Title: The Past and Done
Timeline: Post-War of the Ring, Pre-Saruman/Shire war
Summary: Boromir survives the war a broken man. He sees the past, always, beneath closed lids, and finds relief in the form of a bottle; the art of forgetting. Songfic.
Song: Sober by Tool
A/N: Inspired by an amazing fanfic by the Author Aeneid called 'Adraefan'. To read it, simply go on google and search the title; it's on the Henneth Anun website.

Disclaimer: Nothing in Middle-earth belongs to me, it belongs to Tolkein. All lyrics belong to Tool. Again, go read the aforementioned fanfic by Aeneid!

"Poor Boromir! I could not see what happened to him. It was a sore trial for such a man: a warrior, and a lord of men. Galadriel told me he was in peril. But he escaped in the end. I am glad." - Gandalf, The Two Towers, page 485

The Past and Done.

There's a shadow just behind me,
Shrouding every step I take,
making every promise empty,
pointing every finger at me.

He becomes quickly restless, the only troubled soul amidst a kingdom of celebrations and happiness as the war draws to an end. He jumps at the slightest sound, yelps in surprise at the smallest touch, even if it be the King. Or Pippin. Or his brother.

When he walks he stumbles on nothing, his eyes flicker to and fro, his hands fiddle relentlessly, sweat beads at his neck, and behind him the shadows follow. Always, they follow. He watches them, sees them disappear at his glance, and avoids all company. He feels alone. Oh, so alone.

Waiting like a stalking butler
who upon the finger rests.
Murder now the path called "must we"
just before the son has come.

It's been this way for a while, he's been this way for a while, driven mad by the lingering poison of his old wounds, back from that fateful day at Amon Hen. His wounds, they pain him, are both physical and mental. And now it is not only his friends who have noticed the trembling, the fear.

Boromir the Mad' they call him, the very people he'd spent much of his life and blood toiling for, defending for. It angers those closest to him, the Fellowship, his men, his brother, how quick the ones he strove to protect are to change their happy calls to discrete snickers as he passes them in the streets of Minas Tirith, how quick they are to mock him, to degrade him. It angers none more than the King; his fury is unmatched by even the grumbling Wizard.

Jesus, won't you fucking whistle
something but the past and done?

Boromir himself is unaware, is hapless and almost gullible; he is too focused on the shadows that creep in the corner of his eye, the bodiless voices that ever whisper in his ear, the haunting images that plague his dreams. He sees the past, always, beneath closed lids: the Hobbits dragged away by the Uruk-hai, Frodo's eyes wide and fearful, his rage reflected in the clear blue.

Why can't we not be sober?
I just want to start this over.
Why can't we drink forever?
I just want to start things over.

He turns to the drink for help, to drown out the whispers, to escape the pain.

How often would Faramir enter his brother's quarters to find him curled on the hard floor, as if it were carpet, a bottle of whiskey in hand, half-empty and steadily dripping? How often would both Legolas and Gimli be forced to drag him drunk and occasionally bloodied from a rowdy inn or brawl? The ale is poison, his friends tell him, even as they nurse his headache, but he cares not. To him, it brings the gift of forgetting.

I am just a worthless liar.
I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you.
Trust in me and fall as well.

He spends much of the time in delirium, sometimes bellowing at any poor unfortunate with no excuse, other times falling into long silences as he stares at naught for hours on end.

One night, he bursts into the Hobbits' quarters only to break down into sobs at Frodo's feet, crying and weeping and pleading for forgiveness in the Little One's embrace as the ever understanding Hobbit attempts to soothe him, whispers his forgiveness, strokes his hair, holds him close.

I will find a centre in you.
I will chew it up and leave,
I will work to elevate you
just enough to bring you down.

Many think him mentally instable and, in truth, he is. And so, it is Faramir who is made Steward of Gondor, Faramir who is handed the white rod of office. Both Gandalf and Elessar think it as relief from the stress of duty, tell him it is time and opportunity for him to recover and heal, but it only serves to drive him further into the depths of madness.

As Elessar tries to persuade him, he simply sings his heart true and clear;

He is wasted, and he knows it- a failure from the moment he tried to take the ring. The Gondorians he once loved now goad him and laugh at his failings; the city he so adored has been taken from him, his birthright denied and given instead to his brother; his wounds throw him into constant crippling pain, much as it had his namesake, and the only relief he finds from the whispers is in the form of a bottle.

His mind is in tatters. He asks if Elessar knew what it was to lose everything, by way of a single action.

Trust me.

But, though some ring true, some words are hollow; he loves his little brother more than anyone or thing in Middle-earth.

Soon, it is Faramir's turn to drag him from the drink, in the lower levels of the city. He is drunk and barely coherent, but he sees and understands all that happens. He hears the words that are spoken, the insults that are thrown, and he alone sees through the fog an attack made on his dear little brother.

But he defends Faramir, drunk as he is, and takes the full force of the blow to his head.

Screams. Scatterings. Yells. Curses.

Faramir is left clutching his brother on the cobbles, crying for aid and weeping and attempting to staunch the flow as he bleeds out onto the street.

Mother Mary won't you whisper
something but the past and done.

The villain is executed the very next day. The King Elessar watches with cold eyes as it is done- by his side his Queen, his Steward, a Wizard, an Elf, a Dwarf, and four Hobbits; the tears they shed are not for the villain.

They are shed for our hero; his funeral is grand, fit for a king as Elessar makes it so. The King stands high and proud, the others close behind him, mourning, and the people of Gondor crowd before him; they listen closely to his words, loud and bold.

Trust me.

"Harken, people of Gondor. He was a bold man, renowned for his courage, his boldness, and loved for his caring nature! For you, Gondor, he sacrificed his childhood, his blood, his life- and yet often would I pass maids and drudges who thought only of his madness. Madness! How callous must one be? Oh, to condemn a broken man with whispers and sniggers and insults… People of Gondor, my people, you are not what I had expected. He loved you! He loved Gondor! And instead you damned him, despite what he had done for you.

Sleep easy, my people, despite what you have done to a brave heart. I am almost glad for, at last, he has escaped.

Alas, no longer shall Boromir the Tall, the Fair, the Bold, Son of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower walk the fields of his home!

Find peace, my brother."

I want what I want.