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There were some nights where Boromir dreamed of rivers of fire. They flowed down from Mount Doom, engulfing everything in their paths, even crossing over the jagged peaks of the Ephel Duath. Trees and wildflowers in Ithilien burned, and the waters of the Anduin became nothing more than bubbling black sludge. The ruins of Osgiliath melted away to nothing, leaving behind a barren wasteland that resembled the Enemy’s land of shadow. The Pelennor Fields were overrun with liquid flame, consuming farms and livestock and unfortunate souls who could not escape their reach in time. The Rammas Echor disintegrated, leaving the White City completely exposed. Not even the Great Gate of Minas Tirith could keep out the deadly flood. And then, just like the great wave that destroyed Númenor over three thousand years ago, which Faramir had told him he had often dreamed of, the lava rose up like the maw of a giant beast and swallowed the White City whole.
Throughout his few years on Middle-earth, Mount Doom—or Amon Amarth as it was known in Gondor—erupted sporadically, filling the Men of Minas Tirith and surrounding regions with dread. Boromir noticed that whenever this occurred, his father would lock himself away in the Tower of Ecthelion, speaking of what he spent his time doing in there to no one, and when he did eventually reemerge, it seemed as though he had aged several years. Boromir knew that the volcanic activity greatly troubled his father, and so he refrained from speaking of his dreams to him, despite Denethor’s great knowledge of lore and history.
It was only when the mountain seemed to shake the earth for days on end that he finally broke his silence. As he had expected, his words greatly troubled his father, and Denethor’s face turned gray and wan. The Ruling Steward said nothing to comfort Boromir, and more often than not he excused himself to call a meeting of the Council and later returned to his solitude in the high tower.
Faramir was the only one he could speak to about his nightmares, for his younger brother was no stranger to disturbing dreams and prophetic visions. Boromir was usually the person he went to whenever he had a dream that left him shaken, and so Boromir felt certain that Faramir would respond in kind.
He would try to lighten the mood with forced confidence that lava did not behave that way. Lava did not climb to the peaks of mountains or rise up high enough in the air to cover a city as tall as Minas Tirith. But Faramir, who had perused the archives of Minas Tirith and familiarized himself with the Númenórean accounts in regard to Sauron, informed him that the Enemy could bend the fires of Mount Doom to his will and make them do things that were unnatural. This did not comfort Boromir. If this was true, then would his nightmares become reality? Would Minas Tirith be swallowed up by ash and flame?
There were nights when he and a garrison would be posted at Osgiliath that he heard the men whispering to each other about the red glow emitting from the East. It was nearly impossible to escape talk or thought of Mordor. The people breathed in ash whenever they stepped out of their doors, and women grumbled about not being able to dry their laundry because of it. Children could not play out of doors due to the polluted air. Grim-faced shopkeepers looked dejectedly at the ground, unable to manage a smile of greeting for their customers and patrons. Food in the restaurants seemed to lose their flavor, and people muttered about tasting ash.
The trembling of the earth caused people to dash into their houses or seek the nearest shelter they could find. Even when the mountain of fire fell silent and clouds of smoke ceased to billow out and inch across the sky towards the city, the people knew that the quiet stillness would not last long. Not while the Enemy’s desire to rule all of Middle-earth remained unsated.
What could he possibly do to prevent the destruction of his beloved city? What could any of them do? Gondor had stood alone against the armies of Mordor and their allies to the South and East, acting as the shield that kept evil at bay. But the shield was splintering, and soon, it would not hold. If Minas Tirith fell, the rest of Gondor would follow. Then, nothing would stop Sauron from conquering all of Middle-earth. Rohan, their only other ally in this fight, would fall, as well. Not even the remaining Elves, whose once-great power was waning, would be able to do what the Last Alliance of Men and Elves had done an Age ago. Was there any hope?
On the eve before Sauron’s armies attacked Osgiliath, in the summer of 3018 TA, Boromir had a dream that was unlike any of the others he’d had before. As the darkness in the East swallowed up the sky and stars, there remained a single light in the West. A voice he did not recognize recited a riddle that only filled him with greater dread.
Seek for the Sword that was broken
In Imladris it dwells.
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.
These words haunted Boromir’s thoughts for the next four months, as he traveled alone to a place called Imladris, the farthest from home he had ever dared to go. The sword of Elendil was there, but how could a broken sword help his people? And what was this token that was an omen of Doom? “Doom is near at hand.” He saw the wave of fire and the desolation left in its wake whenever he closed his eyes for a short rest. “Please,” he begged to anyone who was listening and who might take pity upon his disheartened people, “let it not be so.”