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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? '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 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... |
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