistering his skin and turning him to ashes, and

(the halflings)

The image of the Halflings flashes into his mind, and somehow the pain falls away, and he breathes in the scalding air and surges to his feet, lashing out, another orc falling to his sword, black blood dripping thick and hot from the blade, and he twists towards another orc and then--

(aragorn, please )

The second arrow flies deep into his gut, stealing his breath and flinging him backwards and down to his knees, and this time there is no kind moment of respite before the pain hits; clawing his insides and shredding him, tearing his mind and body to ashes and dust, blood bubbling up in his throat, steaming and metallic and tasting bitterly of failure and death.

(must not)

(fail)

(aragorn w h y)

A screaming, wordless howl of anguish and frenzied rage tears itself from his lips, and he flings himself at the Uruk-hai again, choking on pain, and he wants nothing more than to fall to the ground and rest but he is alone and there are the Halflings--he must not--cannot-- Frodo and the Ring and give it to me!

[ m y  k i n g  i  n e e d  y o u ]

(he is fire and flood and broken glass, shattered rock, the crumbling stone balustrades of osgiliath and the dead-and-faded white tree, and all is darkness and eternal night about him, and the walls of minas tirth are broken and decayed, the gates naught but twisted heaps of blackened wood and tarnished silver)

(and the third arrow is a strike from the hand of sauron himself, molten-hot and whispering, and the white tree burns to ashes in the courtyard of his fathers)

(he is )

(must not fail must not the)

(why did you abandon)

(my king)

(everything is a blur, lost in the endless night, the realm of the dark lord, and screams, and he has failed )

And then the last Uruk-hai, the one with the bow, stands stern and smirking before him and with a cruel half-laugh he stares down the shaft of another arrow and this one will kill him and Aragorn--

Green flame crashes into the orc, and there is a streak of red blazing brightly, and they have finally come but it is too late , they are gone , he lost them , and

(there is something heavy and hot on his chest, and he is staring up at the stark branches, stripped of their warmth and their life by winter’s chill, and he cannot breathe)

(someone kneels over him, and if he could only focus his eyes, and there is a flicker of dark and noble eyes)

(it cannot be)

“They--” and he cannot breathe through the pressing on his chest but he must speak, he failed , “they took the little ones--”

Aragorn’s voice, choked and desperate, forces out words he cannot understand, and his own blood is thick on his lips and coats his tongue, and--

“ Frodo , where is Frodo?”

There is a pressure on his shoulder.

“I let Frodo go.”

The blur resolves into a fuzzy, vaguely remembered image of Aragorn’s face, and Boromir finds the man’s eyes.

“Then you did what I could not,” and he must be honest because he has nothing left, and he has failed them, and he must say it… “I tried to take the Ring from him.”

“The Ring is beyond our reach now,” and Aragorn is soft and gentle and quiet and he hurts and--

“Forgive me, I did not see…” and a breath, thick and burning, and “I have failed you all.”

“ No , Boromir. You fought bravely,” and is it his imagination or does Aragorn’s voice crack and shiver? “You have kept your honor.”

He feels Aragorn trying to bind the wound, and there is no point, and he must say something yet--

“ Leave it! ”

The darkness covers his eyes and he cannot see and his King is there and--

“It is over… the world of Men will fall and all will come to darkness, and my city will fall…” He chokes in a breath. “Aragorn…”

“I do not know what strength is in my blood,” the other man says, low and urgent, “but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail.”

[ o u r  p e o p l e ]

(does he speak?)

(there is nothing left in him but there is still yet one thing)

Something presses the hilt of his sword into his hand, and he clutches it reflexively, somehow jerks it to his heart in a rough mockery of a salute.

(who is he saluting?)

(there is something

       someone

        ��                                                     important)

“I--” and there is only one thing, he must not fail now-- “I would have followed you, my brother…” and the darkness is so thick now, and he cannot see, and there is nothing left in his lungs, but he must-- “my captain…”

(more he is more and he must)

(it is so dark now)

(he will not let the white city fall)

“ My King.”