Author's Note: First thing's first: the idea came from a text post made by stand-up-and-fight-daleks on tumblr. They get full credit for the idea that spawned this story. I just took it and ran with it. Secondly, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Also, I want to make one thing perfectly clear: I like Tauriel, and I don't want any Tauriel bashing in the reviews. She will be featured prominently later on in the story, so if you don't want to see that, then this is not the fic for you. ONE MORE THING: this is going by the book timeline. I'm still following the events and characters in the movie, but I'm stretching the time a bit to accommodate a few tweaks. With that said, onward!

Disclaimer: The glorious world of Middle-Earth does not belong to me, sadly.

Chapter 1

It hurt. Oh, by the Valar, it hurt. Boromir could barely think through the pain, but he still managed to level a steely gaze at the Uruk-Hai in front of him. He would face death as befitted a Man of Gondor: with honor and dignity…at least, as much as he could muster with three arrows protruding from his torso. The creature nocked and drew the fourth and final arrow, snarling in satisfaction.

Then, suddenly, a grey and black blur tackled the monster with a cry of rage. Boromir gasped in astonishment as he saw Aragorn begin to fight with the Uruk, leading it away from him. But Aragorn was already battered, bruised, and exhausted. He was struggling.

Setting his jaw in determination, Boromir grasped the middle arrow, the last one to be shot, and pulled as hard as he could. His vision blacked out for a moment. The pain had, if possible, doubled, and it was only lack of sufficient air that kept Boromir from screaming. Still, when his vision cleared, he saw that he had accomplished his task: the arrow was removed. He flung it weakly to the side and tried to stand.

It was as though his sword had tripled in weight. The weapon was impossibly heavy, and it seemed as though it tried to pull him back down to the leaf-covered forest floor. Finally, Boromir managed to get his feet under him. However, it was a futile effort: almost immediately, he staggered backwards and fell, landing against the great root of an ancient tree. The impact caused him to drop his blade.

Boromir knew not how long he lay there, but suddenly, he heard light footsteps taking long strides coming towards him. Aragorn, he thought with relief. He won. He had been worried that his companion wouldn't have the strength to finish off the Uruk archer.

As soon as Aragorn came into view, Boromir spluttered out, "They took the little ones!" Automatically, his right arm shot up, his gloved hand latching onto the other man's wiry shoulder. His grip was surprisingly strong, but not as strong as it normally would've been.

"Be still," Aragorn admonished in a whisper. His gaze immediately dropped to the other Man's torso, frowning when he saw the damage. Suddenly, his eyes went wide: Boromir had yanked out one of the arrows! How had he had the strength? Not just in body, but in mind? It would have been pure agony.

His attention was called back to Boromir's face. "Frodo," he said, "where is Frodo?" Boromir sounded almost fearful, but there was determination in his eyes. He needed to know.

Aragorn hesitated before locking eyes with his fallen friend. "I let Frodo go," he replied softly.

Boromir sighed, relieved. "Then you did what I could not." His breath hitched, causing Aragorn to survey him in concern. "I tried to take the Ring from him." Voicing his shame, his failure, was perhaps the most painful thing Boromir had ever done. He waited for the disgust, the indignation, the anger, all of which would have been justified. Instead, he saw only sorrow and compassion.

"The Ring is beyond our reach now." Our reach. So, it had targeted the heir of Isildur. Boromir understood. But it did not ease his mind, because Aragorn had succeeded where he had failed. He had not succumbed. He had not tried to kill the very person he had sworn to protect. Boromir had.

"Forgive me," he begged, unbidden tears welling up in his eyes. "I did not see. I have failed you all."

Aragorn shook his head in gentle, firm denial. "No, Boromir," he said, scolding him as he would a child. "You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." Oh, if only that were true, Boromir thought ruefully.

As Aragorn reached to lift up his leather overcoat, Boromir grasped the other man's wrist, stilling his movement. "Leave it!" he choked out. Aragorn looked up at him, confusion and pain written all over his face. "It is over." Despair laced Boromir's voice…the despair of a dying man. "The world of Men will fall…and all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin!"

A soft whimper escaped his lips as he reached up and grasped Aragorn's left shoulder firmly. "Aragorn…" He let the plea hang unspoken in the air, almost like a challenge. Aragorn placed his left hand over Boromir's forearm, gazing down at him determinedly.

"I do not know what strength is in my blood," the Ranger said, "but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall…" Boromir locked eyes with the other Man, a small gleam of hope in his eyes. "…Nor our people fail," Aragorn finished, tightening his grip fiercely.

In that moment, it was as though Boromir was seeing Aragorn for the first time. This was not the same Ranger he had met in Rivendell. No, not a Ranger, he corrected. A King.

"Our people?" he gasped out, seeking confirmation. Aragorn nodded, the movement crisp and shallow. Boromir felt a faint smile touch his lips. "Our people!" he proclaimed, his voice slightly stronger.

Darkness crept at the corners of his vision; his time was coming. Gasping raggedly, Boromir stretched his right arm out, searching for his sword. His trembling hand fell just short. Seeing his need, Aragorn picked up the blade and reverently set it in Boromir's palm. Slowly, Boromir's fingers curled about the hilt. He tried to lift it, but he had no strength left to do so.

Again, Aragorn aided him. He helped him to lift the sword and rest it on his chest. For a long moment, the pair was silent, save for Boromir's labored breathing.

Finally, Boromir knew it was time. "I would have followed you, my brother," he vowed. Aragorn looked on the verge of tears. "My captain…my King." He had no strength left to speak. Blackness crept in, and his breathing stilled. Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, was gone.

XxXxXxX

It was as though he was floating through the night sky. There was but one star, and he was being drawn towards it. A familiar presence was waiting for him there, Boromir knew. Mother, he thought.

Suddenly, he felt a force stopping him, holding him back. He could see nothing, but a Voice soon filled the air around him.

Not yet, my son, the Voice admonished. You wish to redeem yourself. I have a test for you. Brief flashes filled Boromir's mind: a Hobbit in a crimson coat; a Dwarf with the face of a king; a dragon raining fire down on a village; endless carnage in the center of a battle.

Your test lies in the journey of Thorin Oakenshield, the Voice proclaimed. Help the Dwarf-king to reclaim his home. Ensure the line of Durin endures. Succeed, and you will see your City and your brother again. Fail, and you will journey on.

Boromir could hardly comprehend it. He was being given a second chance? A way to wipe clean his mistake? He bowed his head reverently. I accept the test, he replied in a voice that seemed so small and insignificant after the power and majesty of the first.

Go, now, Son of Gondor. I wish you all the luck in the world…you may need it. A white light filled the air, and Boromir knew no more.