Mine to Cherish
Author:  Ruse – jedinineofnine@hotmail.com
Disclaimer:  No infringement intended.
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~This is how I see Boromir, the movie-version Boromir anyway.  Driven by lust of the Ring, yet not without honor.  :-O ;-)

In the woods near Minas Tirith Boromir and Faramir make a grim discovery.

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It was a day of sensation.  The sun that had been so utterly faithful was now passing away behind the trees in a brilliant blaze of gold and russet—a vision of glory for a tired world.  As he walked he could feel sweat trickling down a pensive brow, the salt of his labor stinging his hazel eyes and otherwise leaving his muscled body uncomfortably slick beneath his heavy raiment.  He could smell the scent of fresh humidity bringing life to the trees and a soft lilac fragrance from wild plants nearby.  And he could taste the crispness of the cooling air as the day wound down, heavy and bitter with the events that had led him to this place.

Of all those things, however, it was the sounds that would stay with him, he knew.  What he could hear he wished to cast away in a dark closet and never think on again, but he knew that would be a mercy too tender for a world such as this.  They called for her, voices filled with longing, dread and dying hope.  The sounds of their grief were incessant and desperate, shouting the name of their beloved child as if she would never answer.  It covered him with a shroud of smothering sorrow, for he feared their worst nightmares were about to come true.

These things did not happen in Gondor.  They did not happen within leagues of his city.  His father’s host of archers were of only the finest quality and the hunters equally as skilled.  The armies of Gondor could withstand any horror Sauron would pit against them.  It simply was and ever would be, standing the tests of time itself.

That was what he used to tell himself before the kidnappings, massacres and stray bodies.  Before he had grown intimate with the imagery of death and despair.  Now innocence was but a happy memory of a time long forgotten in his country.  Time had beaten Gondor.

A father called, his voice hoarse from being used nearly the whole of the day.  “Lillia!”  The name conjured within his mind a picture of a little girl with platinum hair, dark eyes and a winning smile.  She was about five summers or so, with the most angelic little face he had ever seen, and was certainly more outspoken than he had thought a little girl could be.  Time played back an unbidden memory as he walked on.  Her parents were close friends with his father and had often brought her to dinner.  He could still recall the first time, too.  She had come in with straight shoulders and a serious expression towards he, his brother and father, made a perfect little curtsy and looked up at him with open arms and a demand in her eyes.  Lady Lillia, it seemed, was feeling quite hungry at that moment and churlish because she had to wait.  She would not be denied the honor of being swept off her feet.

Boromir stopped for a moment and leaned against a great oak to rest, feeling taxed, but persistent.  Twelve hours she had not eaten or laughed or played.  Not within sight of the campsite of her parents, east of the White City.  Not with her mother and father, nor with her older brother.  Not where she should be.  The Lord of Gondor swiped an arm across his moist brow and shifted glances through the surrounding woods.  It was getting dark and cold with the passage of the hours.  He himself had not eaten since morning, nor rested long from this endless walk.  Still, he would not give up.  Not without something tangible.  “Come, Lillia, you should not hide from me so,” he whispered, tricked by his hope into the small belief that the heavens would carry his message to her.

The air was prime for wet weather and as he gathered his faith the sky began weeping lightly with the soft breeze.  The Captain of Gondor gratefully accepted the moisture onto his face, tilting his head upwards and closing his eyes as he inhaled the soothing air.  A voice intruded upon his perfect solitude. 

“Are you weary, brother?”  Boromir looked up from his quiet enjoyment.

He answered what was on his mind honestly.  “Nay.  Just worried.  Many men search and yet come away with nothing.”  Faramir stepped closer, scanning the trees with a keen eye as his brother continued.  “I fear what may end this terrible night may not be the finding of a little child, but of something else.”

The other clasped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he spoke in earnest.  “There may yet be hope.”  Faramir was ever his voice of wisdom and of hope.

Boromir swept rain from his cheek and motioned his brother to join his hunt.  “Aye, that may be.  With mercy upon this earth.”

To that his brother said nothing, his thoughts needing no words, for what was on his mind dwelt ever in the minds of every citizen of Gondor.  The horror of Mordor was ever increasing, rather than declining or even being held at bay anymore.  The people whispered that their country was no longer safe and that the Dark Lord was again stirring within his tower.  They feared and with good reason.  Times passed would come again when the earth was not ready to endure.  And the Lords of Gondor had no answer.

Faramir called for the little girl in a clear voice that traveled through the trees and rain, but only the rustling of the brush and pounding of distant thunder replied.  Time was running out.  If she had not been killed by other means then sickness would surely take her.  The thought left Boromir cold.  He and his brother shared a glance as the same line of thinking passed through each of their minds.  And again hope made another step towards the threshold of death.

The slinking shadows within the woods ahead were illuminated by flashes from the sky as the brothers called for the child again, followed by quiet a moment and a rumbling a few seconds later.  Faramir suddenly stopped and put a hand to Boromir’s chest, halting him.  The elder opened his mouth, but did not speak, recognizing the expression upon the younger’s face.  He was tracking something by sound, those stormy eyes calculating and set.  Boromir opened his senses to the wilds and waited for whatever it was that had caught his brother’s attention.

Seconds passed with nothing but the weather and the weariness, but just as Boromir was about to suggest they continue an almost imperceptible sound caught his ears and kept him firmly still.  A glance suggested Faramir had also heard the twig snap and Boromir quietly mirrored his actions to be ready for anything.  His wet hand hit the cold steel of his sword hilt and instinctively he hunkered down in preparation for anything.

And anything came on swift feet with a throaty growl and black, leathery skin.  The Orc lunged at Faramir with a great snarl of laughter and instantly Boromir leapt into action, knocking the vicious beast from his brother with a powerful kick.  The Orc hit the wet dirt and yanked a dagger from its belt with two glowing eyes.  It struck out in vengeance and was blocked by the elder’s sword.  Faramir kicked the Orc’s wrist then, which nearly sent the dagger flying.

But the Orc had a strong grip.  He clambered to his feet with a twist of his neck, sniffing the air and waiting for an attack.  Neither of the brothers wasted any words on this fell creature.  Naught but lies came from the tongues of any beast of Sauron.  They advanced together and Faramir struck out first with a three-blow attack that was countered, but the beast could not keep up with both he and his brother.  Boromir thrust his sword and the Orc turned away frantically, but not in time to stop his side from getting scraped.  It howled in fury and shoved Faramir away, now driven by anger to heedlessness.

Boromir used that to his advantage—tried to—but the Orc turned the thrust on him this time and wrapped his dirty fingers around the Captain’s wrist, yanking him forward and whirling him around.  Suddenly arms enveloped him with an iron hold and the dagger of the Orc came dangerously close to finding his throat.  It would have, if not for his brother.  Faramir was up instantly, grabbing the creature’s arm to forestall its path.  Boromir struggled, got an arm free and quickly bent over, throwing the distracted beast over his back.  It repaid in kind with a punch to Boromir’s jaw.  He groaned at the sudden ache that came with the blow, but maintained his study on holding the creature’s arms back.

The younger son of Denethor gripped his sword and struck within the breast of the Orc then, winning a moist cry of pain as it flailed its arms in desperation to stop inevitable death.  But not long passed before it stilled.  Boromir wiped blood from his lip and stood up slowly to meet his smiling brother.  Faramir pulled his sword back and swiped it across the Orc’s muddy clothing.  “You, my brother, are getting far too old for this type of adventure.”

Boromir straightened and shoved Faramir’s shoulder.  “This was nothing compared to the rage of an elder brother so senile in his advanced age that he confuses his own kin for an Orc.  ‘Tis very dark at this hour.  Be careful, Faramir, how you speak to me.”

The other laughed and sheathed his sword.  “Aye, Boromir.  Ever shall that be in my memory.”

The atmosphere could not be lightened by their fair-seeming mood as the rain picked up, slicking Boromir’s auburn hair to the sides of his head.  Water poured from the sky and now the ground was fully soaked, thick and soft beneath sinking boots.  He had a sinking feeling elsewhere, as well, that their quarry was close.  Very close and all too silent.

Lightening revealed Orcish footprints and they followed with the hope and dread that this would lead them to the little lost child—a theory proven correct too soon.  Within the dim they saw a white mass upon the earthen floor and with a shared glance Boromir and Faramir hastened to see what it was.  The white was her dress, sullied with dirt and another substance, darker and more disturbing.  Boromir touched her little marred cheek and found it cold and slick with blood.  There was no question what had happened.  There was no doubt.

He had seen it before, but never so close to his city.  The beasts of Sauron were getting braver with their treachery, taking travelers and caravans and even small settlements.  But never so close to Minas Tirith.  Never so close to home.  Boromir drew back his hand quickly and watched as the lightening gave him a vision of her face.  Two dark eyes stared into his for an eternity, but held not the spark of life.  There would be no more parties for this little one, no laughter and no prince to win her affections.

“This has to stop.”  His voice was thick with grief and rage at this tragedy.  He balled his hands into fists and met the concern of his younger brother.  “This has to stop.”

Faramir looked down on the small form sorrowfully and nodded, touching Boromir on the shoulder.  “Aye, brother.  Aye.”

Each and every vision like this, each and every tale brought to him an overwhelming need for justice.  Oh, how Boromir hated Sauron and all his evils.  Oh, how he wanted to face the Dark Lord himself.  Many died for the bloodlust of these fell creatures of Mordor, but this…this was a child.  It touched him on a level he cared not to explore.  He knew only pain and hatred in that moment and wanted nothing more.  He could pretend hope was not a faded memory, but it would be a lie to his heart.  With each death he knew the end to this path.  He would never forget.  He would never forgive or stop until every last beast in Mordor had paid for the life of Lady Lillia and her forebears.

He would take these faces with him, his to remember and his to cherish.  His to remind him of where his future lay.

~~~~~~~