The Strength and Truth of Men by Raiyana

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Shattered Recollections

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Later, the memory would be fractured, images like paintings stuck in the mind, a gallery of frozen moments in time. 

There, Pippin struggling in the arms of a brutish Orc, kicking and yelling though Boromir could not recall the words. There Merry, slumped and boneless in unconsciousness, tousled curls matted with blood that trickled down from where an armoured fist had split his cheek. He swayed gently, each step taking him further as he hung like a docker’s sack over another grime-coated shoulder, its armour stained with bile and leafmulch. 

Boromir yelled, a sound of grief and fury, staggering another step as he swung, the motion of arm and hand familiar as breathing, thrust, swing, parry, thrust. 

He raised the horn to his lips, once, twice, and then dropped it, his hand numb as another shaft pierced his arm. 

Fury reigned, banishing pain beyond recall, and the Orc fell, Merry with it. 

His leg giving out, knee crashing into leaves. Another arrow. 

The Horn gleaming in a shaft of light, a painting of its own, white horn against the darkness of the enemy’s fist. 

The arc of his sword, so slow and swift as it carves air and flesh. Another scream. 

More arrows, no impact. 

A grin, grimy lips against white, and Boromir’s incandescent fury as the creature guffaws at him. 

The sound reverberates in his soul, every part of his being focused on one thing alone. 

The sword fell. 

The horn falls silent. 

 

 

 

“My pack, Legolas!”

“He’s alive?”

“Barely.” Terse, grim, familiar as the hand that touches his cheek, tilts his chin. 

Boromir splutters, swallowing the drink that is at once clear as water and green as springtime, warm as a winter fire and sweet as a lover’s kiss. 

He coughs, and it is a fire in his breast. 

“Boromir!” 

He blinks. Frowns. Dark hair, drawn features, worry on his brow, but also a light that is less the sun than the stars whirling spinning falling – caught at his throat, glimmering green. He frowns. Are stars green?

“Boromir, listen to me!” 

The hand is harder now, forcing focus, and Boromir blinks, gasps, coughs, feeling blood splatter his chin as he retches, turning his head to let it flow from his mouth, staining the leaves red beneath him. 

“Pippin…?” He scrabbles for his sword, needing to be up, be fighting, protecting the youngest of Frodo’s kin as he cannot protect Frodo. Leaves rustle weakly.

“Not here,” Aragorn says tersely, but his hand has gentled once more, brushing hair away from sweaty temples and guiding Boromir to swallow more of that indescribable drink. “Swallow.” 

Boromir obeys, forcing breath into unwilling lungs. 

“Aragorn,” Legolas somewhere to the side, anxious. 

“Merry,” Boromir manages, the word gaining too many syllables as it rolls around his mouth, leaving his lips as a dreamy sigh. 

“Breathe for me, Boromir.”

The pain is gone, though only in the absence does he realise its presence. Boromir breathes. Then he screams. 

Gimli’s gruff voice floats among his thoughts, the words too unclear to matter. 

“He will live.” Aragorn again. Stubborn. “I command it.” Boromir blinks, finding his face again. “You are Ecthelion’s grandson,” he says, “and you won’t die on me, Boromir, you hear me?” 

Boromir nods. It’s a command he will do his best to obey, issued by a man used to ordering men to his bidding. Boromir almost laughs at the thought; for the first time, Aragorn spoke to him as though he were the King, entitled to make demands of his general, and Boromir wants to laugh though he can’t quite find the breath. “King,” he says, giggling as his eyes close. “Orders.” 

“If it works, Gimli.” Wry, a hint of exasperation, but also a strange fondness and respect. 

Boromir blinks at Aragorn who isn’t looking at him. 

Turning his head takes a year and a day, and the view is not worth it. A whimper, a wish escaped lips too numb to speak. 

“Merry…” 

Merry blinks, soft brown meeting grey, and Boromir knows no more, falling into the arms of unconsciousness like a welcome lover.