Tears stung Boromir's eyes and he rubbed them away angrily. He did not want his father to see him weeping and think him weak or childish. Resisting the urge to sniff, he instead wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Setting his face stoically, Boromir pulled back his shoulders and stood tall, hoping it would help him control his emotion -- but to no avail. Another tear rolled down before he could stop it. Beside him, Denethor made no sound, nor gave any indication he saw Boromir's sorrow. What his father's feelings were now, Boromir could not tell.

Boromir's grandfather Ecthelion was dying, and Boromir was desolate. It was only a matter of time now; chamberlains waited respectfully in the shadows while the family took leave of him and spoke their final words together. Soon now, preparations would begin for Ecthelion's journey to Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, and to the House of Stewards, where he would be laid to his final rest.

The old Steward now lay propped up with many pillows, weak and ill, yet still alert, master of himself and master of his own end. He was dressed in his best tunic, surcoat, and cloak, and though he could no longer bear the weight of his mail armor, he had girded his sword about him for this last farewell. He would not go until he had said all he had to say to those he loved. Boromir stood near his father, and watched as Denethor leaned close to listen to a few murmured words. His father's face was still and stern, but Boromir thought perhaps he could see the glint of unshed tears in the lamplight, and he took comfort in the knowledge that he was not alone in his grief. Further beyond, in the soft shadows cast by the light of the lamp, he could see his mother sitting, cradling his little brother in her arms as she wept silently into the blanket that covered sleeping Faramir.

"It is not evil to weep, child," said Ecthelion softly, as he reached out and drew Boromir close to his side. "Even a grown man can be forgiven a few tears when bidding a friend farewell."

Ecthelion stretched out a weak and trembling hand to wipe dry the fresh tears that spilled down Boromir's cheek.

"Do you remember when I told you I would give you my sword when you were old enough and I had finished with it?"

"Yes," replied Boromir, swallowing his tears. "I was too small then, but now I am six."

"Yes," said Ecthelion, with a fond smile. "You are six, and that is old enough to have a sword of your own. You may have my sword now, for I am finished with it. Your father will not need it, for he already has a fine blade. It will comfort me here at the end to know that my sword goes to the hand of a warrior who will care for the people of Gondor as I have cared for them. Though you are young, I believe you are ready to take on that burden of service to your people."

Boromir nodded wordlessly, his tears forgotten in the solemnity of the moment. The old Steward lifted his hand briefly to Denethor, who reached forward silently and unfastened the sword belt from around his father's waist. Gently he slipped the sword and belt out from beneath the frail form. Kneeling, Denethor held out the sword to Ecthelion, who grasped it by the hilt and drew it slowly from its sheath. The sword glinted brightly in the light of the lamps as it was laid lengthwise beside him on the bed, and Boromir caught his breath in wonder at the sight of the blade that was to be his.

"Can you lift it, Boromir?" Ecthelion asked.

Denethor rose and returned to his place at the head of the bed, leaving Boromir to stand alone at his grandfather's side. Boromir gazed at the bright blade longingly, wondering if he would be strong enough to lift it, for the sword was as long as he was tall. Yet he did not hesitate. Grasping the hilt carefully with both hands, Boromir lifted the sword from the bed. It was very heavy, and the blade tip dipped and struck the floor before he could bring it up again to hold the sword upright. It took all his strength and effort to hold it steady without dropping it, but Boromir flushed with pleasure when he heard his father's murmur of pride. He dared not look beyond him to see what his mother thought, for fear that if he took his eyes from the sword, he would let it fall.

Denethor nodded once to his son, then stepped up quickly, respectfully lifting the blade from his hands. Boromir let it go with a mixture of reluctance and relief. He watched as his father replaced the sword at Ecthelion's side.

"Well done, child," said Ecthelion. "You handled the sword well, though you are yet small in stature. You shall be a great warrior and will wield this blade mightily in defense of your people."

"Does the sword have a name, Grandfather?" Boromir asked, as he reached out to stroke the flat of the blade.

"Yes, Boromir," Ecthelion answered. "It is called Harthad, a name which means hope. It is not perhaps the finest sword ever forged, nor the most ancient, and it has no magical qualities, other than that magic that comes when a sword is wielded in might for a good cause. But it is a good blade, and has served me well. May Harthad serve you just as well, and be a sign of continuing hope for our people as you lead them. For you will be a great leader of your people, Boromir, when you are fully grown; a captain such as Gondor has not seen in many a year. May you wield Harthad with strength and honor, and together may you prove to be the tool that stems the tide from the East that threatens to engulf us all."

Ecthelion laid a feeble hand over Boromir's as the child ran his small fingers along the unsheathed blade.

"It is a heavy burden to lay upon a child. Are you ready for it?"

"I am ready, Grandfather. I will grow tall soon, and learn how to fight and I will be a good captain, I promise."

Ecthelion nodded gravely. "Very well, then. Take the hilt and speak after me, Boromir."

Boromir set his hand on the hilt of the sword and spoke solemnly after Ecthelion.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor."

"I hear your oath," said Ecthelion, "and I acknowledge it. But I am not the one to whom you will swear, nor am I the one to whom you owe your service."

He turned his face to Denethor, who laid his long white hand over Boromir's small one and spoke the remainder of the oath.

"And this oath do I hear and acknowledge, Denethor son of Ecthelion, now Lord of Gondor and Steward of the High King; I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance."

When the oath had been taken, Harthad was returned to its sheath and placed in Boromir's arms. He hugged the sheathed sword to his breast as his throat tightened with tears -- not tears of sorrow now, but tears of wonder and pride and excitement. Ecthelion gazed at him, and nodded his head in understanding.

"Remember your sword's name, Boromir; it is Hope. The hope of your people now lies with you. May your own hope remain unbroken."

***

Tears stung Boromir's eyes and he rubbed them away angrily. His sorrow was very great, but this was no time to show weakness. He must remain strong if he was to provide support for his bereaved father and his bewildered brother.

His mother was dead. Her fear of the darkness and the Shadow in the East had worn away her will and desire to live, so that she had withered. No strength had remained in her to fight the illness which had finally carried her away. Finduilas was gone, leaving her men alone and lost.

Boromir stood within the Embrasure of the wall that edged the uppermost level of Minas Tirith. He liked to stand here and look out over his City, feeling the wind on his face as he imagined himself a great captain leading his men through the Gates to do battle with the Enemy. But now, he turned his face away from the City, and looking eastward to the land of Mordor looming on the horizon, he drew his sword.

"My hope is lessened now, though not yet broken!" he cried aloud to the Shadow. "I can still fight you! You have taken my mother from me, and brought great hurt to my father and my brother. I cannot bear to see them in such pain! I hate what you did to my mother, darkening her days and stealing her joy. I will fight you with all my strength and be avenged for what you have done to us -- I swear it! I will not rest in my pursuit of you until the shadow is gone from my land!"

He was only ten years old, but he would see it done.

Tears stung Boromir's eyes and rolled down his face, but he let them fall unchecked. He cared not who saw him weeping; a grown man could be forgiven a few tears when bidding a friend farewell. Leaning forward, he kissed the cold brow of his comrade in arms -- his friend --- who lay dead in his arms.

The battle had been fierce, and many lives had been lost. Boromir, as captain of his men, felt each death keenly and the burden of each loss was heavy. But this loss was especially hard to bear -- Amdir, his companion from childhood, was dead, lost defending his captain from the enemy.

"Amdir!" he lamented aloud. "You were fond of reminding me that your name meant 'hope' and that your task in life was to make me smile! You looked at life with joy, always; what will I do now without you to remind me that there is some hope in the world? My hope is diminished, now that you are gone from me!"

Boromir bowed his head and let his tears drip down upon the torn tunic of his friend. At length, his weeping was spent and he released the body, setting it down gently. With a sigh, Boromir reached for the sword which lay beside him, cast down in the agony of the moment of finding his friend dying upon the battlefield.

Harthad, another word for hope... he thought fleetingly, gazing at the sword in his hand.  May I never lose you, for then my despair will be complete!

A gentle hand upon his shoulder caused him to look around. It was his brother.

"Here is Amdir's mount, Boromir," said Faramir quietly. "We shall carry him home where he will be entombed with all the honor due him."

"Thank you, Faramir," replied Boromir heavily, as he rose to his feet. "I... I shall miss him!"

"I know," answered Faramir, compassion in his voice. "Do you need more time with him?"

Boromir shook his head.

"No. I have let him go."

"Have you?" queried Faramir sternly. "You are our captain, Boromir, and you carry the weight of great responsibility. It is right and fitting that you mourn our friend and all those who were lost today -- but be careful you do indeed let go the weight of the dead, in time. If you do not let it go, the burden of all you have lost will become too great to bear, even for your strong shoulders!"

Boromir heaved another sigh and smiled sadly.

"As usual, you speak the truth, my brother!" Boromir declared, turning to face Faramir. "I have lost my friend, but I still have you, my best friend, and for that I am very glad! There is still some hope in the world while we are together!"

He gave Faramir a quick, hard embrace, then turned away from the body of his friend. "Come, let us take him home."

***

Panting for breath, Boromir wiped blood and sweat from his eyes. He had a moment to breathe in the midst of battle, but only a moment; it was not going well, for he and his men were surrounded and outnumbered. Boromir struggled vainly to quell the fear rising in his heart at the thought that it might be too late to retreat back to the western shore.

He gripped his sword Harthad more tightly, as the glancing moonlight shone bright upon the blade.  Out of the darkness he could hear the words of memory speaking, the words of his grandfather upon his deathbed:

"The hope of your people now lies with you, Boromir. May your own hope remain unbroken."

Hope! he thought with a grimace. What hope can there be today?

He looked out over the moonlit hill upon which he stood, as if seeking a sign that would give him some hope, yet nothing was to be seen but the teeming armies of Mordor and the dead bodies of soldiers of Gondor littering the ground.

What hope can there be today? Boromir thought darkly. We are outnumbered! There is no hope that we can defeat this foe! It is over. I have little hope now that we shall see the light of day...

Boromir was suddenly knocked aside by a blow to the head, and his sword flew from his hand. As he lay momentarily stunned, a huge form loomed up and a spear glinted in the moonlight. A Southron spearman towered over him, poised to strike. Boromir rolled to avoid the blow of the spear, and the Southron fell sprawling atop him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Mailed hands were suddenly at Boromir's throat; he grappled with the man as he gasped for air. Boromir kicked out furiously, and his boot made contact with flesh. The Southron grunted and his grip shifted, just enough that Boromir was able to pull away and roll free. As he rolled he felt Harthad under him and grasped at the sword desperately. He thrust the blade upwards as he came out of his roll, and the Southron, leaping to grab at his foe, fell full upon the sharp point of the sword.

Boromir rolled free of the body and wiped his blade clean on the robe of the dead man.

A hand under his arm pulled him to his feet at the same time that a voice in his ear spoke; it was Grithnir, his lieutenant. Boromir felt an overwhelming sense of relief at the sight of him alive, and a bit of hope returned to lighten his heart.

"My captain, I fear we are outnumbered!" Grithnir gasped. "We are losing ground, even as fresh reinforcements arrive to swell the enemy's ranks! Should we stand or fall back?"

Boromir had already made the decision; he needed only enough breathing space to give the order.

"Fall back!" he cried. "Fall back to the bridge at Osgiliath! I shall sound the retreat! Get you away and tell as many as you can to make for the bridge with all speed. I shall follow directly. We will regroup and make another stand there! There is still hope that we can delay them long enough to defend the bridge and throw it down."

"Yes, my lord!" cried Grithnir, and he sped away.

There is still hope, thought Boromir as he grasped his horn and set it to his lips.  Not much hope, it is true; but there is a little.  And a little is enough for this day...

The peace and quiet of Lothlórien surrounded him, but Boromir felt far from peaceful.  His heart was sore with impatience, and his thoughts were full of doubt and disappointment.  He chafed at delay, urgent to be on the road again, back to Gondor.  He worried about what the others were thinking; what would change now that Mithrandir was gone?  What would Aragorn do?  Would he forsake the people of Gondor and follow another path, leaving Boromir with no more help than he had started with?  Had this entire journey been in vain?

Boromir sought to soothe his discouragement in concentrated care for his gear -- mail, shield and sword -- but it did little to quiet him.  Rather, his feelings of hopelessness grew as he plied whetstone and oil to his blade's edge.

He recalled the hesitant words he had spoken at the Council of Elrond, when suddenly presented with the Heir of Isildur and the sword he carried:

'..we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope -- if such a thing could indeed return out of the shadows of the past...'

'A new hour comes,' Aragorn had replied.  'Isildur's Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I will come to Minas Tirith.'

Boromir sighed at the memory.

'I will come,' he thought.  That is what he said to me.  Even in the midst of my doubt of him, I felt hope rise in my heart at that confident vow!  A returning king and a sword of legend might do much to stir the hearts of those whose hope is waning, whose strength for the long fight is diminished almost beyond recall.  Did not they name him Estel there in Rivendell?  That is a name which means hope -- the kind of hope that is steady, fixed in purpose, and difficult to dissuade or fall into despair.  That is what we need in Gondor, now more than ever.  We have done our best, Harthad, you and I!  But what can one sword do, though its name be Hope?  What can one man do, though he be valiant?  Can one alone kindle hearts that have fallen into despair, if the hand that wields the blade is itself weakened and discouraged?  If Aragorn would come... if we could but draw our swords together in defense of Gondor, I am certain hope would be renewed!

Boromir sighed again, remembering Aragorn's hesitation and doubt when pressed for an answer about what course the Fellowship would take when they once more set out on their journey -- doubt that was a far cry from that confident vow Aragorn had made in Rivendell.

'I do not know, Boromir,' Aragorn had said, shaking his head. 'It is not yet clear to me what we should do.'

Boromir had been unable to hide his disappointment at Aragorn's indecision.  'I understood that you wanted to return with me -- that you wished for the House of Elendil to return to the land of Gondor...'

'I do want to come with you, Boromir,' Aragorn had replied sadly.  'But things are different now, and I cannot say when I may be able to come to Minas Tirith. I must consider the needs of the whole Company now, and the Ringbearer's most of all. I may not be free to go where my heart desires to go.  It may not be wise to go there at this time.'

'Not wise to go there!' Boromir had exclaimed angrily. 'But it is vital! If Gondor falls, the world will fall; you know this to be true!'

Aragorn's answer had been a shake of his head.  'The Quest comes first, and if that road leads away from Minas Tirith, then so be it. But I beg you, do not lose heart, my friend! We will go to Minas Tirith, though we go by the long road.'

Boromir's voice had been steady as he replied, though his heart felt like it had broken.  'If we go by the long road, then we will be too late.  I, at least, must return, and delay no longer. Even my desire to protect the Ringbearer cannot keep me from that duty. I will go on alone if I must.'

Aragorn had sighed heavily -- 'We shall see,' his only reply.

Boromir's hope was waning to the point that it was almost gone.  But duty remained, and that duty was clear; his people relied upon him and he must do what he could to bring them aid. Had not his grandfather laid it on him so many years ago?  The hope of his people lay with him, he could not forsake them.  Aragorn was yet unsure of the road they should take, that much was obvious. But Boromir knew in his heart they must go to Minas Tirith, or all would be lost.

"Harthad!" Boromir said aloud, fingering the now keen edge on the shining blade.  "You have done well, but it is not enough.  The hope you bring is not sufficient to stem the tide of despair.  You cannot do it alone!  If Aragorn does not come, what then can we do?  What other course is there for us?  How are we to hold back the darkness unaided?  I fear I have not the strength to continue alone."

Slowly, carefully, he slide the blade into its scabbard and gripped it tightly, bowing his head over the sword as if in grief.

"I am not strong enough, even with your unbroken strength to support me, Harthad," he said quietly.  "More is needed!  Another weapon, perhaps.  One more powerful than even the Sword That Was Broken, if it is no longer willing to come to our aid.  The Men of Gondor are valiant, and they will never submit; but they may be beaten down. Valor needs first strength, and then a weapon. That is what we need, Harthad -- a weapon of power to supplement our waning strength..."

***

Boromir leaned back against the tree, his strength almost gone.  Lifting a hand, he laid hold of one of the arrows protruding from his side, and plucked it out.  The pain was terrible, but at least it proved he was not yet dead.

Merry... Pippin... Forgive me...

He turned his head, slightly, ever so slightly -- that was all he had strength to do.  The hobbits were struggling in the arms of their captors, beating on them, reaching out for Boromir as they were being taken away. Boromir lifted his head further and leaned towards them, but he could not reach them. He could do nothing but watch them being carried off to captivity and torture. Though his heart willed to watch them until the last possible moment, the effort was too much for him -- his head fell wearily to his chest, and he saw the hobbits no more.

Forgive me...

His sword was still in his hand, but he could not lift it.  He was weaker now than he had been on that day so long ago; that day when he had taken up the sword for the first time and almost dropped it for its heaviness.

'Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor.'

Yes, he thought.  That was my oath, taken that day.  Has it come to this?  Death and the ending of the world?  I have failed then, for my hope is broken.

'...this oath do I hear and acknowledge, Denethor son of Ecthelion, now Lord of Gondor and Steward of the High King; I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance...'

Oath-breaking, yes...

An Uruk warrior had remained by his side as the hobbits were carried away. He laughed at Boromir, and kicked him, before turning away. The pain of the kick was intense, but Boromir bore it stoically. He felt as if his heart had been turned to stone, and it no longer mattered what they did to him.  Had he not failed in all he had attempted?  He had failed to keep the hope of his people alive, failed to bring help to Gondor, failed even in his attempt to keep the Halflings safe!

Suddenly the Uruk turned back, and pulling free an axe from his belt, he raised it high and brought it down hard on the blade of Boromir's sword, which Boromir still held gripped in his hand. The blade snapped, and the broken shard flew away to be lost in the leaves that covered the forest floor. The Uruk laughed again coarsely, turned on a heel, and was gone.

Boromir stared helplessly at the broken blade in his hand, and he wept.

That was all that was wanting, he thought in despair. There is nothing left now... it is over...

Tears stung Boromir's eyes and he moved to brush them away, but he could not lift his hand to his face, he was so very weary. He hated the thought of anyone seeing him cry, for he did not want to appear weak. But there was no one to see him here, and his weakness or strength no longer mattered.

Is this how it feels to come to death? he wondered fleetingly.  Somehow, I thought dying in battle would be more glorious than this -- more noble.  Such glory must only be reserved for those who die well, saviors of their people whose oaths are unbroken.  It is not for such as I, who have failed utterly and have no hope left!  It is fitting that I die alone...

Tears burned him once more, and again he moved to wipe his eyes clear, but there was something in his hand weighing it down. He blinked until his vision cleared, and saw his sword was still gripped in his hand. The blade was broken and dull, stained black with Orc blood.  It took him a moment to recall what had happened.

"Harthad!" he cried, but his voice was only a whisper. "Alas that you are broken! Now my hope is indeed gone. My grandfather's faith in me has proved ill-founded.  If I could not even stem the tide that threatened two small companions, what did I think I could possibly do against the full force of Mordor? It was folly to think that there was ever any hope..."

He closed his eyes and began to drift away into darkness, but was drawn back by the sense that someone approached at a run.  Boromir opened his eyes slowly, and saw Aragorn bending over him.

"Ah, you have come, Aragorn," he whispered.  "At least I shall not be alone at the end.  That boon is more than I deserve!"

"What are you saying?" Aragorn replied gruffly, trying in vain to keep fear and dismay from his voice.  "You deserve great honor!  You have won a great victory here, conquering many foes..."

"Nay," interrupted Boromir.  "I have failed and my honor is broken.  Let me tell you what I have done!"

"Tell me then," said Aragorn.  "Tell me, if it will ease your heart.  But I promise you, I will take exception, if you belittle yourself and your deeds beyond what is your due.  And while you speak, I shall see to your wounds."

"What use in that?" Boromir sighed.  "I am not worth healing.  My end is near.  Let it come!"

"No!" answered Aragorn sternly.  "If it comes, so be it; but I will not let it come unhindered, without any attempt to slow or stop it.  What kind of healer would I be if I let the wounded one make such a decision for me?  Particularly one who carries such a burden of hopelessness in his heart.  I see that much, at least!"

"A burden?  Yes, it is a burden indeed.  Perhaps... perhaps it will be lighter for the sharing..."

***

Aragorn listened as Boromir haltingly poured forth his anguished confession -- his succumbing to the lure of the Ring, his attack on Frodo, his inability to save the Halflings from capture.  As Boromir spoke, Aragorn sensed an even greater despair lay behind the warrior's lament, one that had been growing unchecked for many days -- if not for months and years.

"So proud I was that day my sword was given into my hand," Boromir murmured.  "So proud to be called worthy to carry the hope of my people, to bring them through the darkness into the light.  I knew I was the one to save them, to bring them help and hope beyond what they had imagined possible.  But what have I brought them in the end?  Nothing!  Worse than nothing -- I have brought dishonor!  I have failed.  It would have been better if I had never taken up sword and shield in defense of Gondor, if all I accomplish in the end is failure and defeat!"

Aragorn leaned forward and kissed Boromir's brow tenderly.

"You have indeed been carrying a heavy burden, Boromir," he said sorrowfully.  "Forgive me for not seeing how it weighed you down and sapped your strength; I should have been there beside you to help bear it -- and I was not.  I have failed as surely as you in this!  But does our failure make all that we have done or attempted useless or worthless?  I think not.  Your choices have not all been wise, but does that make you any less valiant?  You have served well and faithfully all your life, and accomplished much for your people..."

"What good is my service if I fail in the end?" Boromir interrupted.  "I am no more use than a broken sword, fit only for discarding."

"A broken sword can be mended, Boromir, and mending does not diminish it.  Who should know that better than I?"

Boromir made no answer.

Aragorn looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment.

"Are you familiar with the Ballad of the Sword, Boromir?" he said at length.

"I know it not," replied Boromir faintly.

"It is a song I used to hear sung in one of the halls of Men where I once served. It tells the tale of a warrior who lies dying after a great battle, lamenting his sword, which has broken in his hand. The sword speaks to him and comforts him in his despair."

"What... what does the sword say?" Boromir asked, his eyes straying to the broken hilt in his hand.

"These are some of the words in our tongue, as I recall them."

Aragorn continued inspecting Boromir's wounds, as he began to recite:

Once I was bright and keen,
Leading the charge into the midst of the enemy,
Finding my honor in dedicated service.
Now, notched and broken, I lie on your breast,
A warrior's blade, light extinguished.

Once I was your favored tool
Used mightily in defense of our people.
We fought for those under our protection;
We gave all we had to serve them.
Even now, you do not release me, though I am broken.

Have I failed you by breaking?
Is the war lost because of my weakness?
Nay! For no blade wielded so
Could ever regret its accomplishment!
If I be damaged, broken,
What does it matter?
I have done the task I was called to do,
Completed that for which I was made.
No failure mine, but victory,
Though the battle rage on without me.

Brokenness brings pain,
But that was my duty and privilege.
What use to our kingdom
If I had remained in the sheath
Safe, but useless?
There is no service in safety.

Better to be in the field
At the forefront of the battle,
My brightness stained,
My sharpness dulled by combat,
And not by disuse.

For even a broken sword can still serve;
If not for the battle, then as a rallying cry.
Even a broken sword can still stem the tide,
Resulting in victory,
Though blade is spent.

I am broken, but for a reason;
I am damaged, but not in vain.
I am content to pay the price,
If my sacrifice may make others bold
To take up their swords and fight with all their might.
Yes, other blades there will be
To take up the cause, when my part is finished.

Take heart, my warrior!
Though in the end, I am broken,
My brokenness is honorable!
To break in good service is to finish well.

Aragorn fell silent.

"Harthad..." whispered Boromir. It was as if his own sword had been speaking to him.

"Do you understand what I am trying to say to you?" asked Aragorn quietly.

Boromir nodded wordlessly.

"Brokenness can be honorable," Aragorn went on.  "To break in good service is to end well.  It is not failure, nor should you lose your hope because of it.  You are not alone -- other blades there are to take up your cause."

He laid his hand on the hilt of Andúril and smiled.

"Your sacrifice will not be in vain, Boromir.  My sword and my oath shall see to that.  Minas Tirith shall not fall!"

"Other blades there will be," Boromir murmured.  "Other blades to take up the cause, when my part is finished..."

"Think not that your part is finished just yet, my friend," replied Aragorn sternly.  "I have not given you leave to go just yet.  I believe there is yet hope for you, even amidst such brokenness.  So put aside your despair, if you can. You carry a burden of failure that cannot be forgotten, but there may still be a chance for you to make things right with Frodo. You have done much already to redeem yourself!"

In spite of his pain and grief at his failing, hope stirred unaccountably in Boromir's heart. He had indeed failed; nothing could change that. Yet if there was a chance he might live to see Frodo again, that was something worth hoping for. He did not know if Aragorn was consoling him simply to ease his final moments, or if there truly was a chance he could be saved. Nevertheless, he was comforted, for the promise of Aragorn still rang in his heart.

There will be no failing! he thought, and a great weight of care was lifted from him. The White City will not fall, and aid will come to my people! Aragorn will see to that. If I live to aid him, and fulfill my oath to my people, that is good; if I am lost, no matter. I am no longer alone in this; the full burden of the task is no longer mine alone. Aragorn is here, he is with me -- he has sworn it! The battle is not yet lost, though I no longer be a part of it.

Boromir looked at the hilt and broken blade of Harthad, and blinked back a tear as he recalled how bright the sword had been that day he had taken his oath upon it.

'Remember your sword's name, Boromir; it is Hope,' his grandfather had said. 'The hope of your people now lies with you. May your own hope remain unbroken.'

His hope had been broken, slowly but surely, over the long years of toil and striving against the Enemy. Yet perhaps that hope might be restored, even as his broken blade might be repaired and made new. Time would tell, if any time remained to him.

Boromir closed his eyes and let darkness take him. Yes, time would tell...