My Favorite Aragorn Stories
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Should've Thought of That One, Bori: 1. I'm Not Dead Yet!
Not that this was in any way a pleasurable faculty at the moment. The most prominent aromas on the wind at this point in time were blood, sweat, and river scum. Boromir was displeased at this and mentally requested that his nose return to its previous state of dormancy. It didn't. He cursed it inwardly. We wish he wouldn't, since it is a very charming nose indeed. But we digress.
Vision came next. Boromir's eyes were closed, so this didn't make a jot of difference. He considered opening them, but was distracted by the restoration of sense (3), which was that of touch, or feeling.
As his nerve endings ignited back into awareness, it became apparent to Boromir that he was in a great deal of physical Pain. His other two remaining senses excused themselves briefly, and returned when they assumed that he had come to terms with his agony. He hadn't. Three gaping arrow wounds are a rather big thing for a person to come to terms with in a space of thirty seconds. Not that Boromir was privy to the fact that he had three gaping arrow wounds. All he knew was that he was in a great deal of general, excruciating, physical Pain.
He groaned soundlessly. As ragged breath tore through his mouth and dashed screaming down his throat, sense (4) enveloped his tongue in rancid flavor. He could taste blood now, as well as smell it. This was not at all Pleasant.
His sense of feeling was on system overload at the moment, but was gradually sending signals of body movement to Boromir's brain. He became suddenly, horribly aware that he was being violently rattled and jolted, and added Nausea to his current list of discomforts.
His ears left him another few moments to revel in his newfound anguish before his hearing was reinstated.
Suddenly, the air was filled with a terrible roaring noise, churning and screaming and pounding and Boromir could smell river scum and he could feel rushing wind and he was pitching up and down mercilessly and his clothes were wet and his nose was cold and then he finally opened his eyes and no sixth sense was needed to tell him that he was at the point of tipping over the brink of a monstrous waterfall.
Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli watched the funeral boat as it made its solemn, albeit wobbly journey toward the zenith of the Rauros-falls.
Aragorn leaned against his sword and tried very hard to look mournful, even though he had always thought that Boromir was a bastard and was sick of his nagging and was on the whole rather glad that such a nuisance had been got rid of.
Gimli sat on a rock and fiddled with his axe, not bothering to try to look mournful because he had always thought that Boromir was a bastard and was sick of his nagging and was on the whole rather glad that such a nuisance had been got rid of and didn't really care who knew it.
Legolas stood and preened, because that's what Legolas does.
At all events, all three were suddenly distracted by a high-pitched girlish squeal that would have shattered all the glass in the vicinity, had there been any glass in the vicinity (there wasn't), and effectively drowned out the deafening thunder of the waterfall.
“What the…” Aragorn began, before being cut off by the advent of another octave-shattering screech. He was immediately prompted to another series of fragmented declarations as the figure of the man he had assumed was dead sat up somewhat woozily, his outline dark against the flying spray. “I… it… I thought… it was… it can't… but he was… but they were… oh Valar…” A third shriek rent the air.
This was quickly succeeded by exclamations of much less ladylike manner.
A sample is provided. Understand that the circumstances were dire.
There was a loud splash as Boromir ejected himself from the doomed vessel and sunk promptly to the bottom of the Anduin.
“He's going to drown,” said Gimli, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Aragorn made a halfhearted stab at decency. “We've got to help him…. somehow… I think…”
The Dwarf snorted. “Well, I'm not going in after him.”
The Dúnadan glanced hopefully at Legolas, who was idly picking his immaculate fingernails. “I don't swim,” he said in reply to the unasked question, tossing his golden hair and cocking his head like the innocent young girl… er, Elf, that he was.
Aragorn stared at the rough-watered Anduin, armed folded tight across his chest uncomfortably. Tentatively he approached the lapping shore and inserted a toe into the water gingerly. “It's cold,” he said lamely, and tried to work out the situation in his head. The last time Merry and Pippin had seen Boromir, he was sorely wounded, so they would assume he was dead… Legolas and Gimli… they could be kept silent with an ample sum… there was no one else to blab, and that water looked awfully nasty…
Didn't Denethor and his other son have prophetic dreams?
“Dammit, he was supposed to have died already,” muttered Aragorn huffily as he surveyed the swirling current and weighed his chances.
Had Boromir been aware of the statistics, he might have known that he was actually a great deal safer at the bottom of the Anduin than in almost any other location in Middle-earth.
Looking over the records of characters who have found themselves at the bottom of the Anduin throughout the course of their lives, one may see that the chances of one's drowning in such a situation are slim to none. Consider the cases of Déagol, Aragorn, Samwise, and the Nazgûl, all of whom survived their sojourn in the River despite overwhelming odds. We may also note Frodo, who failed to drown in the Dead Marshes.
Isildur alone breaks this pattern. Moreover, he and Boromir are alike in many respects, both of them having been tempted by the Ring and both of whom had been recently impaled by a number of arrows. However, Isildur is most closely related to Aragorn, who did not, as previously noted, perish, even though he had also suffered a long fall from a sheer cliff.
All in all, Boromir's chances are very good. We shall wait and see what happens next.
“I don't believe it,” cried Gimli incredulously. “He's swimming.”
The Elf and the Dwarf craned their necks, peering at the bobbing figure.
“And against the current!”
“Despite being weighed down with chain mail!”
“Despite being mortally wounded in three places!”
“Curse that Húrin,” grumbled the future King. “He's always stealing my thunder…”
After fifteen laborious minutes during which Aragorn scowled and Gimli yawned and Legolas preened and Boromir swam like hell, the High Warden of the White Tower hauled himself onto the riverbank.
“Heal me, damn you-aren't you supposed to be the King of Gondor, or something?” he gasped moodily at Aragorn before sinking into the relief of oblivion.
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