You heard the horn first. That deep, shuddering sound echoing through the trees like a cry from the bones of the earth. And then—too soon—it stopped.

The world narrowed as you ran. Branches clawed at your arms. The cold air burned your lungs. You don’t even remember screaming his name—you only remember the silence that followed.

And then you saw him.

Boromir was on his knees, surrounded by the dead, his sword slick with blood. The Horn of Gondor was shattered beside him, splintered wood and torn leather. Arrows jutted from his chest—three. Your mind could barely take in the third. His body swayed, breath ragged, one hand reaching for another weapon, though his other arm hung limp.

You dropped beside him, your knees hitting the earth hard. “No—no, no, no—Boromir—” The words spilled out of you, strangled and wild. Your hands found his face, his blood-warm cheek, the trembling edge of his jaw.

He blinked slowly. His eyes—still burning with the last flickers of battle—softened when they found you.

“You—” His voice rasped, cracked. “You shouldn’t… be here.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t talk like that.” You gripped him tighter, trying to stop the blood with your palms, with your presence, with the sheer force of your panic. “You’re going to be fine, do you hear me? You’re going to be fine, just stay awake, stay with me—”

But he wasn’t fighting anymore. Not really. His breathing was shallow now, and his gaze held no fear—just regret. And love.

“I tried to protect them,” he said quietly. “The little ones… I tried…”

“You did,” you choked out. “You did, Boromir, you did. You don’t have to do anything else, just—just stay. Please, just—stay.”

His head tipped forward slightly, resting against your shoulder, and you felt it—the way his body leaned into yours like a final surrender. His blood soaked into your clothes, warm still. Too warm.

“I am sorry…” he whispered, almost to himself. “For everything. For the Ring… for my pride…”

“Don’t,” you breathed, cupping his face. “Don’t say goodbye. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not.”

He smiled faintly—that smile, the one he used when he thought you were being foolish but didn’t want to say so.

“You were always… too good for war,” he murmured, the strength in his voice fading. “Too good… for me.”

His eyes began to close.