Like a River We're coming, Boromir!
Too far. How had Boromir managed to get so far away in such a short
time? Less than half an hour since they had brought the boats to shore
at Parth Galen. Shorter still since he had noticed both Boromir and
Frodo gone. He had found only Frodo, alone and frightened on the
summit of Amon Hen, and they had each gone to greet their demons. He
to his temptation and Frodo to his fear. Met and conquered them.
Then... the orcs swarming over the rise, the horn sounding through the
forest, a great bull roar calling them to aid him.
They tried.
Merry! Pippin!
A black orc rose in front of Aragorn, looming so fast he seemed to
have sprang out of the ground. He ducked under the blade slashing at
his throat and brought the tip of his sword up, thrusting deep into
the unguarded belly of the beast. It howled and fell, but another
leaped to take its place.
He was aware of Legolas at his side, a blur of green and gray, a
flashing of white-gold hair. The elf danced through the tangle of
orcs, blades humming, leaving a trail of black blood in his wake. He
killed as beautifully as he moved, a song of death among all that iron
and corruption.
... coming!...
The horn again, three short tones. Did they sound more desperate? Even
a little ... afraid? No, Boromir was never afraid. Even when he spied
the cave troll lumbering through the halls of Moria to Balin's tomb,
he had slammed the heavy doors and turned to Aragorn with a wry look.
"They have a cave troll," he said, like he was commenting on the rain.
Just a cave troll? Ah well.
Another orc. Cut him down. Don't stop to make sure he's dead, just
hack through them. Too many for finesse, slash and stab, dirty
fighting. He kicked one in the nether regions. He wasn't even sure
they had parts like proper men but the orc dropped impressively fast.
Acting on pure instinct now. Slam that one's head into the rock, knife
into this one's eye. Another orc grabbed him, squeezing his throat. He
landed a glancing blow on the creature's iron helm as its grip
tightened, his vision fading to gray at the edges. The orc shuddered
as Legolas's arrow went into it and blessedly he could breathe again.
No time. Still too far away, and how many enemies between them? He
tried to shout in a dry throat, could only croak out a name...
"Boromir..."
And then they were racing down the stone steps, Legolas and he, Gimli
close behind, as the next wave of orcs hit them. The trio crashed upon
the orcs like waves on an iron shore, desperately trying to cut a path
through them to reach Boromir and the hobbits.
Aragorn realized that even as he was fighting for his life his ears
were open for the sound of the horn, which did not wind again.
I'm coming!
Fight them. He had something to fight for. Something had grown between
them in Lothlorien. It had been budding from Rivendell to Moria,
slowly at first and not without its thorns, then more smoothly as
they walked deeper and darker paths. Kind recognizes kind, and their
drawing together had seemed natural and good. He already knew what
Boromir was like in war. In love, the man was wholly different; sweet
and unhurried and infinitely tender.
A last night in Lothlorien, the feel of the hot mouth against his,
beard scratchy against his cheek, as they lay under a giant silver
Mallorn and clutched and pulled at each other's clothing. Boromir's
gentle tongue had seemed strange in his mouth at first, then he had
melted under its caress as the fire flowed hot and liquid in his
veins, limbs turned supple to twine around him, to draw him closer.
Ever closer. He could not get enough of him that night.
There was strength in Boromir that matched his own. Different, but
compatible. Not the quicksilver of the elves, nor even the black razor
edge of his own fury when roused. He was like a river flowing under a
mountain, brooding but ever present, quick to change but reliable when
needed. Being with him was like finding a lost part of himself he
never knew was missing.
Like being able to breathe again.
An arrow buzzed past his ear. Legolas pressed and loosed another
almost faster than sight. The silence from the narrow valley below was
terrible. He charged into the knot of orcs blocking his way to Boromir
and lost sight of Legolas and Gimli.
I'm coming, I will come, wait for me!
Fighting to survive now. He was cut off. No help. A blur of iron and
blood and nightmare faces. Drawing upon a lifetime of training just to
keep his head on his shoulders. He never knew how he fought his way
out of the nest of them but he did at last, blood spilling from a
dozen small injuries, sweat in his eyes, but running again. Down the
hill into—finally!—the narrow rive, until he was treading on the
corpses of those slain by Boromir.
...wait for me...
There! He saw him. Boromir. Exhausted and dazed from the gash on his
forehead, sword gone, weaponless, on his knees on the little stone
bridge. The Uruk-Hai loomed above him with its bow bent to drive the
shaft into his heart.
Aragorn shouted incoherently. The creature turned towards the noise,
arrow nocked and bow still pressed...
...and loosed.
The impact cut his legs out from under him, lifted him off his feet
and slammed the ground against his back.
For several seconds he forgot to breathe. He was not sure if he could.
The feathered shaft of the black arrow protruded straight up from his
chest, pointing to a hazy patch of blue gleaming through the
treetops. In his ears there was a high, droning whine, and his vision
refused to clear.
Time seemed to flow around him. He was not aware of Boromir's pitched
battle with the Uruk-Hai, nor his shout of triumph as he killed the
thing. Aragorn's chest rose and fell in a stertorous rhythm, becoming
uneven now, and then a large form swam into focus and Boromir was
crouching over him.
"No," Boromir whispered, long and low, as if the very sound could
change things.
Aragorn smiled. He tried to breathe through the crushing weight on his
chest and tasted blood on his tongue, felt it running back into his
throat.
"I wasn't too late," he said. The world went white for a moment, and
he was aware of Boromir shouting at him. What, he couldn't make out.
Then Boromir's fingers curled around the arrow shaft and he could not
repress a moan as he felt the sharp metal move deep in his lung. Red
agony pulsed through his chest. No man with such a wound lived to tell
of it. His hand flailed at Boromir's.
"Leave it," he gasped.
"We have to get it out of you."
He felt dizzy. Why was the forest spinning? "Where are the hobbits?"
he asked from far away.
"They were taken." And then, unnecessarily. "I will go after them."
Boromir did not touch the arrow again. There was a black doorway
beyond the forest, growing closer. He could see it. A dark, misty arch
looming over the wood, leading off into a wonderful and terrible
mystery. He felt drawn to it, pulled away, and only barely dragged
himself back from the edge. He must tell Boromir ...
"Frodo is gone. Promise me," and then he had to take a breath, though
he paid for it dearly in torment. "Promise me you will not follow
him."
He felt Boromir's hands on his face, thumb caressing his cheekbone. "I
swear it, my king."
Why was Boromir's voice so broken and sad? Footfalls. Dimly he became
aware of Legolas standing behind Boromir. He saw the green colors and
the pale nimbus of hair, but he couldn't find his face. He couldn't
see that far anymore. The doorway beckoned. He thought he saw
something move in there, a tall figure of a man, black-haired, with a
face that mirrored his own.
Boromir came very close and pressed their lips gently together.
Something wet and warm pattered on his face. "Rest now. All will be
well. I swear it."
Aragorn tried to answer, but the doorway swept him away like the River
Anduin and he shouted in joy as his father, Arathorn, embraced him.
kirby crow
un and run and run.
