Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from it. Not a penny. Nor a button. Nada. Verstanden?

Merry

“Boromir!”

It was more a whisper than a shout; shock had muted Merry's voice. Boromir was dying, he knew it. There were simply too many shafts lodged in the man's chest to hope for recovery. He was fading. Soon, like Gandalf, he would leave the circles of the world altogether.

“Boromir!”

Blood from his brow mingled with hot tears as the orcs spirited Merry and Pippin away. His vision blurred as he strained to keep sight of Boromir's dwindling figure, slumped against a tree bole. And not until he was lost from sight did Merry finally succumb to merciful blackness.

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