A/N: Thank you to those who have chosen to read through this little work, and extra thanks to those who chose to review, as well. As always, Tolkien's characters.

He had been trained since boyhood to put every resource at hand to use in battle, but this did not stop him from cursing his lack. It was his own fault that his shield had been left behind, as it was his own fault that he faced these creatures alone. But all his training would be for naught if the blows to his arm were doing nearly as much damage to his sword as he imagined they were. He had no weapon, no shield, no safety left but for the blade in his hands. It was growing unbearably heavy, this last tie to life…

Steel rang against steel once more, and with a sharp crack, much of the weight upon his arm was removed. He stepped back, flexing numb, nigh-on unfeeling fingers to assure himself that he had not dropped the entire sword. As the orc rushed him, Boromir tested the haft with a quick, twisting thrust, found a temporary balance point, and fought on.

Briefly, he wondered if anyone would honor this broken end.