Destiny
It was something less than a war, something more than a skirmish, this
renewed advance of the shadows; it was a task with which the young Heirs of
the greatest kingdoms of Middle-earth could be tested, to prove their valour
and their skill.
And they had.
The young men walked far from their soldiers' encampment in the field where
battles had been fought and won in the past month, here at the south borders
of Gondor, in these lands near the mouth of the Great River Anduin, where
one could smell salt and eternity when the wind blew from the Sea.
He watched them from afar, the woodland concealing him from their sight. He
had fought beside them today, and many times before, though they would never
know it: gone were the days when he had been a known face in Gondor,
counsellor to the Steward Ecthelion II. Today he was only a mere Ranger,
weary of the long roads which had brought him here from the North, leading
his Dúnedain into battles for which they would never receive prize nor
praise.
For this reason he could not afford to make himself known: he could only
watch from afar the boys he had last seen as infants growing into men, into
leaders of people; as he was, or should be.
He watched them: the fair, blond son of the King of the Mark; and the son of
the Ruling Steward of Gondor, a darker flame next to the light brilliance of
his taller friend. They had defeated Southrons and Orcs today, and now they
walked under the shelter of the trees, far from their men and from their
fathers' counsellors, seeking in each other peace and solace from the blood
and the dreadful excitement of the fight.
He knew this, because he had seen it happen time and time again in the few
weeks he had been back in Gondor: the young men were close friends, they had
similar duties and destinies, and they understood one another better than
anyone else could. The need to lead, to command armies of men while still so
young—the need to relinquish the lead, and just be young, and free from
command.
They talked in low, contented voices while they slowly made their way
through the peaceful wood. Their heads were close together, whispering
smiling secrets that were only for each other, a comfort to treasure, more
precious than any victory.
He knew this was not for him to see. He knew that Halbarad would shake his
head once he went back to the Dúnedain camp, and would not look him in the
eye for long hours afterwards, talking to him of the need to return North
soon, as the grey wizard had bid them do, and of the Lady Evenstar—as
though he could ever forget her.
He knew the wisdom of his kinsman's words; and he saw her beloved face in
his every dream, at night, when the fire had died and the stars could not
keep him warm.
Yet he could not stop.
He could not bring himself to leave this land, for it was his own land; and
he could not stop going back, and watching.
These young men sought comfort and understanding for their shared duties and
fears in one another, because they were alike; and he too was like them, he
had been so at their age but never had he shared fears or conquests, for
there had never been one with whom to share.
Thus it was that he could now not help but be drawn to them, go as close to
them as he dared, and feel envy and shame entwined when the darker boy
halted his steps, his companion close, words becoming looks becoming
silence—and with his dark fur-lined cloak made a place for them to sit on
the ground.
Hidden in the shadows, he could reveal the truth to himself: that he had
watched this young man more often than his fairer companion, that time and
time again he had sought him out with his eyes on the battlefield; that he
had felt his heart falter and find a new rhythm in his chest the day he had
entered the battle and first set eyes on him from afar.
For it was this boy who one day would challenge his birthright or accept it,
would play a part in his future: one day, he would have to cease his
watching, come out of his dark hiding place and stand before this young man,
like to like; and that day he would see the claim accepted, or denied.
Welcomed, or cast away.
The man was still a boy now, sitting with his ally and friend in the new
grass of this early beginning of Spring, his face brilliant in the fading
sun, his clear eyes alight with youth and life while he exchanged sweet
words with his companion, their arms already entwined, their smiling faces
so close while the breeze from the mountains stole fragments of their words
away.
"Steward," Théodred said with a gentle laughter, his voice as light and fair
as the rest of him, still so very young. "I shall be a king, one day."
Yet Boromir's laughter was low, throaty, already a man's laughter—a dark
dangerous flame burning and shivering up Aragorn's spine, a Balrog's whip
coiling in his belly, ready to snap his being in two, if he did not watch
his own heart. A gust of wind could be all it took to set fire to these
glowing embers.
This man would be in his future, in his destiny. He knew this with the
foresight of his fathers, and with something deeper still—he knew it as
surely as he knew the new rhythm of his own heart, the pulse quickening in
his veins, his blood stirring shamefully in his loins, hope and desire
mingling with an unnamed, tearing ache in his chest as the Heir of the
Steward drew the future king down and lowered himself to lie between the
parted, welcoming thighs, paying homage with his kisses.
And suddenly the wind blew from the West, carrying the salty eternal scent
of the sea, the seagulls' mournful crying. And Boromir's hungry, reverent
words in the wind were the heralds of Time sealing Aragorn's destiny with
fire.
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by
Cinzia
ince Cirion and Eorl had sworn their oath of allegiance in times past,
Gondor and Rohan had been allies, their rulers friends and brethren. It was
not unheard-of for their armies to join and defeat a common enemy, even in
these trying times when the past seemed to matter less and less with each
passing, blood-thirsty year: thus it had come to pass that the heirs of
Minas Tirith and of Edoras united their forces, defeating the Southrons
trying to breach the least defended borders of Gondor.
