By: Dana
Summary: Boromir is tempted, by both silver and gold.
Characters: Boromir, Aragorn, Arwen, others
Pairings: Boromir/Aragorn/Arwen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst, character death
Author's Notes: Beta thanks to Jen and baranduin.
A collection of nine double drabbles.
Written for the Remix, Redux III: Reloaded challenge.
I Can Resist Everything Except Temptation, by freedomfry.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

I.

He is a man of action, fighting better with weapons than he is with clever words. His first meeting with Aragorn (though, at the time, he had not known him by that name) is fruitless, a blunder, and irritates him, and nothing more.

He is not one made to lurk in shadows. It is action that he seeks.

This Man, he thinks, is something of an enigma, sitting here in this place of Elves, with his face and his attention buried in a book. This lack of concern is irritating, yes, but it is still nice to see another Man in this place that seemed like another world.

Boromir wants to understand.

"The shards of Narsil," he says, hefting the hilt and shattered blade in his hand. "The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand." He does not mean to do it, as he caresses the blade, but his finger catches, and cuts.

"It's still sharp," he hisses.

The other's Man gaze is steady. He hardly seems to care, but that does not change how Boromir feels, having been seen as he is. He feels the fool.

"But no more than a broken heirloom."

He turns and he leaves.

II.

No warrior he is then, turning and stumbling as though a coward turning from the blade. He steels himself, to return, and he goes almost immediately. He does not find what he thought he would. What he finds takes his breath away.

Seeing them together, he cannot help himself: an Elf with a silver pendant upon her chest, and the Man who holds her heart; the Man who had looked at him with such indifference. They are standing close, yes, and there is an intimacy in the air about them, though they do not touch but for where their hands meet, and clasp. She is as fair as starlight, as lovely and as distant as dream given form.

When Boromir sees her, and when she meets his gaze, he would throw it all away: duty and honor, his father's wishes, and he would see his land turned to dust, if only to have her, to have her and to hold her as Aragorn might.

He is not a man suited to clever words. Nor is he one given to believing in such fancy as love at first sight.

Her gaze is everything his was not.

Only having both will do.

III.

This is not a battle to win and yet it is not one he can lose. Such a simple thing, he thinks, no more grand than a pendant of silver. Yet its power is there, waiting, for one brave enough to wield it, and strength enough to prove its worth. "It is a gift," he says, as the gathered council looks upon a simple ring of gold. "A gift to the foes of Mordor."

The Ring is altogether evil, Gandalf says.

But such a small thing and such a simple thing, too. If a Halfling – one no more in size than a child of Men, pale and frail and ill-suited to the rigors of battle and of war – could carry it with no ill effects, Boromir can not see why he could not do the same.

He is more than this Halfling. The will is in his blood.

Yet his vision is turned aside by the mocking of an elf and it is then that Boromir sees that it is Arwen's pendant that hangs about Aragorn's neck.

Aragorn would have her, as he would have Gondor.

Gondor has no king, and Boromir will not see Aragorn rule upon the throne.

IV.

Three days into their climb of Caradhras, they are cold and wet and tired, and Boromir is sick and tired, too: of this fool's quest, why can they not see, why must Aragorn be so blind?

The Ring is so close, he could reach and take –

Frodo stumbles, loses his footing in the snow.

"It is a strange thing," Boromir says, and he is surprised to see that the chain that bears the Ring is caught in the tight grip of his hand, "that we must suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing."

Like a gift, the Ring has fallen from Frodo's neck.

What great good he could do with the Ring in his possession: for Gondor, no, for Middle-earth, and the Elves would see that there is strength in Men and Elrond's daughter would look upon him with naught but love in her eyes and Aragorn would embrace him and –

But Aragorn speaks: "Give the Ring back to Frodo."

And Boromir reels, eyes opened to the blinding light of snow.

"As you wish," he whispers. "I care not."

He acts as though he has not seen Aragorn's hand resting upon the hilt of his sword.

V.

They should have sought the Gap of Rohan, they should have taken the road to Gondor, whence they would be able to stand against Mordor from a place of power.

Now, they are trapped in darkness, this treacherous black that seems without end. Forced underground by Saruman's spies, it is through the Mines of Moria that they trek. Boromir curses this string of bad luck, that they are forced to lurk, to sneak –

Aragorn and Gandalf both think this the safer route. Better to die fighting, Boromir thinks, than to die lost in this dark. The Hobbits, at least, enjoy his company. Aragorn, Boromir knows, does not understand.

It has been two long days, and now they rest.

"We should have sought for Rohan," Boromir says.

"Are you so anxious to return to Gondor?" Aragorn asks.

What could he say? Aragorn does not understand, would not understand if he sought to explain. No, let him think what he want. Boromir knows what he must do. At least, he thinks he knows what he must do. He will make Aragorn understand.

"What if Sauron uses It against us?" Boromir asks.

Aragorn doesn't answer.

If only he could be made to see.

VI.

No comfort is found in Lothlorien. What good are Elves, he wonders, living in peace, when his own people have fought and died and their blood has stained both stone and ground? What good are Wizards, supposedly all knowing, if even Wizards can fall?

Here in Lothlorien, he dreams. No comfort is given, even as his sleep is disturbed, by worry and such doubt, by silver pendants and golden rings and promises that he is meant to keep.

Galadriel makes Boromir doubt his reason.

He speaks with Aragorn, once again, and they speak of Gandalf's fall, of the flight from Moria, of those last moments there when Gandalf had urged them to flee. Frodo would have followed him, if he had been allowed.

Boromir does not want to tell Aragorn that his greatest worry had not been that they would lose Gandalf, like they had, but that moment when rock had been falling and they could have lost Frodo, and Aragorn as well.

What would Boromir do if the Ring was lost, and the pendant, too?

It was too late, he now says. It was not something they could stop.

Boromir would rather Aragorn think better of him than that.

VII.

"Minas Tirith is the safer road," Boromir says, and wishes Aragorn could see the wisdom in his words.

"There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us," Aragorn says, and is blinded still.

Boromir is blinded by his own thoughts, of silver and gold.

"You were quick enough to trust the Elves," Boromir says He could, if he wanted, reach out, now, and take the necklace about Aragorn's neck. He could take it, and him, and they would be his own. He could take the Ring, too, and then he would rule –

By then, Aragorn would have to see.

But he does not reach.

"Have you so little faith in your own people?" he asks. "Yes, there is weakness, there is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men. But you will not see that."

Boromir thinks, and his memory of their first meeting fills him with such anger. "All your life you have lived in the shadows, scared of who you are, of what you are."

There is such hurt in his eyes. Boromir has hit home.

Victory, he thinks –

But no, Aragorn turns from him.

Aragorn's gaze is unrelenting, hard as steel.

VIII.

Frodo, Boromir thinks, would have heard their exchange. He could call for Aragorn, and he should. He should try to make peace between them. I am worth your love, he would say. I am worth it all.

He sits by Frodo's bedroll. He somehow knows that Frodo only pretends to sleep.

"Frodo, you carry a heavy burden." He does not answer. Of course he would not answer. Boromir reaches out, and strokes his fingers through Frodo's hair. "We are here to help you, Frodo. You could share the load – let us carry the Ring, as well."

Frodo flinches. He is watching Boromir, now, and his eyes are wide. He reaches to grip the Ring. Protecting it, Boromir thinks, but why should he protect it? Boromir only wishes to help. But Frodo is moving away from him, slinking backwards from his reach. "Your words would seem like wisdom, Boromir, if it weren't for the warning in my heart."

"Why do you run from me, Frodo?" Boromir asks, putting his hand to his sword. "I am no thief." No, no thief. Boromir shakes his head. His hand twitches, flexes. "All I ask for is a way to protect my people."

"No – "

IX.

The eyes are wide and blue, so blue, like a doll's, Boromir thinks, and his gaze is as dull, and flat. Boromir sits back, and the world about him lurches. The water is moving Frodo's hair, dark tendrils beneath the surface, and Frodo now no longer fights.

Boromir reaches for the chain about his neck, and takes it. The grip of Frodo's hand has gone slack. Boromir smiles. Now, Aragorn will see.

Boromir puts the chain about his neck, and the Ring falls against his chest. He can feel it against the beating of his own heart. He sits back. The world lurches, once again, and there is sound, and motion. A gasp, and then Boromir is turning, looking. "This is how it must be," he says, and stumbles to his feet.

Certainly, now, Aragorn will see: that this is how it is, how it must be, and he will rule at his side, and Arwen will be there, too. He will not lose her. Neither need lose her.

(What has tempted him more? Silver, or had it been gold?

What more must he do?)

The Ring is his. And he will have them all.

(This is not his end.)