Chapter Text
Boromir idly wanders the woods of Lothlórien, wishing the buzzing under his skin to cease. He finds no rest, even though his mind is weary, for he sees Minas Tirith burning every time his eyes shut.
It is late at night, the stars peeking through the dense canopy. With the main city behind him, and the rest of the Fellowship out of sight, Boromir allows his mind to wander to years past.
He wonders about Thorongil, wonders where he went after he left with naught but a letter to Boromir’s grandfather, why he left when he was the Captain-General. Thorongil was close to his parents, was close to himself and Faramir when they were young, yet he left with naught but a letter that explained nothing.
"He left us to suffer," Boromir thinks, remembering how his mother started to fade soon after, remembering his father’s concerns about the army’s struggle against the growing darkness of Mordor, remembering all those nights where Boromir wondered if he was the reason Thorongil left.
“'There is still hope,' she says,” Boromir murmurs bitterly to himself, thinking back to what Lady Galadriel said to him in his vision. “Hope abandoned me long ago.”
Boromir continues to wander for a time, sitting by a small creek when his legs tire. The lapping of the water fills his mind, easing his worries a bit, though dark thoughts continue to roil. He wishes eagerly for rest that will not come, for a return to his youth and the peace he has long forgotten. But there is no sign from Eru, no help from the Valar, no Elvish magic to save his mind from the Ring. He will fall soon enough, and he dreads that he cannot speak to save their lives.
Boromir allows himself to wallow in his pity and self loathing for a while before he decides that he should head back to camp. The moon overhead shines down upon him, and a glint catches his eye.
On the shallow bank closest to him is a small object that glimmers. Picking it up reveals that it is about the size of his thumb, and with further inspection he deems it to be a beautifully cut gem. It looks similar to the gem on his collar clasp, which means it is most likely an opal, though his knowledge of gems is spotty. Holding it up to the moonlight makes it glow with an almost otherworldly light, the flecks of colour sparking like a hearth fire. Almost absentmindedly, Boromir touches the gem on his collar with a gentle smile. “You’d like this, Faramir,” he murmurs. “I’ll give this to Aragorn so he can give it to you for me. For your birthday, I think. A gift for after I’m gone, if Mother’s opal is sent with me after my death.”
The gem erupts into a blinding light, and darkness overcomes him.