Would they believe I fell with you? Would they believe he killed us both? Would they believe I was vanquished as you were, so many barbs sticking out of my chest, sapping my life's blood until it ebbed away?
Like yours did.
I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of being in charge. I'm tired of being the one they turn to. I found my only solace in you, and without you, I cannot go on.
I made you a promise. Our people will not fail; the White City will not fall. And it won't. Because without me, they are rid of one more weakness. The weakness of Isildur is in my veins, and the Ring would capture me just as it captured you, sweet Boromir, my love. It would consume me as it consumed you. It has already begun calling my name, and it will not rest until I am in its foul embrace.
The last embrace I wish to be in is yours. I don't care what they would believe. Let them think what they wish. Let them see what they know is true. Let them see that I have fallen on my own sword, the sword that was broken and reforged in the face of new terror, in the face of new weakness. My weakness.
I don't even think about the hurt. It's plain to see I've killed myself, taken my own life. Will they be horrified? Amazed? Chagrined? It is hard to imagine anything in this fog. My weakness is abated. I am finally free of it.
I could not live without you.
