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Lord Boromir was not inherently magical. He was no wizard or elf. His craftsmanship, on the rare occasion he took up hammer and tongs, was nowhere near the godly work of the dwarves. He was certainly nothing like hobbits, folks who claimed to be non-magical even though Boromir himself had noted multiple instances of their otherworldly power. He did not have the wizardly air many claimed his brother possessed, or the far sight of his father. Whatever drops of Numenorean blood still ran in Boromir’s veins were indiscernible to the eye. Out of the nine members of the Fellowship, he was the one surest to never touch magic in his lifetime.
Yet when he fought… There was spectacle, beautiful and terrible, to be found in any battle, but Boromir’s passion was unrivaled by any on Middle-earth, surely. His entire body became the weapon, muscles working in tandem with blade. He was large, with broad shoulders and face, thick limbs, but never lumbering. He carried himself with pride, always a lord. He could turn in a moment, seated and content to fully in action, dry kindling lit with a spark. The magic Boromir held was not like that studied by elves, or even the kind laced into the mystery of hobbits. His magic was in his life, his grace and strength, his motion.
At least, this was how Aragorn had known him. He knelt over Boromir’s body, careful to avoid his wounds. He pressed his fingers to Boromir’s neck, sticky with sweat from the battle and grime from the journey. There was no life there. The fire had gone out. Boromir, of the best of Men, had lost his magic.