The Draw -Bastille
Note: it's a little bit different than what is portrayed in the movie
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All he could see was light.
White lights with darker blurred shapes.
Boromir's breathing became ragged and slower as his vision deteriorated and his heart pounded. The tearing pain in his shoulder failing to refrain him from fighting more. He grit his teeth and swung the blade in his hands harder.
Orcs fell at his left and right, the sounds of their cries urging him on. Boromir thought of Frodo, he must press on for the little halfling. A sudden burst of energy was poured into his blood stream and he surged forward with a new hope.
A whizzing arrow shot through the air and lodged itself right above the first arrow. Boromir cried out in pain, the large arrows sticking out of his chest like branches on a tree. The pain raced more, it burned in his blood. The anger and sorrow boiling and mixing in his core, it almost hurt more than the arrows in his form.
He staggered back a few feet, attempting to catch his breath, it was hard with his lungs being impaled. The misty air in the forest was like fire when he breathed. Boromir's brain was slipping in and out of consciousness as he lost more blood and the pain overtook him. He pinched his eyes closed tightly, swallowing hard.
Never had a battle been like this for him. So much regret that he had, it threatened to spill over in him. He had done so many people wrong and it would all come to an end soon.
A third arrow struck him as he blew a call into the horn strapped across his body. The ivory bone's sweet note being cut short. A long black tipped arrow stuck out of his back, it's placement being his heart.
Boromir dropped to his knees and the horn clattered to the lead covered forest floor. The lights ran together into a mass of colors. Noises that were once clear became distorted and beyond understandable. His body heaved with every breath, the task becoming more agonizing as time passed.
The sun shone through the large leaves of the trees and on to his crumpled form, his clothes spattered with blood and dirt. It mixed together into a sticky paste that stained your skin. Sweat ran down his head and dripped off of the end of his nose, his hair hung in his face. It glistened with morning dew in the sun, Boromir raised his head towards the sun and relished in the comforting warmth it provided.
A small smirk toyed at his mouth as he sat dying. Finding peace in the middle of all the chaos surrounding him. The Orcs still came, to the fellowship's tactical disadvantage.
And in that moment Boromir, son of Denethor the lord of Gondor and steward of Minas Tirith, found forgiveness. His unsettled feeling of regret and sorrow washed away like dirt when it rains. The peace of the forest pressed around him, holding him in arms of tranquility as his last breath left his lips.
