Boromir's Return -II- Book Four of the Tales of the Fourth Age Series

Chapter Eleven: Lost & Found - Part One

Fo.A 2, July 23rd

Boromir stood in the center of the citadel floor, turning slowly, listening. He doubted the elf would kill him outright after going through all the trouble of bringing them here. Then again, better to not under estimate him.

"Why do you hide in the shadows? Do you fear facing justice?" Boromir called, sweat beading on his forehead.

Laughter rang out in the massive hall, bouncing off the walls and endless columns. "Have you not been hiding in the shadows?" The disembodied voice shot back. "Hiding away with that twit you call a friend while all your Fellowship," the words were filled with disdain, "finished the task you failed."

Boromir glared into the shadows, trying to see any sign of the elf. "Your words are empty," Boromir replied steadily. "I've already faced my demons. I suspect that you have not."

"I was born in the dark, molded by it, I am a part of it," said the voice. "I do not fear it as you do. You know nothing of my past or the things I've faced."

"Should I feel bad for you?" Boromir scoffed.

"No!" thundered the voice. "You should fear me!"

Boromir staggered forward as he felt the bite of a blade in his shoulder and he dropped his sword as he tried to catch himself. He turned and saw only empty space.

"One for Arabella," said the voice silkily.

Boromir got to one knee, breathing heavily. No, not again.

The blade struck out again, catching him in his side just below the ribs, and Boromir gasped.

"One for Frodo."

Cold steel glinted to Boromir's left, and he barely had time to register it before it sank into his thigh and was gone.

"One for Pippin," the voice mocked.

The pain had flooded every sense, and Boromir knew what was coming. Red clouds hung on the edge of his vision as he gasped for breath, his head drooped. He closed his eyes, seeing all of his life play out before his mind's eye; his childhood, racing Faramir thought the city on horseback; the battles he'd won in the name of Gondor and his father; of traveling with the Fellowship, his first death, and the adventures that followed.

Then came the things that he wished could have been. Settling down, finding a woman and raising up a family of his own; living to ripe old age and then finally breathing his last.

But that was not to be. Not for him.

Dear Eru, help me.

"And one," said the elf, emerging from the shadows, "for Merry."

The dagger swung towards Boromir's heart in slow motion, and something awoke in him.

Boromir's hand flew up, grabbing the elf by the wrist, stopping the knife inches from his heart. He slowly lifted his head, eyes ablaze with fury.

The elf tried to yank away, but Boromir held him fast. His mind seemed to be moving more quickly than he could possibly keep up with it, one thought above all standing out:

Blow the horn.

Boromir grabbed the horn and forced his wounded arm to raise it to his lips.

"That old relic will not save you from me!" cried the elf, but the fear was evident on his face.

Boromir took a ragged breath and blew, the sound ringing through the hall like a thousand thunderstorms unleashing their power all at once. He blew until he had no breath in him, then collapsed to the floor, darkness claiming him.