Rating: green
Dramatis personae: Boromir, Nàmo, two Galadhrim and Faramir
Warnings: AU, and how!
Beta: Kharessa the magnificent
Feedback: But most certainly yes!
Summary: The Halls of Waiting are a well-organised civil service. Alas, mistakes do happen...
Author's notes: I was told that a gazillion of really odd Boromir-fics are out there. Well, one more cannot do much harm then. So this is a Boromir-fic - with Elves. And Faramir and Éowyn. And a happy end. So sue me, Dorothy!
Written with the wonderful, highly underrated Sean Bean in mind.
HAIL THE VICTORIOUS DEAD
Death was not what he had expected. Where were the green meadows? The eternal sunshine? And last but not least, where were the scantily clad maidens to welcome his warrior soul?
Boromir shifted in his chair in the large hall. It was so dark that he could not even see the ceiling. Next to him sat two Elves whom he had identified by their grey uniforms and silver hair as Galadhrim. They did not talk but only stared, and Boromir did not feel like starting a conversation with them.
So he was dead. Well, no big surprise there, considering all the arrows. He had been turned into a 6'1" tall pin-cushion.
Boromir cleared his throat. The Elf next to him looked up.
"Why are you here?" he asked, frowning.
Boromir thought that was an exceptionally stupid question, but he answered it, anyway.
"I am dead," he said.
"I reckoned as much," the Elf replied, giving him the 'daft human' look with which Legolas had so often annoyed Boromir. "I was enquiring as to the circumstances of your death."
The warrior scratched his head.
"I tried to save two Hobbits from a band of Uruk'hai," he said. "I failed."
"I see."
"Obviously", the second Elf muttered.
"Ignore him," the first one whispered, "he fell off a talan while drunk. Now he is embarrassed."
"And you?"
The Elf shuddered.
"Warg."
"I'm very sorry to hear that." Boromir looked around. "Do you have any idea what will happen now?" he asked.
"No. This is the first time I died. I suppose my friend and I will go to the Halls of Waiting for our souls to be reborn eventually. As for you.... only Eru knows." The Elf shrugged.
For a long while, the three sat in silence, each of them brooding over their own fate. Then a door opened, and a pale Elf clad in black robes entered. He carried a heavy book that he opened once he stood in front of Boromir and the two Elves.
"Ah yes, numbers 189870 and 189871. One fall off a talan while drunk and one disagreement with a warg. Please follow me to my office. You have to sign some forms. The regulations, you understand."
The two Elves nodded and got up.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, my mortal friend," the Elf Boromir had been talking to said, and bowed his head. "May your afterlife be pleasant."
"Thank you. Same to you. Go easy on the Miruvor, terrible stuff," Boromir replied in a lame attempt at humour, and then the two Elves followed their guide.
Boromir waited. He expected the dark Elf to return in due time to pick him up as well, but nothing happened.
Patience was not one of Boromir's virtues, so he decided to explore the place. He had no intention of sitting in the holding area for all eternity! Boromir got up and shouldered his shield. He thought the office of the dark Elf to be just across the hall, but he got lost, and suddenly found himself walking down a long, door-lined corridor.
He stopped. The most sensible thing would probably be to knock on the nearest door.
"Come in," a voice called from inside, and so Boromir pushed the door open.
He stood in a library with a ceiling so high that he could not see it. The walls were filled with shelves, going up all the way, holding probably hundreds of thousands of books.
An Elf quite similar to the one Boromir had met in the hall sat behind a desk, writing on a scroll. He sanded the paper, then blew the sand away once the ink was dry. Boromir noticed that the whole ground was covered with sand. It crunched under his boots.
The Elf looked up, and Boromir automatically took one step back. Now this was one scary looking pointy ear! Pale as death himself, and instead of eyes, he had two pools of liquid darkness, like a pond in winter.
"What are you doing here?" the dark Elf asked. There was no emotion on his face, and he did not even put his quill down. Boromir felt as if he had disturbed the other in some important task, and that he had to apologise.
"I'm sorry - I've been waiting, but nobody came to fetch me, so I thought they maybe forgot about me."
The Elf arched an eyebrow.
"We do not forget anybody," he said, "we strictly follow the rules and regulations."
Boromir fiddled with one of his gloves.
"Of course, and I don't doubt that you have everything under control here. But well, I expected death to be different, you know, not just sitting on a chair in a dark hall and watching the paint dry."
The dark Elf finally put his quill down and steepled his fingers.
"These are the Halls of Waiting. So what have you been expecting? Line dancing?"
Boromir shrugged.
"No. But it doesn't seem to be the kind of welcome a warrior deserves, if I may say so."
"I see. Well, I fear you have gotten lost, Boromir of Gondor."
"How do you know my name?" Boromir asked.
"I know almost everything. The past, the present and the future", the Elf answered with some dignity, and got up. My, was he tall! Boromir took a step backwards, just in case.
"I'm glad to hear that you know everything. So you can certainly tell me why I got lost?"
The Elf clenched his teeth.
"I said I know almost everything. I know how Arda came into existence. I know the secrets of the Elven lords. But why you are here, I cannot tell. Let me consult my books."
He turned to one of the shelves and began to check the titles of the lined-up books. His long-fingered hand finally chose a large tome from one of the bottom shelves and opened it.
A large cloud of dust emerged, and Boromir had to sneeze, which earned him a disapproving look from the Elf.
He turned page after page, until he finally found what he had been looking for. "Boromir, son of Denethor, yes, I remember. You died as an old man because your wife's cat suffocated you in your sleep."
Boromir shook his head.
"Eh, my apologies, but this must be a different Boromir. As you can see, I'm in my best years, I have never been married and I was killed by an Uruk'hai."
The Elf frowned and turned page after page.
"I do not have another Boromir in my books. It must be you. Are you sure no cats were involved when you died?"
"Yes. There were two Hobbits, though..."
"You are absolutely positively sure there were no cats?"
"Indeed." Boromir confirmed. "I would have noticed. I like cats."
The Elf closed the book, then walked around his desk and came to stand in front of Boromir. The warrior's nose was level with the Elf's chest, and he felt very small all of a sudden.
"Boromir, according to my books, you are not dead. But yet you are here. As much as I hate to admit it: my administration made a mistake."
"A mistake? You mean - I shouldn't have died?" Boromir gasped. For a moment, he only stared up at the ethereal being. Then he became angry.
"Say, what kind of organisation do you have here?" he barked, waving his fist at the Elf. "You can't just go around and have people dying before their time and then not knowing where to send them to!"
The Elf shrugged.
"My profound apologies. I fear there has been a mix-up with the names. This is one of the reasons why Elves never use the same name twice nowadays. I remember the chaos with the two Glorfindels... but anyway. You are a mortal. You have no business being in the Halls of Waiting. You should be walking the Eternal Green Meadows by now."
Boromir's head began to spin. This was all a little too much for one mere mortal to grasp.
"I really do not wish to cause any trouble. I only want to go to the Eternal Green Meadows. Now."
The dark Elf looked uncomfortable.
"I am most afraid that will not be possible. There is no way to pass from the Halls of Waiting to the Eternal Green Meadows. Only Eru can do that, and Eru is busy."
"Well, he can't be busy for all eternity, now can he! Tell him this is an emergency," Boromir cried, "tell him that I absolutely refuse to spend the rest of my death among Elves! I admit I made some mistakes in my life, but really, that would be beyond any justified punishment!"
"Eru has been busy since the creation of Arda," the dark Elf said, "your wait could be a long one."
Boromir flopped down in a chair and raked his hair with his fingers. He had a vision of himself walking for all eternity among countless Elves who would be singing, telling silly tales and combing their hair. Pandemonium!
"I'm jinxed," he groaned. "I only hope you have a lot of mead here, otherwise I really wouldn't know how to get through the next ages."
The dark Elf began to walk up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. Boromir, leaning on his shield, watched him with a forlorn expression on his face.
Suddenly, the Elf stopped in his tracks and spun around to face the man.
"I think I know the solution," he said triumphantly, and went to one of the shelves to his right. After some searching, he pulled out another dusty old tome. He blew the dust away and wrinkled his nose.
"You do?" Boromir asked with little hope. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I am. I am Námo, I know the past, the present and the future, so you can trust me that I know what to do with mortals who have been filed in the wrong place. Come."
The Elf grabbed Boromir by the shoulder and pushed him towards the door.
* * *
Faramir thought that it was a lovely feast; everybody was happy and laughing. He thought that he had even seen Lord Elrond smiling once or twice, but after a second look, he decided that it was probably rather indigestion than merriment. Weddings were still a touchy subject for the Elven lord.
Éowyn, who looked radiant in her bridal gown, stood with the Hobbits and laughed. That was, without a doubt, the most beautiful sound on Arda. She was lovely. And courageous, witty, charming, clever. How he had managed to win the heart of such a fair lady was still beyond him, and so Faramir spent most of his time watching his lovely wife with an expression on his face that Legolas had called 'dreamy' and Gimli called 'dopey'.
He should go over and join her. After all, it was their wedding.
Faramir sighed. Yes, it was their wedding, and he should be happy. So why was his heart still heavy with sadness? Did he still mourn his father? Many had told Faramir to be glad to be free of Denethor at last, but despite all the hurt Denethor had caused his son, he was still Faramir's father and Faramir had loved him. Not for the man he was when he had died, but for the man he was before the shadow fell over his soul. And Faramir knew that, in his own way, Denethor had loved him too.
But Denethor's death was not the reason for Faramir's sadness.
He had to think of Boromir, and how perfect this wedding would have been if his brother had been here to share their happiness. It was not fair, but then life never was.
Faramir filled a chalice with Gondorian fruit wine. He would drink to Boromir, his brother, in loving memory, and then he would return to his wife.
"To Boromir, son of Denethor, my brother whom I loved though he threw me in a pond, hid snails in my bed, and sewed the pockets of my trousers closed when we were children. I loved him though he ran faster and aimed better than I, for he never boasted of it."
He lifted the chalice.
"Hail the glorious dead," Faramir said.
"Hail the glorious bureaucracy," Boromir stated, clinking his chalice against Faramir's. "My apologies for being late for your weeding. I had to take a detour."
Faramir turned his head and stared at Boromir in thunderstruck shock, his mouth gaping.
Boromir decided that it was not the time for explanations, and so he took a good swig of his wine instead.
Ah. Life was wonderful.
* *
The End