The lasses climbed slowly up the hill in the Pellennor Fields in their endless search for flowers. Most of them were contented with the purple heather and tiny bluebells that grew closest to the walls of Minas Tirith. They claimed that they stayed there because they liked the selection, when in reality it was because they didn’t want to stray too far from the comforting white gates behind them.

One lass, dark-haired and dark-eyed, scoffed at the others and continued over small hills until she saw it. There, nestled among the grasses and bushes was a bunch of yellow flowers. Their petals formed a delicate cup around their centers and they were large and beautiful. The lass smiled and, leaning forward, gently began to gather the flowers.

She took her time, pausing after she plucked each flower to admire and sniff its delicate scent. Her mind began to wander, and she wondered why the other girls were so frightened. The lass looked up and examined the town of Osgiliath, a smudge in the distance and, behind it the mountains of Mordor. Were they afraid of whatever evil lurked behind those dark hills, mere forms on the horizon? Why should they be? Osgiliath would protect Minas Tirith, Osgiliath- and Boromir.

The lass smiled at the thought of Boromir. She had never actually met the stewards’ son face-to-face, but she, like many other Gondorians, was passionately devoted to the strong young man. He was their protector, and their defender. While Steward Denethor sat up in the tower of Ecthelion and Faramir trained in the ways of his older brother, Boromir held the outpost of Osgiliath and defended it against all who attacked. He’s almost like a king. The lass thought to herself, absentmindedly plucking a third flower.

Suddenly she stopped. There, riding from Osgiliath was a company of men. In the front, his reddish blond hair shining in the sun, was Boromir. He was seated upon a fine brown horse, his armor glinting and his sword at his side. He looked so solemn, so noble, even from here.

The lass stood and ran to the top of the hill. The men were going to ride right past her, and there she was, stained with grass and dirt and who knows what else! He won’t mind. she told herself.

The men rode towards her and, as they got closer, the lass executed a little bow. When she straightened, Boromir’s brown eyes were upon her. She smiled and, to her surprise and delight, he smiled back, and nodded his head. The lass was sure, had he been on foot, he would’ve bowed all the way! The lass watched the men ride away, the smile still on her face.

“Ireth? Ireth, you daffy lass, come here! Your mother is sure to be worried about you!”

Ireth started and ran back to the others. On the way back to the city, one of the girls asked how many flowers she had picked. Ireth opened her hand to reveal three bright yellow flowers.

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Boromir gave his horse a pat after settling it into its stall. He was already exhausted and it was only early afternoon. He had spent the entire morning patrolling Osgiliath, reassuring himself that the defenses would hold while he was away.

Boromir sighed and turned to make his way to the White Tower. The truth was, he didn’t want to leave, exactly, but he knew he had to. “In Imladris it dwells… Isildurs’ Bane.” Boromir murmured to himself. That was the reason he was traveling to Rivendell. There was to be a Council, discussing Isildurs Bane. Boromir had no desire to leave, especially considering that Osgiliath was so newly recaptured. Not that he didn’t trust his younger brother to take care of things while he was away. Faramir was hard-working and intelligent, not to mention fiercely protective of Gondor. It was just the added strain of their father’s disapproval that gave Boromir pause.

Boromir made his way up to the White Tower. Standing at the very edge, he looked out at the White City and, beyond that, the Pellennor Fields. He closed his deep brown eyes and smiled as the wind blew over him, playing with the strands of his reddish hair and giving him a tousled look. He suddenly felt, in a deep part of his soul, to go out among the streets, to wander once more through Minas Tirith, to see everything just one more time. He told himself that these feelings were ridiculous, that after the Council he would return home, to care for his lands and people. Denethor would grow old, and die and he would take the position of Steward of Gondor. He would marry, have children and live his days out in peace. Life would continue, as it always had.

Still, that slight feeling of the finality of this journey remained. Boromir decided that he had enough time for a quick walk through the streets of the city. He ran his gauntleted hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to straighten it and set off.

Boromir was walking, casually through the streets, nodding politely at the people he passed. It was a beautiful day and many people were out and about. Boromir smiled and stepped aside as a group of children came running past. Most people saw Boromir as the hardened war hero with nerves of steel- and assumed his heart was likewise. But nothing could be further from the truth. Boromir’s heart was warm and caring, taking in every last one of his people and considering their needs first. As if to prove that, as Boromir tousled the hair of a passing child, a nearby woman remarked to her friend. “What a father Lord Boromir will be someday.”

“He has to be a husband first.” The woman’s friend said, sweeping off her doorstep. “Though considering what a fine man he is, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Boromir overheard their conversation. He smiled silently to himself and nodded in the women’s direction. Then, he set off around the corner- and ran into someone.

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Ireth’s parents had told her a thousand times to never run in the streets. But she’d heard a rumor that Boromir was leaving. She simply had to see him before he left. Looking around her, Ireth slipped away from her friends. As soon as she was a good distance away, she broke into a run, grabbing her skirts so she wouldn’t trip on them, scarcely aware of the pounding of her heart, of her heavy breathing, of the yellow flowers still clutched tightly in her hand, aware of nothing except Boromir and the way he’d smiled at her that morning. She rounded a corner and ran into someone. The impact was so strong that it threw both to the ground. Ireth lay there, groaning. Her ribs ached and she was breathing heavily.

“Are you all right?” A deep, concerned voice asked.

Ireth looked up. There, standing above her, was Boromir. The afternoon sun was directly behind him, shining through his reddish hair and making him look like some otherworldly being. Ireth felt her words freeze in her throat at the sight of those deep brown eyes.

Boromir smiled and reached out a hand. Ireth, in a daze, stared blankly at the heavy gauntlet. “Oh, so sorry.” Boromir said, taking off the gauntlet. “There. Don’t want you to scratch those pretty hands on these. These are made for Orcs, not ladies.” He reached out his hand again and Ireth took it. It was slightly rough, but surprisingly soft and warm for the hand of a war hero. Ireth had meant to merely place her hand in his and pull herself up, but Boromir had other plans. He laced his fingers with hers and, dropping one gauntlet and pulling off the other with his teeth, took her other hand. He carefully helped her up, smiling at her the whole time. Ireth almost didn’t want him to help her up, because that would mean letting go of her hands. But, once she was up, he stood there, holding them, casual as you please. “You are all right then?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Ireth managed to stammer. She instantly blushed at herself. She sounded so foolish, like a silly little girl. What must he think of her?

The smile wrinkled around Boromir’s eyes deepened. “Just Boromir, thank you.” He let go of her hands and leaned down, picking up the gauntlets. “I do hope you will forgive me for running into you like that.”

“Oh no, sir- Boromir. It was my fault, I was in a hurry see, and..” Ireth trailed off, unwilling to explain her reasons for hurrying.

“Ah. In a hurry to give these to someone?” Boromir asked, holding out his hand. In them lay two yellow flowers. Boromir raised one eyebrow and smiled.

“N-no…” Ireth said, hesitantly. “I heard a rumor that you were leaving and I-I wanted to… see you off.” Ireth looked up at him earnestly, her dark eyes shining. “You aren’t really leaving, are you?”

“I’m afraid so, Lass. I have business, far away.” Boromir said in that deep gruff voice as he pulled on his gauntlets. He paused and held out the flowers to Ireth. “Here, I assume you want these…”

“Oh, no, you can keep them.” Ireth said, blushing as she realized that she’d started nearly every sentence with ‘Oh’. What was the matter with her? Usually you couldn’t keep her quiet.

Boromir smiled, and tucked the fading flowers into his gauntlet. “Thank you, Miss?”

“Ireth. My names Ireth.”

Boromir pulled the gauntlets on. “Ireth. Thank you.” He turned to go.

“Boromir.” Ireth said suddenly, placing one hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her, his deep brown eyes staring, it seemed, into her soul. Ireth bit her lip, wondering how to say this. “Be safe. You have lots of people who…who love you. Be safe and return soon, okay?”

He smiled. “Okay.” He lifted her hand from his shoulder and bowed over it.

As he turned to go, Ireth stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, gently. Then, face flaming, she turned and disappeared around the corner, leaving Boromir to stare after her in confusion.

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Boromir gazed after the lass- Ireth. His hand rested on his cheek where she’d kissed him. A small smile crept over his face as he thought of her pretty eyes, her dark hair shining in the afternoon sun. And of the little yellows flowers she’d given him. His face grew stern again as he thought of his behavior. One did not talk about Orcs with ladies, and one certainly didn’t pull gauntlets off with their teeth in front of them!

He sighed and turned to go back to the tower. He should really be getting ready to leave. As he walked up the steps to the stable, he felt the yellow flowers tucked safely inside his glove. He smiled. Ireth…

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And seated a little apart was a tall man with a fair and noble face…proud and stern of glance. He was cloaked and booted as if for a journey on horseback; and indeed though his garments were rich, and his cloak was lined in fur, they were stained with long travel. He had a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set; his locks were shorn above his shoulders. On a baldric he wore a great horn, tipped in silver that now was laid upon his knees. ‘Here,’ said Elrond, turning to Gandalf, ‘is Boromir, a man from the South.’ ---The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 2, The Council of Elrond

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Boromir sighed inwardly as he watched this man- Aragorn- pledge his sword to the Hobbit. How could this be the Council’s decision, to destroy the Ring? Hadn’t he tried to tell them that his people were suffering and dying? Hadn’t he told them that Mordor was a hellish place of ash and dust and evil? He had no desire to use the Ring for his own purposes; he merely wanted to protect his people.

His people….Boromir felt the now-familiar yellow flowers inside his gauntlets. They had stayed there all through the long journey to Imladris, and were now faded and dry. But, at night, when he took them out and sniffed their sweet, faint fragrance, he could see the dark earnest eyes, begging him to return soon and safely. Ireth was on his mind often. She’d become a sort of symbol of all that he loved about Gondor, its pride, beauty, sweetness and dignity.

Boromir looked up and caught the Halfling- Frodo’s- eyes. He looked sympathetic enough. Perhaps if Boromir merely explained to him, one-on-one, why he needed the Ring, and asked him for it, Frodo would let him use it. At any rate, it was worth a shot. Boromir was willing to go to great lengths to save his people.

Boromir stood and walked slowly over to where a group had gathered around the Hobbit. “You carry the fates of us all, little one.” he said in what he hoped was a calm voice. Frodo gave him a slightly wary look, and Boromir noticed Aragorn place his hand on the Hobbit’s shoulder. Boromir met the Ranger’s eyes. Why was he protective? Boromir was no threat. “If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done.” Boromir said, raising an eyebrow at Aragorn.

Boromir went and stood behind Frodo, smiling to himself as three other Hobbits came out of hiding. He was smiling not only at Lord Elrond’s shocked face, but at these Hobbit’s devotion and loyalty to each other. As Lord Elrond declared the nine companions the Fellowship of the Ring, Boromir was hopeful. Surely creatures with as much kinship and patriotism as Hobbits would understand his reasons for using the Ring.

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‘…but almost I should have said that she was tempting us, and offering what she pretended to have the power to give. It need not be said that I refused to listen. The Men of Minas Tirith are true to their word.’ But what he thought the Lady had offered him, Boromir did not tell. ---The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 7, The Mirror of Galadriel

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Boromir sat in the shade of a tree in Lorien, watching twilight fall over the Elven land and listening to the strangely beautiful language of the Elves, singing some song he could not understand.

“A lament for Gandalf.” Boromir heard Legolas say from some distance away. Boromir closed his eyes at the weight of the grief that overwhelmed him at the sound of that name. Gandalf, Mithrandir, by whatever name you called him, he was the same. Wise, witty, wonderful-dead. Lost to a being of devilry, a shadowy flame beast that had come upon them in that tomb of the dwarves. Boromir had seen him fall, had heard his last command to flee. Boromir had been the one to grab Frodo, to keep him from following Gandalf to certain doom, he’d heard the dark-haired Hobbits’ agonized screams, felt like screaming himself. Boromir had half-carried, half-dragged Frodo out of that place; had begged Aragorn to give the Hobbits a moment to grieve. Boromir, to that moment, couldn’t get the sight of the Fellowship, broken and grieving on the side of the mountain out of his head. Nor could he forget the sight of the Ringbearer, walking away from the Fellowship as if to escape the fact that Gandalf was dead; that horrible, lost, desperate, abandoned look upon his face as he turned; the hopeless look in those deep blue eyes; that single tear running down his face that summed up all their pain.

But Gandalf was gone, forever. And without him, Boromir felt lost and alone. Boromir, whenever he was around Gandalf, had felt that maybe, taking the Ring to Mordor was the right thing, the noble thing to do. But without the guiding words and presence of Gandalf, nothing was clear or certain.

Except Ireth. Ireth was always certain, the Boromir knew. He knew that back in his home city, that maiden was waiting and watching for him, that she firmly believed in his true nobility and goodness, that among the crowds of people coming out to celebrate his return, hers would be the only face he’d see.

Boromir held the dried yellow flowers in his hand tightly as he thought about all this. So involved was he in Ireth’s memory, so clearly could he see those dark eyes gazing at him, so tangibly feel her lips on his cheek, that he was startled when Aragorn sat down next to him.

“Take some rest. These borders are well protected.” Aragorn said with a slight smile.

His words reminded Boromir where he was, in Lorien, with Galadriel.

Reminded of her words to him, he clutched the flowers tightly, not wanting Aragorn to see them and said, “I will find no rest here. I heard her voice inside my head.” Boromir closed his eyes at the memory and continued in a choked voice. “She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, ‘Even now there is hope left.’ But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope.” Boromir sighed heavily at the thought of his home and of his father. How to speak about his noble, yet proud father to this Ranger, who claimed to be an heir to Gondor? Boromir looked up and continued, carefully choosing his words. “My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And then our... our people lose faith.” Our people, like Ireth. But Ireth would never lose faith, at least not in him. “He looks to me to make things right, and I, I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored.”

The glory of Gondor. Oh dear Gondor. “Have you ever seen it, Aragorn?” Boromir said in a soft reverent tone, almost seeing the things as he described them. “The white tower of Ecthelion. Glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver. Its banners caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

Boromir watched Aragorn’s face darken slightly in thought. “I have seen the White City.” The dark-haired man replied in a low tone. “Long ago.”

Boromir was pleased. Aragorn knew of the beauty and glory of his homeland. Boromir felt a closer kinship to this man, a man who had become almost like a brother to him over their journey. Boromir set his hand on the other mans shoulder and smiled. One day, our paths will lead us there. And the tower guard shall take up the call: ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned.’”

Aragorn gave Boromir a small smile and stood. Boromir watched him go and opened his hand to gaze at the yellow flowers. “The Lord of Gondor will return, Ireth.” he said softly. “I shall see you again, I swear it.” He closed his hand and stood, walking towards his makeshift bed. “I swear it.”

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Far away from Lothlorien, far from the singing of the Elves, far from the peacefulness and beauty of the heart of Elvendom of earth, in a small room by a window, a dark-haired maiden lay. Her dark eyes watched the twilight, which was even now stealing over Lorien, slowly fall over Minas Tirith. She smiled slightly as a cool breeze blew over her face, cooling her fever, if only for a moment.

A nearby woman set her hand on the maidens’ forehead and sighed heavily. “Well?” a worried voice said from the doorway.

The woman turned to face the worried eyes of the maidens’ parents. She sighed again. “Her life is leaving her. There is nothing else I can do.”

The mother of the girl gasped as her eyes slowly filled with tears. The father turned his face away and held his wife close, hiding his own tears in her hair.

The maiden scarcely noticed her parents’ grief. It was true her life was fading, but what they did not know was that she was nearly gone. Gone to a world where pain, both of the body and of the heart did not exist, to a world where all her hopes and dreams and secret desires would come true at last, to a world where everything made sense and deeper, where tenderer feelings weren’t trampled upon by those who had no regard for true beauty.

As her parents sat by her side, the maiden opened her eyes once and gave them both a loving look. “Good-bye.” she whispered.

With that, Ireth passed into eternity.

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Boromir strode up and down, speaking ever more loudly. Almost he seemed to have forgotten Frodo, while his talk dwelt on walls and weapons and the mustering of men; and he drew plans for great alliances and glorious victories to be; and he cast down Mordor and became himself a mighty king, benevolent and wise. ---The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter10, The Breaking of the Fellowship

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Boromir was glad when, as he was walking and collecting firewood, he came upon Frodo. Ever since Lorien, he’d become more and more sure that the Ring was what would save Gondor. He only needed a little time alone with the Ringbearer, to try and convince him. “None of us should walk alone,” he called out, startling Frodo out of some deep thoughts, “Least of all you.”

The Hobbit merely regarded him with those unnerving blue eyes. Boromir disliked the feeling that gaze gave him; it made him feel as if Frodo could see him innermost thoughts- and didn’t like them. Boromir offered what he hoped was a friendly glance, which didn’t seem to penetrate the icy wall of those eyes. “I know why you seek solitude.” he said finally. Frodo looked away.

Boromir walked closer, slowly, so as not to alarm him. Frodo appeared ready to run, which confused Boromir. He was no thief, no threat. “You say you are afraid.” Boromir continued, carefully. “But are you sure it is not your good sense that revolts? There other ways, Frodo, other paths that we might take-”

“I know what you would say.” The Hobbit retorted coolly. “And it would seem like wisdom but for the warning in my heart. And about good sense and all that, the fact is that I am afraid. Simply afraid.” Frodo closed his eyes and looked away for a long moment. “But I thank you for speaking so fully. My mind is…clearer.”

Boromir felt relief spreading through him. “You will take the Ring to Minas Tirith, then?”

Frodo eyed him coldly. “You misunderstand me.” he said in a low vice, turning and walking away.

Boromir stared after him in shock. Then, anger, deep uncontrollable rage welled up inside him. Who did this Halfling think he was, refusing to help him? He knew nothing of the world and its horrors, he’d never seen his people slaughtered by the forces of Mordor, never heard their screams and wails. Frodo was simply too naïve and oblivious to really use the Ring to its full potential. Boromir was doing him a favor, by asking for it.

“I only ask for the strength to defend my people!” Boromir exploded, throwing the firewood he’d gathered onto the forest floor. Frodo turned around, and stared at him. For a second Boromir was convicted by the look in the Hobbits eyes. Disbelief, confusion- and fear. Frodo, whom he’d sworn to protect, to defend, whom he’d traveled hundreds of miles with and saved the life of on more than one occasion, Frodo, who’d become a friend, whom Boromir cared about- was afraid of him. Boromir lowered his tone, trying to control his anger, and said, “If you would but lend me the Ring…”

“No.” Frodo said, backing away, sizing up Boromir as if he was an attacking foe.

“Why are you so unfriendly? I am neither thief nor tracker.” Boromir was getting impatient with this Halfling. Why wouldn’t he see reason?

“You are not yourself.” Frodo replied through gritted teeth, obviously controlling his- anger? Or fear?

“I need your Ring, that you know now, but I give you my word I have no desire to keep it.” Boromir said in a pleading tone. “Will you not at least let me try my plan? Just lend me the Ring.”

“No!” Frodo replied in a harsh tone, eyes blazing. “The Council laid it upon me to bear it!”

“What chance do you think you have? They will find you.” Boromir advanced slowly on the Hobbit, eyes blazing with an anger and madness that disfigured his fair and noble face. “They will take the Ring. And you will beg for death before the end!”

That hit a nerve. The Hobbits eyes widened and, trembling, he turned and started to walk resolutely away. Boromir changed tactics once again, following after Frodo and saying in a persuasive tone. “You don’t need to take the blame for giving it to me. You can say I took it from you.” Frodo cast back an alarmed look and broke into a run. Boromir was beyond any holding back. “Which I can, Halfling. I am too strong for you.” he snarled, breaking into a run as well.

Boromir quickly overtook Frodo and lunged at him, pulling him to the ground. “It is not yours save by unhappy chance! GIVE IT TO ME!” Boromir roared, trying to grab the Ring from its chain around the Hobbits neck.

“NO!” Frodo yelled back, grabbing the Ring. The two struggled for a brief moment, then, to Boromir’s great horror, Frodo slipped the Ring on and vanished. Stunned, the Man stared where he’d been for a moment, and then fell back with a grunt as the now-invisible Hobbit hit him- hard. Boromir saw a pile of logs move as the unseen Hobbit scrambled away.

“I see your mind!” Boromir yelled, struggling to his feet and glaring in the direction the Halfling might’ve taken. “You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us all!” Boromir started up the hill, in some rageful desire to find the Ringbearer. “Curse you!” he bellowed into the empty forest. “Curse you and all the Halflings!”

A pile of leaves caused Boromir to slip and fall hard onto his face. He lay there for a moment, mouth full of leaves, feeling this rage which seemed to have a life of its own, leave him, slowly. He was suddenly hit by what he’d just done. He lifted his head slightly, spitting out the leaves. “Frodo?” he called softly, hoping by some chance that the Hobbit was still around, that he was not so convinced of Boromir’s insanity and rage that he’d gone for good. “Frodo.” he said again, sorrow choking him with the memory of those blue eyes, full of terror. Terror brought on by him, Boromir, someone Frodo was supposed to trust with his life, but who he couldn’t trust with anything. “What have I done?’ Boromir asked himself, feeling horror assault him. He knew exactly what he’d done, confronted the Ringbearer in the forest, intimidated and threatened him, attacked and tried to rob him. He’d broken trust with someone who held an important place in his heart. Boromir shuddered to think about how far he might’ve gone to get the Ring. “Frodo, please…” Boromir begged as he scrambled to his feet. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to see that dark-haired Halfling one more time, to make amends, to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness.

Boromir began running blindly into the woods. “Frodo, I’m sorry!” he screamed. ‘Frodo!” Boromir halted on a small rise. A noise caught his ear and he turned. Sounds of battle, coming from not very far off. Boromir gritted his teeth and turned away from the place where he thought Frodo was. Maybe he could redeem himself, somehow.

For the first time since leaving Lorien, Boromir felt the dry yellow flowers inside his gauntlets. He smiled at the hope they gave him, and, drawing his sword, set off towards the battle.

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Boromir opened his eyes and strove to speak. At last, slow words came. ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’ Hs glance strayed to his fallen enemies; twenty at least lay there. ‘They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.’ He paused and his eyes closed wearily. After a moment he spoke again. ‘Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed.’ ‘No!’ said Aragorn, taking his hand and kissing his brow. ‘You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!’ Boromir smiled. ‘Which way did they go? Was Frodo there?’ Aragorn asked. But Boromir did not speak again. ---The Two Towers, Chapter 1, The Departure of Boromir.

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Boromir rounded the top of the hill and stopped, frozen in horror. Merry and Pippin stood, about to be cleave din half by an Orc-sword. Boromir gripped his sword tighter and charged down the hill, parrying the blow just in time. Turning, he swung his sword at another Orc, killing it. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the two Halflings stabbing at the Orcs. In spite of his guilt and his anger at himself, and in spite of the Orcs all around, Boromir felt himself smiling at the courage of the Halflings. But he knew that a Man and two Hobbits couldn’t hold of scores of Orcs, at least not for long.

“Run! Run!” he yelled at Merry and Pippin, who obeyed- at least for a moment. The paused a few meters away, obviously unwilling to leave Boromir alone and began hurtling rocks at the Orcs. Boromir wasn’t amused by this for long. He was turning to encourage them to run again, when he heard a whizzing of air and then a sharp pain in his chest. He looked down in horror to find a black-feathered arrow sticking out of his chest. The blood from the deep wound was already soaking through his shirt. In that moment, Boromir had the sinking feeling of knowing he was going to die.

Boromir turned around, ready to fall to the ground. Then he saw Merry and Pippin’s faces. The shock and fear in their eyes cut him to the heart, reminding him of the shock and fear in Frodo’s eyes. He’d failed Frodo. He was not going to fail them. Boromir turned around with a great effort and continued fighting, ignoring the searing pain in his chest. He was beginning to feel that maybe he would be all right after all, when another arrow drove into his chest. He jolted back in pain, but continued fighting the Orcs, with a strength he didn’t know he had in him.

Finally a third arrow drove into his body, throwing him to his knees. He stayed there, panting, every movement a great difficulty. He heard the yells of Merry and Pippin and lifted his sweat-drenched head to see them being carried off by the Orcs. Everything inside him screamed for him to follow them, but he couldn’t. He could barely move. A huge Orc came lumbering down the hill. Boromir watched him, feeling detached from his body, as if it were another man who knelt there, bleeding and dying. The Orc walked up the Boromir, a smirk spread across his ugly face. Pausing several feet from the Man, he drew his bow, ready to shoot Boromir in the face. Panting, Boromir’s deep brown eyes lifted and met the yellow ones of the Orc. With odd calmness, he waited for his death.

A yell distracted both would-be killer and victim. Aragorn, sword waving, eyes blazing, came charging down the hill, waving his sword. Boromir watched the huge Orc turn to face the Man. As the two battled, Boromir dragged himself to a tree and set his back against it. He closed his eyes and focused on staying alive, at least for a few minutes more.

Boromir found himself thinking over the journey he’d been on, of the trials and the pain and also of the joys and the comfort of his Companions. He thought over his last impressions of each member of the Company. Gandalf, an old bent man who held extraordinary power; Aragorn, a seemingly common Ranger within whom beat the heart of a king; Legolas, a fair and noble Elf who held a strong loyalty and love towards all the mortal members of the Fellowship; Gimli, a small fiery Dwarf, who was willing to throw himself into the void to rescue Gandalf; Sam, that small simple Hobbit, a gardeners son who had traversed mountains and mines, rivers and forest in order to stay with his friend; Merry and Pippin ,the two youngest Hobbits, who never were apart, indeed you could scarcely imagine one without the other, yet each were willing to sacrifice them selves to save him; Frodo, the Ringbearer to whom they all had pledged their loyalty, a small, seemingly helpless Hobbit with the most nobility and the purest heart of anyone Boromir had ever met. Boromir sighed heavily at the thought of Frodo, of his last impression of him, a small, terrified Hobbit, struggling to keep him, Boromir, from taking the Ring and ruining his life. “Think better of me, Frodo.” Boromir whispered hoarsely. “Remember what I was, what I could’ve been, instead of what I am, what I’ve become. Forgive me.” A strange peace stole over Boromir and he closed his eyes, gasping for breath.

“No….” a voice said above Boromir. Boromir opened his eyes to see Aragorn, kneeling over him.

“They took them. The Halflings.” Boromir gasped, as if Aragorn wasn’t fully aware of that.

“Lie still, Boromir, lie still.” Aragorn murmured, examining his companions’ wounds.

“Frodo.” Boromir struggled with the word, asking the question that burned in his soul.

Aragorn met Boromir’s eyes. Boromir sensed that he knew what Boromir had almost done, how he’d tried to take the Ring. Boromir felt his heart and eyes fill as he saw the forgiveness in Aragorn’s eyes. “I let Frodo go.” Aragorn said softly.

Boromir closed his eyes briefly in relief. “Then you did what I could not.” Feeling the need to get everything of his chest, he whispered. “I-I tried to take the Ring from him. Forgive me, I-I….I have failed you all.”

“No, Boromir, No. You have regained your honor. You have fought bravely.” Aragorn offered a comforting smile, and began to pull the arrows out of Boromir chest.

“Leave them!” Boromir said gruffly. He knew he was going to die, no matter what Aragorn did. “It is over. The world of Men is failing. My...my city will fall.” Tears slipped slowly from Boromir’s eyes, as he thought of his beautiful city.

Boromir saw a strange determination come into Aragorn’s eyes. The dark haired mans pale blue eyes were blazing with a courage and fierceness that Boromir had never seen in him. “I do not know what strength is in my blood.” Aragorn said, emotion filling his voice. “But I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall.” Aragorn grabbed Boromir’s hand and met his eyes. “Nor our people fail.”

Boromir smiled at the man. “Our people. Our people.” Boromir took the sword that Aragorn handed to him and held it to his chest. His deep brown eyes, filled with tears stared up at this man, the heir to his kingdom. He would take care of Gondor, of Minas Tirith, of his-no, their people. He would take care of Ireth. Boromir closed his eyes at the thought of Ireth. Oh, Ireth. It was better this way, Boromir told himself. He could not return to her like this, disgraced, no better than a thief. He couldn’t explain to those sweet trusting eyes how he’d almost taken an object of pure evil and brought it to Minas Tirith. It was better if she remembered him as the noble man he had been, the man he was once again before his death.

Boromir opened his eyes. “I would have followed you, my brother.” He swallowed through the tears. “My captain.” He smiled his old familiar smile. “My king.” he choked. He closed his eyes and, with a sigh, left this world.

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Aragorn pulled on Boromir’s gauntlets, as Legolas slowly pushed the boat containing the body of the Gondorian into the water. Aragorn felt a strange itching against his wrists and, confused, pulled out some crackly, dry plants from the gauntlets. They were once flowers, he could see that, and they had been either white, or yellow. They must’ve had some sort of sentimental significance to Boromir. Aragorn shrugged and, striding quickly over to the boat, set the dried flowers on Boromir’s chest. He then stepped back and watched the boat float slowly out of sight.

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When the news came to Minas Tirith that Boromir was dead, the grieving was unlike any grieving that had ever happened in Gondor. To show tribute to their fallen hero, the people of Minas Tirith hung flowers outside their doors. When one walked through the streets of the city, they could see huge flower arrangements, beautiful bluebells and fresh roses, white and red and green and blue everywhere hung over the doors. But, if one walked by a small house on the third level of the city, they would probably stop and stare, confused at the house. For, instead of a huge fresh flower bouquet, hung over the door was a single, dry yellow flower.

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Boromir was conscious of sunlight on his face, soft grass all about him. His eyes remained closed, as he wondered where he was. The last thing he remembered was- being shot and the words of Aragorn. Was Boromir dead? He felt no pain and, moving his hand slowly down his front, felt no arrows protruding from his chest. Had he been healed?

Boromir opened his eyes and saw two things that proved that he was, indeed, somewhere outside of Middle-earth. The first was a pair of dark eyes, smiling down at him from a pale, sweet face, fringed with dark hair. A white hand reached out to him, the gold fringing the sleeve of her blue dress glimmering in the perfect sunlight. He took her hand and slowly stood up, his eyes never leaving her face. Then, after Boromir had enclosed Ireth in a long, sweet embrace, he noticed the second thing. The two were standing a field of yellow flowers.

Boromir gave a confused look at Ireth. Ireth, setting her hand on the side of his face, smiled. “I knew I’d see you again.” she whispered.

“Ireth, you don’t know what I’ve done…” Boromir began brokenly.

Ireth set her finger on his lips. “No more talk of what happened. You have regained you honor. You have been forgiven. That’s why you’re here now.” She smiled as she leaned forward. “My hero.” she whispered, right before her lips met his.

His arms slid around her waist as they kissed, in a field of yellow flowers, in that world where pain was only a fading memory, in a world where he no longer had cares or worries, in a world beyond eternity.