The Last Will and Testament of Boromir of Gondor

Duh. Me Boromir. Me soldier of Gondor. Me manly man. Me like to smash rocks with face-

Soldiers of Gondor are uncouth, bloodthirsty creatures whose unceasing carelessness is the only reason that the forest world as we know is ceasing to exist-

We are the ultimate embodiments of discipline and nobility who juggle the weak, clothe the hungry and eat the poor. We live by a code of honour and virtue that is as pure as a baby's diaper-

It is a highly rewarding job; what better way to spend your life than killing innocent, defenseless wildlife? Who else would trample daisies? A madman; that's who! Oh the poor, poor daisies-

So join Steward Denethor's company of guards today! He is not really the King; but who cares? No one cares about the real King any more. Yes, that King, who has been living out in the muck for years and years for his ungrateful people. Why, whoever he is, that King probably is the greatest example of noble self-sacrifice since the time of Eärendil himself-

Honestly, why would anyone care about that King? He is just as bad when it comes to quills. Can you imagine plucking a hapless gull and leaving it naked on some beach? That King should probably pay attention when his infinitely wise Elf friend is speaking every now and then. Maybe that is the reason the trees are always ignoring him-

Maybe the reason why the trees ignore me- I mean; that King- is because they are too annoyed at having to constantly reply to the incessant stream of questions that his "wise" Elf friend spouts off. Why on Arda would anyone ask a tree for advice on relationships? It is a tree!

Well, at least the trees gave better advice than your stupid belly dancing suggestion! I was in a full body cast for three weeks because of that!

That is simply because you cannot bend the way I do. Face it, Legolas: immortal or not, no one can out-dance Aragorn Elessar-

Yes.

I do not believe we have met before. Which is quite strange, seeing that this is actually MY Will. In any case, now that I have retrieved this sorry bit of parchment from that Ranger-King-Paranoiac-Killjoy-Suck up and his insane vegetarian counterpart, I do believe I finally can get round to business.

Firstly, I am Boromir, son of Denethor. And yes, I am also a soldier of Gondor. That does not, however, mean that I am an insensitive, burly oaf with my half-a-brain tucked neatly behind my sword sheath. Nor does my occasional, completely manageable desire to take the Ring mean that I am evil. I have a father, a brother, an uncle and a pet rabbit. I love all of them, and I am tired of everyone looking at me oddly every time I try to cuddle up with my little Floppy. I mean, come on; Aragorn fondles Andúril every night and no one ever says anything to him. I want –nay; I demand- that I be treated with the respect I deserve! I am heir to the Stewardship of Gondor; by Manwë's congested nose, I think that warrants some sort of approval among this Fellowship!

Secondly, I realize that several members of the Fellowship might have stumbled across my secret passion for embroidery. Yes Gandalf, I am referring to you. And you too Pippin; do not even try to feign ignorance this time. I must say that where I come from, it is considered a great honour to be a finalist in the Gondorian Sewing Competition. Really! I am not ashamed of my talent, so I suggest that you cease draping frilly aprons across my tent. It takes a real man to wield a needle and thread. I am not ashamed. Not at all.

It's not like I kept the aprons or anything.

Now, on to the division of my assets. I do not know what the future holds, but with all the ominous skull-shaped crop circles, giggling skeletons, and croqueting barrow-wights that seem to appear around me, I fear that I should prepare for the worst. You may stop drooling over the parchment now, Aragon; I am not going to bestow Stewardship onto your greasy head. Not after you ate that lovely lace cushion I made for you, oh no.

To Faramir: My sweet little brother. Take care of yourself, and know that I am always thinking of you. Trust me; when you are doomed to spend eternity in the company of immortals and their accumulated compilation of Interminable Songs Throughout the Ages, you would yearn for someone sane as well. To you I entrust the Horn of Gondor. I hope you remember how to use it. Remember to always blow from the diaphragm, especially when playing 'Ode to a Serenading Poodle Cult'; father gets very annoyed when it does not sound as it should.

To Denethor: Father. I have put this off long enough. Should you receive this parchment, it is a sign that I have failed both you and Gondor. For that, I am sorry. However, you should know that while I became a soldier for our country, it was in fact my dream to become a world-renown opera singer. I have been taking lessons since I was five, and the other men say that I have the greatest potential since Isildur himself. Enclosed are several pictures of me at my recitals (I play the helmeted princess), as well as the copy of 'Palantír Gazing for Dummies' that you keep asking me to pick up for you. Oh well; better late than never I suppose. It's not like you were going to lose your mind and ignite yourself or anything.

What? There is no chance of such a thing actually happening.

To Gimli: For a dwarf, you are not half bad. I enjoyed the days we spent spitting into Legolas' drinking water and gluing his hair to his boots. Therefore, I leave you with this piece of information: Legolas intends to present you with a barrel should he perish. Perhaps you could perform one last prank in my name? I know that you want to. I also happen to know that Elves can be squeezed into extremely cramped places.

To the Hobbits: I like you little ones. You are like woodland creatures: so small and furry. I leave in your care my precious rabbit, Sir Flopalot. He answers to the name Floppy, and eats carrots, lettuce and future Kings-to-be. Present him to our Lord Aragorn should he survive the journey to Gondor, would you? It is quite amusing to watch a grown man attempt to bury himself for fear that 'the demon bunny' will chew his nose off.

To Legolas/Aragorn: The two of you wield your titles with the grace of a constipated Warg with terminal gangrene. I am tired of your childish accusations. It is no fault of mine that my father is the Steward, or that I cannot possibly keep a look out for every bit of vegetation that I happen upon. I desire the Ring, yes, but is that any reason to shave my legs and chain me to posts? Even Frodo treats me better, and he nibbles my ears at night! So what has nasty Boromir left for the Prince and the King?

That is my little secret.

To Gandalf: Honestly, I do not really like you. Your confusing remarks irritate me to no end, and your breath smells like the rear end of a bloated cow. However, since my brother seems to have taken a liking to you, I suppose I should do the proper thing and include you in my Will. You can have my collection of yodeling birthday cards. I was going to throw them out anyway.

Well, that is all. For my epitaph, I would like something practical. Perhaps something like: 'Boromir of Gondor: the Lord of the Songs', or: 'Boromir, son of Denethor. Six time limbo champion' . Or even 'Boromir: Yoga Master of the West'. I feel like making my achievements known to all.

On second thought, maybe I just should get Faramir to come up with something good. He always was better at creative writing than I was.