Darkness Descending The dirt, grime and blood smeared from the arduous trek under the caves of
Moria had been scoured clean from his body and his sandy beard was neatly
trimmed. Dressed in the soft tunic that had been given to him, Boromir once
more looked every inch of the tall, proud Lord of Gondor that he was.
However, his features were creased with restlessness and his posture that of
someone who would rather be anywhere but where he was now.
"And I have an aversion to this Galadriel. I do not trust her. She is no
better than a hedge-witch, grasping her pitiful glamours about her." Boromir
continued with low harshness but his voice betrayed a slight note of
agitation as he remembered with perturbed clarity, the consideration of her
pale eyes as they touched upon him when the Company was bought forth before her.
A pitiless look it was, scorching through every corner of his soul, seizing
his every strengths without leniency, as well as weaknesses that he did not
even know had existed within himself and allowing no secrets to be shrouded
from her knowledge. His mind was filled with troubled forebodings, fearing
that she had seen the existence of things he would rather hold back from the
light.
Aragorn's head snapped up and his dark eyes were filled with warning and
admonition. It was imprudent to speak ill of Galadriel within her own
dominion, he wanted to tell Boromir that. But before he could, a squat,
short figure sprang to his feet to defend the White Lady's good name and he
was the most unlikely candidate possible for the gulf of enmity between the
Dwarven and Elven races ran deep and far-reaching.
His beard fairly bristling with suppressed wrath, Gimli growled powerfully,
"Speak not so of the Lady Galadriel, friend Boromir. Do it once more and I
will make sure there will never be a third time." Instinctively he groped
around for his axe, only to remember belatedly that he had given his weapons
to the whey-faced Elf-captain, Haldir, for keeping.
Clutching eagerly for a chance to vent his confined frustrations, Boromir's
eyes gleamed with anticipation. "I would see you try, friend Gimli." Placing
a particular emphasis on the second last word, his meaning was clear and
pointed. He needed no sword to fight; bare fists would do just as well.
Gimli advanced a step forward, his nose twitching as if smelling blood shed
already.
"Peace." Aragorn said. He did not raise his voice, but it carried forth
across, plain and severe, and that one word stopped the Dwarf and Man in
their tracks as effectively as a whip lashed between them. "Both of you. Sit
down. You will wake the others." He glanced briefly towards the four bundles
lying snug and cosy in their bed couches a short distance away.
Perhaps it was due to the earth-loving nature of the hobbits that the
Galadhrim would know of, and so it happened the Fellowship had found their
shelter was an austere pavilion, nestled within the mammoth roots of a
mallorn tree, situated near a modest fountain where the waters cascaded
clear and pleasant.
Delighted with the proximity to the ground, the hobbits had no worries of
sliding into slumber. And even though the rim of the sun could still be
spied upon the horizon, the hobbits were wrapped secure within their
blankets, fast asleep, for they had yet to shake off completely the rigours
of their journey as easily as their other companions. Only the top of their
heads could be gleaned; four differing shades altogether, russet, brown,
raven-black and flaxen.
Merry and Pippin were both snoring lightly while Sam, even in sleep, was
positioned next to Frodo, as close as he could be without crowding the
latter's space and air.
Boromir and Gimli exchanged terse looks and both did as Aragorn asked,
sitting down in one accord, looking sheepish and awkward now that their
evanescent mutual rage had passed.
After a while, Boromir muttered with obvious difficulty, "I am not myself, I
am...I am sorry, Gimli."
Gimli shrugged his hefty shoulders but he accepted Boromir's apology with a
curt nod. He knew the haughty nature of the man by now and how it had cost
him to admit his fault.
"We should know better than to war amongst ourselves." Aragorn rebuked with
some sharpness. Then he relented. "Gandalf's loss still weighs greatly upon
our hearts. The hour is late, we are all of us tired in body and weary in
spirit. Get some sleep, Boromir, and you as well Gimli."
Boromir nodded reluctantly while Gimli grunted his assent. As both prepared
to retire to their respective resting niches, Aragorn turned to the last
member of their Company to say gently, "I know Elves are of a hardier
disposition than either Men or Dwarves but you should rest awhile, Legolas.
No mischief would befall so long as we sojourn under the haven of Lord
Celeborn and his Lady...Legolas?"
The one Aragorn was addressing was sitting a little away from the others,
near the fountain, and his eyes were pensive and withdrawn as he stared
unseeing at the landscape that was laid before his line of sight.
The view before him was astounding in its dazzling glory. The sky was
painted thickly with swirls of rich reds and crimsons, melded with fiery
oranges, streaked with blue, as the sun descended gradually beyond the brim
of the cessation of Middle-Earth. The leaves of the huge trees around them
glowed a glossy dark jade-green in the coming darkness with dancing silver
sparks profusely illuminating within the crowns.
Rivendell was bewitching grace and elegance personified in alabaster and
wood and so did Lórien had its own brand of beauty, with its widespread
territories of imposing woodlands. Yet, Rivendell was considered relatively
new-made in history while Lórien had endured since the beginning of this
world and it had become an arcane secret unto itself.
However, Legolas was not dwelling about the intrinsic nature of the place he
was in. Sitting quietly by himself, he seemed as isolated as a distant star,
drawing his solitariness, not from arrogance or sense of detached
superiority but which stemmed from deep reflection.
As Aragorn said his name again, he blinked once and animation returned to
his inert features.
"Ah, I am sorry, Aragorn. I did not mean to disregard you." he said.
The Ranger could not resist a small jest at that, his eyes lightening with
unusual mirth. "Your thoughts must have been sober indeed if you didn't
catch my words. For did you not once say that Elven ears, and yours
especially, were as sharp as a hunting cat?"
"Sharper." Legolas clarified, grinning.
"His thoughts are far from here because perhaps he is remembering that
little Elf maid we saw earlier." Gimli leered good-naturedly as he overheard
their conversation, his eyes nearly closing shut to slits as he smirked
widely. "I think she has a glad eye for our Mr Elf." He guffawed with
immense amusement, his chest rumbling deep with the force of his laughter.
"It is not she, the maiden Vardalhugien, that fills my thoughts." Legolas
answered calmly but with a faint trace of resigned irritation. "And I would
thank you not to address me as...Mr Elf."
Gimli ignored the second part of the sentence to pounce. "Oho, so you admit
then that you were thinking of someone. Another Elf maid? Whatever this wood
lacks, it certainly has plenty of those here. Too pale and tall for my
relish, give me a Dwarven lass with a lusty boso...," he coughed here before
continuing, "lusty singing voice any day. Still I expect pale, skinny and
tall suits your tastes, eh? Mr Elf?" He winked affably.
Legolas sighed silently. He had been called worse things but he could not
think of any at this moment. He was not sure really which he preferred, the
initially sullen Dwarf companion, suspicious of the Elf's every move and
thus reticent in conversation, or this current Gimli, unexpectedly chatty
and garrulous as a babbling brook. Partly, he suspected this new-found
amicability and lack of wariness rose from being within the confines of
Lothlórien, its calming influence affecting all who came under its
protection and also because Gimli had impulsively and grudgingly half fallen
in love with the Lady Galadriel.
"So, if not here, someone in your own homeland of Mirkwood who has tickled
your fancy?" Dwarves, if nothing else, were famed for their tenacity of
disposition. "Or perhaps even in Rivendell itself?"
An infinitesimal grimace crossed Legolas's features at the mention of
Imladris. Though he did not regard Gimli with as much antagonism as he had
during the beginning of their association and as it was, he had developed a
reluctant admiration for the other's fighting prowess and bravery shown
since their journey together. All the same, he was not on such friendly
terms with the Dwarf yet that he could disclose what was nearest and dearest
to his heart.
Seeing an opportunity to play Gimli's own words back, Legolas schooled an
expression of solemnity. "The Lady Galadriel is tall, lissom and very fair,
like the first snowfall of winter." he murmured with an air of innocent
nonchalance. It was well known by now, amidst themselves, the force of
Gimli's feelings.
At the mention of Galadriel, Gimli turned red, or at least whatever skin
that could be seen underneath his barrage of facial hair seemed to blush a
rosy crimson, then he blanched chalky with irate discomfiture.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then he shut it, only to open it again.
On his fourth try, articulation became possible and he spoke slowly but with
no faltering.
"Before its destruction, I had chance to journey forth from Erebor to Moria
a long time awhile when my beard was unbraided still and there, beneath the
innermost caverns of Khazad-dûm, I saw a stream of true silver coursing
through a vein within a rock, giving light where there was none. Mithril it
was, in its purest untouched form, and I thought then I would never lay eyes
on anything as wondrous fair and perfect as that lustrous rivulet. But I
know now that I have thought wrongly for I have gazed upon the Lady of
Golden Wood. And though her beauty is great, her gallantry and graciousness
of nature is far greater yet."
They were straightforward, gruff words of esteem and reverence and all who
heard Gimli speak fell quiet when he finished. Uncomfortable with baring his
soul so openly in front of others, Gimli glowered challengingly, daring
anyone to object to his regard for the Elven Lady.
A smile broke through Aragorn's normally grave mien, making him seemed
almost as youthful in appearance as Legolas and no less princely. It was not
a smile of derision, but which came from agreement. Legolas nodded as well,
regretting that he had baited the Dwarf for he knew how hard it was to love
another so intensely and absolutely, especially one that was far beyond and
seemingly unreachable.
Boromir merely bowed his head slightly, tawny golden hair falling across his
cheekbones, as if in deep contemplation.
"You love wisely which is more than others have done and I honour you for
it." Aragorn only said.
Perceiving that no one had any intentions to disparage him, Gimli recovered
his good humour in an instant, covering his momentary awkwardness with his
usual quicksilver brashness of character.
"And to those who do not love wisely, they have only your scorn to bear?"
Boromir said with suddenness, his head inclined so that shadows obscured his
features as he rested his hands upon his bent knees. His voice held an odd
uneven note, of which hostility and bitterness can be discerned. "Is that
your meaning, Ranger?"
Legolas darted a fierce glance at Boromir, irked at the implied insult and
denial of his friend's rightful status, but it was Aragorn himself who took
no offence.
"You have mistaken my intentions Boromir." he explained with quiet assurance.
"Have I?" Still Boromir would not look full upon Aragorn's face and his
posture was rigidly fixed while his hands were clenched tight into fists.
However, no one seemed to have noticed this small, insignificant display of
barely controlled tension.
No one except for the Elf whose sight was piercing, even in dusky twilight.
And he wondered about it briefly for Aragorn was his steadfast comrade of
many years and he did not wish harm to befall him. And well he thought he
knew of Boromir's resentment towards the only surviving scion of Isildur,
thinking that Aragorn schemed to take the place of his father, the old
Steward of Gondor, while nothing could be further from the truth. Aragorn
had no inclination whatsoever to reclaim his inheritance by violent force.
Before Aragorn could answer, Boromir cut in with a short abrasive laugh that
contained no amusement and said, with something very close to a sneer upon
that rough-hewn, handsome face of his: "I supposed it was very wise to have
acquired the affections of the legendary Evenstar. I hear she is very
beautiful...even for an Elf."
Legolas half sprang to his feet at that, his face heated with swift anger
but Aragorn held up a hand, halting him as he had previously done so at the
Council in Rivendell. Then he spoke.
"Say what you wish of me, Boromir, I do not care. But speak thus of Arwen in
front of me another time and you will find that I am not as forbearing as
Gimli here." Aragorn said, expressionlessly enough, but the grim deadness of
his tone carried a far greater sense of actual menace than loudly expressed
anger ever could.
Boromir raised his eyes finally and the two men locked gazes for a moment
that turned into a small forever. In the end, it was the former whose cheeks
flushed red with anger or maybe it was shame and he remained silent.
A strange thing happened next. Although he did not apologise to Aragorn for
his words as he did for Gimli, Boromir's arm rose and with brittle hesitancy
reached out, fingers stretched open in a beseeching manner almost, as if it
would hurt unbearably to touch but unable to control the impulse, towards
Aragorn.
Aragorn's features were carefully inscrutable...then he deliberately turned
his head away in another direction, and this time it was he who refused to
look upon Boromir.
The hand faltered and slowly fell in a defeated gesture to the side once
more, fingers clenched back into a fist again.
So it was, in the aftermath of this irrelevant occurrence and yet had the
disconcerting perception lingering behind that an event of significance had
come and gone in the paperthin breath of a whisper, that Legolas glimpsed
something which astonished and stunned him in parts. Revelation, unwanted
but bestowed nevertheless, descended upon him like dry lightning on a
cloudless night.
For when Aragorn had looked away from him, an expression of resentment
crossed over Boromir's face as he watched the other man but within the
fractures of his antagonism, there were also hues of self-loathing and
distinct unhappiness carved and imprinted with cruel lucidity. However,
those responses would not have been so startling by themselves alone, had
not desire, painful in its vehement rawness to behold, also been reflected
unmistakably there on his countenance.
Desire. Of all things Legolas would have expected to stumble onto, that was
the last and furthest.
The notion that Boromir would harbour feelings of love was less
comprehensible to Legolas who was better equipped to comprehend antipathy in
Boromir towards Aragorn. But it had been laid bare before his eyes, which he
was sure had not deceived him, with acute simplicity, such defenceless and
powerful yearning resonating from Boromir.
Meanwhile, Boromir had realised that Legolas's gaze was intent upon him and
instantly he regained immediate self-control over the confliction he had
unthinkingly betrayed, his face smoothing over with the effortlessness of
long practice.
But not before Legolas had perceived the sudden hot flare of humiliation
which flickered in his eyes and the accompanying panic of having one's
intimate secrets exposed.
Standing up abruptly, Boromir strode out of their shelter without a word,
into the forest that surrounded them and his form was soon lost as the trees
hid him from view.
Legolas stood up as well, thinking of going after the man though knowing
pretended ignorance would be best but his sympathy and perturbation
outweighed prudence. He felt something very akin to compassion and to his
own surprise, even concern, for Boromir.
His worry stemmed from his understanding that Aragorn would never
consciously deceive the Lady Arwen. Not ever. The Ranger's own persistent
anxiety of taint that came from inheriting Isildur's blood had made him
believed more strongly than any others, of the need to prove worthy and
capable of loyal duty and vigilant faithfulness. Not only to himself, not
only in oaths and fealties to his friends, but in matters of the heart as well.
Not knowing what he would say or do if he caught up with Boromir but feeling
he had to do something, he took a step forward before Gimli's voice stopped
him and the Dwarf spoke quietly so that Aragorn would not hear.
"He hates because he loves, and he hates more since he cannot have," was
what he said, "leave him be."
So, Gimli knew of Boromir's feelings as well. Legolas was less surprised at
this new discovery because perhaps the Dwarf's own hopeless infatuation for
Galadriel had given him insight into Boromir's heart. However, unlike
Boromir, the Dwarf was happier as he felt no despair in honouring that same
love he had for someone he could never possess wholly.
"If the hate grows? I can sense it festering within. What if he does not
have the strength to expunge it from his soul and it devours him in the
end?" Legolas wanted to know.
"It is not for us to interfere." Gimli shrugged, his eyes beneath his thick
eyebrows, at once wise, sad and uncompromising. "Leave him be," he repeated
and Legolas heeded his advice, grieved for Boromir but aware that Gimli had
been honest.
Around them, night came on as the burning sky faded to black and the forest
glowed soft silver and dreamlike. The hobbits slept on, undisturbed.
Sitting down, Legolas closed his eyes but did not sleep and thought long of
Elrond Half-Elven.
The end
by Dûncristiel
mislike these woods. It would be unwise to tarry here long." Boromir
insisted, frowning with uneasy frustration, pacing the earthen ground of
their temporary quarters for the fifth time. His heavy boots stepped upon
the fallen leaves with a dead crunching sound as he walked in increasingly
tighter circles, drawing gradually within himself.
