||[Dec. 14th, 2007|09:09 pm]
Why Does Someone Have to Lose?
This fic is rated: R|
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Summary: AU where Boromir doesn't die
Warnings: implied sex and on-screen violence
Word Count: 500
Feedback: yes, please!
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Disclaimer: Tolkien’s. Just borrowing. Please don’t sue!
Despite the crushing pain in his chest, Boromir staggered toward the next Uruk-hai. With two arrows in his chest, he was a dead man already. He only wanted to kill as many of the enemy as possible. He had betrayed the quest, and dying on his feet was a better death than a traitor deserved.
It was with a sense of inevitability that he saw the Uruk-hai raise his black bow again. He drew the bowstring back ...
But before he could shoot, the Uruk-hai's head flew from his shoulders. The body crumpled, and he saw Arwen, Hadhafang in hand.
Aragorn raced through the forest to find Boromir barely on his feet, and Arwen fighting like a woman possessed. Hadhafang lived up to its name that day, cleaving though the Uruk-hai as if they were wheat before the scythe.
But their hard-fought victory could all be for nothing. He barely managed to catch Boromir as he collapsed.
"Hold him still," Aragorn said, taking a grip on the shaft of the arrow. Arwen nodded, and shifted her grip, locking her arms around Boromir's waist.
"Boromir, are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be." He forced the words through clenched teeth.
Restless with pain, Boromir tugged at the blankets, then grimaced when the movement caused an eye-watering shock of pain.
Arwen adjusted the blanket for him.
"I don't need a nursemaid!"
"I could have one of the others sit with you."
"No," he said, with more haste than he'd intended. But Arwen had at least some human in her; the elves of Lorien sent shudders through him.
"Would you like me to sing for you?"
He agreed, mostly so she wouldn't look like a mourner at a funeral. But to his surprise, he slept well for the first time in months.
Boromir was strong enough to move about, but not well enough to travel. Now, he paced the small sickroom, impatient to be on his way.
Arwen put her hand on his arm. "Be at peace, Boromir," she whispered. Somehow, in that moment, she reminded him very much of Aragorn.
Of what he could never have.
But to his surprise, she tilted her face up to him. "Kiss me," she said.
"I cannot -- you belong to Aragorn."
"And he to me," she said. "So you would only be returning what you stole from him."
The logic, he decided, was unassailable.
By the time Boromir was well enough to travel, the war was over. They entered Minas Tirith to the sound of cheers. Boromir stood behind his Lord and Lady at their coronation, and stood guard at their door on their wedding night.
The next night, though, they brought him to bed with them.
As he drifted off to sleep -- Aragorn in his arms, Arwen curled warm against his back -- he asked "How did you -- "
"I dreamt that Aragorn lost the other half of his soul," Arwen said. "I could not allow that to come to pass."