Boromir

‘No!’ I cried, with my mouth.  ‘How can this be!  Where did it go!  How did this happen!  Quick, someone, answer me?’

With the nasty wicked no good Denethor dead, and all the orcs and Haradrim-men dead too, the Battle was officially over, and everyone cheered my name in great joy, and sang songs commemorating the terrible fight.

So I set out on my epic journey, wandering hither and thither in search of Boromir, and the Last Ring, avoiding the wicked agents of the High Steward Denethor and the fell servants of King Sauron the Dark Lord.  It was without hope or chance of success that I set out on this desperate mission, yet set out I did, for is it not said that, ‘the wicked reap when the good man sleeps’?¹  And what gooder man is there than I?

If memory serves me right, it was a fair day in a goodly Spring that the first stroke of the War of the Ring was struck, when an evil doom came to my door.  I was sitting at table in my castle, somewhere in Gondor near Lamedon, enjoying a simple meal and pondering weighty matters of state, when I heard a knock at my door.¹