The King's Braid
by
Little Gem
Chapter One
"My Lord, I have grave tidings," said Marin. "More rumours of unrest
in the city have reached me, and I fear that this disturbance may
escalate into something more dangerous."
"Your words grieve me," replied Aragorn. "I see no reason for the
people of Minas Tirith to be unhappy, especially in this time of
release from such a terrible evil."
"These people are believed to be those who were staunch supporters of
the Lord Denethor before he died," continued Marin. "It is said that
they share his views on your claim to the throne, making it out to be
false, and you a usurper."
Aragorn sighed. He knew he could not please everyone all of the
time, but he had thought his claim to the kingship had been accepted
by everyone. His relationship with Boromir added an extra dimension
to the problem. Although Boromir was the son of Denethor, the
rumours also said that he was accused of siding with Aragorn, when he
should have been upholding his father's views. Indeed, previously to
the quest to destroy the Ring, Boromir had shared his father's
opinions on the resurrection of the Kings of old and Aragorn's claim
to the throne. But his experiences on his journey from Rivendell to
Minas Tirith, and his new found relationship with Aragorn had shown
him that these opinions were wrong, and he now supported and believed
in Aragorn wholeheartedly.
Aragorn thought of all these things as he entered his study. But he
wished to escape these thoughts, and there was only one person who
could help him with that. Boromir sat at his desk by the window, his
back to the door, absorbed in a military report. Compared to
Aragorn's rich court attire, he was simply dressed in breeches and a
loose shirt, and his hair hung down his back in a style known as the
King's Braid. Seeing this, Aragorn's face twisted into something
that was halfway between a smile and a grimace. Boromir had let his
hair grow longer at Aragorn's request. But in order to keep it out
of his face while he worked, he often tied it back. Aragorn,
however, preferred it to hang loose, and often said so.
Crossing the room, Aragorn gave Boromir's braid a short tug by way of
a greeting. Boromir mumbled something that sounded like a reply.
Another twenty or thirty seconds passed, and then Boromir flung the
paper he had been perusing on to a pile at one end of his
desk. "Finished!" he declared. Looking up, he noticed the half-
scowl on Aragorn's face. "What troubles you?" he asked, concerned.
Aragorn gave the braid another tug by way of an explanation,
elaborating with the words: "it seems you have failed to abide by
your King's wishes yet again."
Boromir laughed. "You know I would do anything to please you, my
Lord," he replied. "But if you wish such dull reports to be read
thoroughly, then I must have as few distractions as possible."
Aragorn grinned ruefully. "Ah well," he sighed. "At least it makes
you easier to control." He demonstrated his point by laying hold of
the braid once again, and pulling Boromir's head back, allowing
Aragorn to lean in and kiss him.
The kiss went on for some time, but when the two men finally drew
apart, Boromir could see that Aragorn still looked worn and
preoccupied. "Be serious now, my love," he said. "You are
troubled. Will you not tell me what is the matter?"
Aragorn sighed again. "It is the same problem," he admitted
unhappily. "More rumours of unrest have reached me." He hated
telling Boromir these problems. If they had just pertained to him,
Aragorn wouldn't have minded. But Boromir was also a factor. He had
not seemed affected by the rumours when Aragorn had first told him of
them, but Aragorn knew that Boromir was upset by the situation and,
in some small way, believed himself responsible for the disturbances
affecting the city of Minas Tirith. It was nonsense of course, and
for Aragorn it made the situation a lot worse.
Boromir rose from his chair, and walked over to Aragorn, who had
moved to the other window to gaze out at the city. He placed a hand
on Aragorn's shoulder, drawing him into an embrace. "Do not worry,"
he whispered softly. "You will solve this problem—you always do.
I have the utmost confidence that whatever needs to be done, you will
do it."
Chapter Two
Two weeks passed. The anniversary of the destruction of the Ring was
fast approaching. Although the celebrations had more or less been
continuous ever since the great event itself, the city of Minas
Tirith was preparing to mark the day in style. An air of excitement
hung in the air. Everyone from the lowliest errand boy right up to
the King was affected by it.
Aragorn smiled as he stood looking out of his study window. He could
see a group of children in the sixth level of the city from his
vantage-point. The party was the next day, and the children were
hanging brightly coloured streamers everywhere they could reach. The
whole city was awash with colour, and alive with sounds of laughter
and hurrying feet.
Aragorn's reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. He turned
away from the window, frowning. He was expecting Boromir back from
an inspection of the stables any minute, but the Steward wouldn't
knock at the door of his own study. "Come," he said. The door
opened, and Marin entered. "You have news?" Aragorn asked, seeing
look on his councillor's face.
"I do, My Lord," replied Marin gravely. "It concerns the matter we
have spoken of several times in the past few weeks. Your Majesty,
the disturbances amongst the population of the city are increasing.
There is no open violence as yet, but only last night three fires
were set in different areas of the city. One almost killed a family,
but they were saved by the city guard. No one has yet claimed
responsibility for them, but it is believed that they were caused by
the same people who have been speaking out against you."
Aragorn was horrified. "How many of these people are there?" he
asked.
"Only a small number, we believe," said Marin. "And we also believe
that they are confined to the city. However, we fear that they may
have allies outside of Gondor. Several people have left the city
over the past few weeks saying that they were taking messages or
goods to other parts of the kingdom, but they have not returned. It
is feared that they have in fact gone to Harad, and are in league
with the Southrons."
Aragorn cursed silently, and then turned to Marin. "Clearly this
situation cannot continue," he said. "We are on the eve of the first
anniversary of our greatest triumph, and I will not let the
celebration be spoiled, nor the people of my city live in fear for
their lives."
"Your Majesty must be seen to be combating the problem," said
Marin. "These disturbances are not invisible to your people. You
must reassure them."
Aragorn thought for a moment. "I will address the city tomorrow,
during the festivities," he said. "I will reassure my people, and at
the same time let those who speak out against the King know that such
treason will not be tolerated. Meanwhile, I shall tell Boromir of
this matter. This problem concerns him, and as Steward I would have
him investigate discreetly to see what he can find out about these
people who oppose me." However, when he looked up at Marin, he
perceived that his senior councillor wore an uncomfortable expression.
"There is something more, of which I have not yet said anything My
Lord," said Marin. "It concerns the Lord Boromir. Rumours of
threats made against him have also reached me over the past few
days. They are not made outright," he added hastily. "But your
relationship with the Steward is common knowledge. It would be
foolish to make threats directly against the King, and so harming the
Lord Boromir is seen as the best way to show you that your opposers
are serious. And it is well known that these people also see Boromir
as betraying the memory of his father by so strongly supporting you."
"And putting him in charge of an investigation would only increase
the animosity towards him," finished Aragorn. He sighed. "You are
right, Marin," he said. "Very well. I am putting you in charge of
the investigation. You may go, but please keep me informed of any
further developments."
Marin bowed and withdrew. Aragorn resumed his position by the
window, but the children in the street below no longer cheered him.
He knew he should be thinking about how to address the city on the
morrow, but his mind was fully occupied with the quandary he now
found himself in—whether to tell Boromir of the threats made
against him. On the one hand, he had a right to know. However,
Aragorn knew that telling him would just accentuate Boromir's already
unnecessary feelings of guilt about the whole situation. He would
then demand to lead the investigation, wanting to protect Aragorn but
putting himself in danger. And Aragorn knew he would never allow
that. Boromir meant everything to him.
It was growing dark in the room by the time Aragorn had made his
choice. He would have to tell Boromir about the fires and the threat
to the people of the city—doubtless the Steward already knew about
them anyway—but he would not tell him about the threats against
himself. Aragorn could not bear the thought of something happening
to him. Guilt at keeping such a secret from Boromir gnawed at his
insides, but Aragorn thrust it aside. He had made his decision.
Chapter Three
Aragorn stood on the temporary dais that had been erected outside the
city walls and surveyed the crowd. There was nowhere in Minas Tirith
big enough for the whole population to congregate, so the anniversary
festivities were taking place on the Pelennor.
Boromir stood next to Aragorn, offering silent yet comforting
support. His hair was pulled back into its customary braid, and
Aragorn's fingers itched to untie the fastening that held it in place
and let it fall forward about Boromir's face. That, however, would
have to wait until later. Right now he had address the crowd that
stood expectantly in front of him.
"People of Minas Tirith, today we celebrate the anniversary of our
deliverance. It has been one year exactly since the destruction of
the One Ring and the defeat of Sauron." Cheers rang out across the
plain. "On that day Gondor faced its greatest threat, and emerged
victorious. However, there are two people without whose assistance
we would now very probably be in the thrall of the Dark Lord. I
speak, of course, of the Halflings. Please raise your glasses to
Frodo and Samwise, the saviours of Middle-earth."
"Frodo and Samwise," roared the crowd, accompanied by the sound of
clinking glasses. All now thought that the King had finished his
speech, and the festivities could begin again. Aragorn, however,
remained standing, and the crowd quickly quietened down as they
perceived he had more to say.
"It saddens me, on this day of happiness and rejoicing, to have to
speak to you of such a serious matter," announced Aragorn. "But
speak I must. No doubt you have heard of the fires that have
endangered people's lives over the past few nights. Our thoughts and
aid go out to those affected by these events. I must now say that
these fires were caused by people who wish Gondor and her King ill.
Some of you may have heard rumours that there are those who do not
wish to be ruled by me. They uphold the views of the late Lord
Denethor, and do not believe that a King has the right to reclaim the
throne." Aragorn felt Boromir stiffen slightly beside him. "I will
say only this," he continued. "These people will be discovered, and
any alliances they have made with outsiders will be swiftly quelled.
Such opposition will not be tolerated, and it will be stopped."
Having now finished, Aragorn sank down into his seat. The crowd
instantly broke into excited chatter. Aragorn knew they were
speaking of what he had just said, but he ignored them, turning
instead to Boromir. "I am sorry I had to bring up your father," he
apologised.
"Do not trouble yourself, dearest," replied Boromir. "It is not you
I am angry at, it is him. Even after all this time, I still cannot
believe how strongly he opposed your claim... even though I once shared
his views," he finished, with a wry smile.
Aragorn smiled back. Then his sighed. "Is it right for a King to
feel so exhausted after addressing his subjects?" he joked.
"No, you must be getting old," said Boromir. Then, before Aragorn
could retaliate, he continued on a more serious note. "I was proud
of you today, Aragorn. You showed your people why a King should be
ruling Gondor, and not a Steward. I have faith that you will be able
to solve this problem, and from that your reign will emerge stronger
than ever."
"Thank you, Boromir," murmured Aragorn. Guilt at the secret he was
keeping from Boromir rose up again in his heart, but he pushed it
down, choosing instead to answer Boromir's previous remark. "And
what do you mean I'm getting old?" he protested. "I could best you
in any challenge you'd care to set!"
Boromir smiled cheekily. "Would you like to prove that?" he asked, a
wicked glint in his eye.
"What did you have in mind?" inquired Aragorn, with a twinkle of his
own.
Boromir stood up and addressed Aragorn formally. "My Lord, I believe
you have made sufficient appearance before your people for the day.
There are more pressing demands on your time that must be addressed."
"Your advice is noted and accepted," replied Aragorn. He stood also,
and the two men made their way back up into the city. By the time
they had reached the palace, Aragorn itchy fingers had had their way,
and Boromir's hair flowed freely over his shoulders.
Chapter Four
Aragorn stretched and rolled over. Still half-asleep, he frowned.
He shouldn't have been able to roll over. There should have been
another body in the way. Opening his eyes, Aragorn looked blearily
at the empty space where Boromir should have been lying. Where was
he? The sheets on that side of the bed were cold, so Aragorn deduced
he must have been gone some while. Groaning, Aragorn realised it
must be late. This fact was confirmed by the fact that the sun was
not streaming through the window, which it would have been had it
been the traditional time to wake up, since the window of the bedroom
faced due east. As Aragorn stretched again, the rustle of paper
caught his attention. It was then that he noticed that Boromir had
left a note for him on his pillow.
'Morning sleepyhead! Or should that be afternoon? Have gone to
inspect the aftermath of yesterday's celebrations. Will be back in
time for lunch, if you can be bothered to rouse yourself for such an
insignificant act as eating. See you later.
Boromir.'
Smiling wryly, Aragorn climbed out of bed, pulling on a robe and
crossing to the window. As Steward of Gondor, Boromir always seemed
to have something to do, whether it was some kind of inspection,
reading reports, or keeping the army in training. As King, all
Aragorn seemed to do was attend incredibly boring councils, and be a
public figure for the people of his kingdom. Aragorn knew he was
much more than that, but the fact that Boromir had managed to rise at
a respectable hour, even after last night's activities, made Aragorn
feel a tiny bit guilty that he hadn't got up also and helped.
It was still at least an hour until lunch. Aragorn pulled on some
clothes and went down the hall to his and Boromir's study. He had
some correspondence from his official in Amroth that needed
answering. However, when he sat down at his desk, he noticed that a
new letter had appeared on his pile of paperwork. Thinking it was
another note from Boromir, Aragorn unfolded it, smiling and wondering
what new insults Boromir had thought up to make him feel even more
guilty about sleeping late. However, a quick glance at the note
showed him that it was not from Boromir. The style of writing was
particularly neutral, and as Aragorn perused its contents, he could
see why. This letter was clearly from someone who did not want to be
identified.
'My Liege (And even though it was written down Aragorn could detect
the heavy sarcasm behind the words).
I was very impressed by your oratorical fireworks yesterday. As a
standard 'King's address' they worked very well. However, I feel I
must inform you that they did not inspire my colleagues and I to any
change of heart. I'm afraid our feelings on the subject of your
monarchy are still in opposition to yours. In fact, after
yesterday's little performance, they are even more so. You will no
doubt have heard vague rumours of threats against your Steward and
lover. Well, it seems that it's about time that I made these rumours
a little more solid. My associates and I feel that while the Lord
Boromir is present, the force that the two of you present together is
not conducive to our plans. Therefore, we feel that he should be
disposed of as soon as possible. It would be prudent of you, your
Majesty, to get rid of him as soon as possible, or else we shall be
forced to take more drastic action. And one more thing—do not
mention your reasons to him. We are well aware that if he knew the
true situation, Boromir would insist on staying to protect you, and
we cannot have that. We trust that you will follow our instructions
to the letter, and are eagerly awaiting the result.'
As Aragorn reached the end of the letter, he fell backwards in his
chair, the piece of paper dropping from his numb fingers and
fluttering to the floor. One half of his mind was amazed at the
audacity of whoever written the letter, and was also partly wondering
how it gotten into his study. But the other half of his mind, and
the one that was rapidly becoming the strongest, was screaming at him
that Boromir was in danger. Aragorn could not seem to rouse himself
to do anything about it, however. He had small doubt that if he did,
the course of action implied by the letter would be carried out.
Aragorn was startled out of his misery by a tap on the door. Leaping
out his chair he scooped up the letter from the floor, crumpling it
into his pocket even as he called out "Enter" in none too steady a
voice. Marin came in, and Aragorn felt an immediate, if slight,
sense of relief. After Boromir, Marin was his most trusted advisor,
and if ever Aragorn needed advice it was now.
Marin, in turn, noticed immediately that something was amiss. "My
Lord, what is wrong?" he asked quickly.
Aragorn explained everything, showing Marin the letter to drive home
the full force of the situation. "Please help me, Marin," he
pleaded, not caring how much desperation he was showing.
Marin paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He looked shocked
at this development, but in reality it was not entirely unexpected to
him. "You are a good and strong King, Aragorn," he began. "But you
have one weak point—and that is Boromir. It is obvious to everyone
who has seen you together, including most of the population of this
city, how much you are in love. And this means that anyone who wants
to threaten you knows that the best way to do it is through Boromir."
"I know what you say is true," replied Aragorn. "But what should I
do?"
Marin knew that Aragorn was clinging on to a forlorn hope that there
would be some way out of the situation, but there was none that he
could see. "It is a hard thing for me to say, your Majesty," he said
slowly. "But you have only one choice that I can see. You must take
the 'advice' of the letter, and send Boromir away. It is the only
way to keep him safe."
Aragorn's shoulders sagged in defeat. "I know," he whispered.
"There is more," continued Marin. "This letter says that you must
not inform Boromir why you are sending him away. However, there is
no mission that you could send him on at this moment that could not
be carried out by a lesser member of your court. Therefore you must
give him a more sufficient reason to leave."
"What are you suggesting?" asked Aragorn.
"There is only one reason powerful enough for you to wish him gone
from Minas Tirith," replied Marin.
"And what is that?" said Aragorn.
"Make him believe you don't love him."
Aragorn's head snapped up. "What?!" he gasped, unable to comprehend
what Marin had just said. "No, I can't do it. I won't do it."
"You must," said Marin steadily. "There is no other way. If Boromir
believes you do not care for him, not only will it seem plausible for
you to be removing him from your sight, but he will want to leave, to
get away from the scene of his... humiliation. You must hurt him,
Aragorn. Hurt him to save him."
Aragorn clutched at the back of a chair for support. The room was
spinning around him and the floor was swaying under his feet. He
couldn't do that to Boromir, no matter how great the danger.
Besides, Boromir would never believe it. But Aragorn knew that he
could. And that he would make Boromir believe it. For he saw that
Marin was right. There was no other way. Boromir's life would be in
great peril if he stayed in Minas Tirith, and the only way to get him
to leave without telling him the truth was to cast him off, tell him
the most important thing in his life was a sham.
"All right," whispered Aragorn.
Marin needed no more answer than that. "I shall send one of your
guards to find Boromir," he said. "I believe he is in the stables."
So saying, he exited to the room, leaving Aragorn to compose himself
for the dreadful task he was about to undertake.
A/N: Okay, so I stole some of the dialogue in this chapter
from 'Moulin Rouge'. It seemed like a good idea at the time...
Chapter Five
Aragorn paced backwards and forwards across the study, waiting for
Boromir. He was terrified he wouldn't be able to pull this off—
that Boromir would know he was lying. But there was a part of him
that wanted to fail, because then he wouldn't have to say those
words. "I don't love you." Even thinking them made Aragorn's gut
wrench. Briefly, he considered just blurting out the whole situation
to Boromir, thereby keeping him in Minas Tirith. But Aragorn knew
that he wouldn't.
The rattling of the doorknob caught his attention, and he looked up
to see Boromir entering the room, shutting the door behind him. At
the sight of him, Aragorn's heart leapt into his throat. Boromir had
obviously come from dealing with a wilful horse in the stables, for
his skin was flushed, and his shirt untucked as if he had hastily put
it back on. And his hair, which must originally have been in its
customary braid, had escaped from its fastening and was falling down
around his face. Boromir's whole person was in disarray, but to
Aragorn he was beautiful, and he had to exert every ounce of
willpower and self-control to keep from taking the Steward into his
arms there and then and kissing him until he had no breath left in
his body.
For a few seconds Aragorn was at a loss for words. But while his
heart was in danger of being overwhelmed, his head took matters into
its own hands and took charge. "Good afternoon," Aragorn heard
himself saying. "Thank you for replying to my summons so promptly."
Boromir looked a little confused at Aragorn's formal tone of voice,
but then obviously decided that this was some sort of game, and he
would play along. "Do not mention it," he replied. "I believe there
was an important matter that you wished to speak to me about." His
lips curled up in a slight smirk, which quickly died when Aragorn did
not return it.
"That is correct," said Aragorn. He tried desperately to think of a
tactful way to open the subject, but no words of inspiration sprang
to his mind. His misery increased ten-fold when he realised he would
have to be painfully blunt. He swallowed, turning away from Boromir
as he did so. He could not let Boromir see how much it cost him to
say the next words. "What I wish to say is... I find I have grown tired
of your presence," he threw back over his shoulder, keeping his voice
as cold as he possibly could.
A confused silence greeted his words. Finally, Boromir
answered. "What?" he whispered, his voice weakened by shock and
disbelief. Another pause. "But you love me," he continued, his
voice barely audible. "How can you say such a thing, even in jest?"
"Love you?" Aragorn let out a hard laugh. "I do not love you. I
may have said the word a few times, but I needed to tell you
something to keep you happy. I do not jest, Boromir, son of
Denethor. You were nothing more than a convenience. Someone to keep
my bed warm. But I am bored of you now. There is not really the
need of a Steward for the kingdom of Gondor. There are plenty of
officials in my court who could do your job just as easily as you."
Aragorn hated himself more with every word he spoke. But he knew he
had to keep up the pretence, and so he had to let Boromir see he was
serious. So turned round to face the other man again, dreading what
he would see.
What he saw in Boromir's face, however, dealt him a blow that was
almost physical in its force. Aragorn had expected to see anger, but
instead utter despair was written across it. Aragorn had never
expected to see someone's heart breaking in front of his very eyes,
but he knew he was seeing it now. Aragorn would have preferred
anger. He would have preferred Boromir to leap across the room and
wrap his hands around his throat. He would have preferred anything
to seeing such defeat. He could see that Boromir was struggling to
hold himself together. He almost succeeded, with the sole exception
of a single tear that trickled down his cheek. At the sight of that,
Aragorn felt his own heart break. Or to be more accurate, shatter
into a thousand pieces. He longed to leap across the room himself,
and gather Boromir into his arms and tell him that the whole thing
was a lie—that it was indeed a horrible jest.
But he couldn't. His body felt numb, and his feet felt glued to the
floor. All Aragorn could do was complete his terrible task and watch
as Boromir's world crashed down around him. "That is all I have to
say," finished Aragorn, the cold and haughty tone of his voice still
in place even though his heart and mind were both protesting
vehemently. "You may go."
Boromir's gaze was directed at the floor. "As you wish," he replied
quietly, although his voice shook slightly. Turning slowly away, he
left the room.
As the door closed behind Boromir, Aragorn's whole body sagged, and
he crumpled slowly to the floor. Tears streamed silently down his
face. Blindly, he reached out his hand, groping for something that
was no longer there. "Boromir," he whispered. "I am sorry."
Chapter Six
Boromir made it precisely ten-and-a-half strides down the hall before
his legs decided they couldn't carry him anymore. In the middle of
the eleventh stride he stumbled, falling against the wall. Leaning
against it for support, he stared sightlessly out of the window
opposite him. He knew he should be feeling some sort of emotion—either raging fury or, perhaps more obviously, howling despair. But
he felt nothing. Nothing at all. There was an empty space inside
him where his heart should have been. It didn't even feel like his
heart had been broken, because if it had, there would have been
pain. It was as if someone had simply clicked their fingers and made
his heart disappear. Someone. Aragorn. Even that thought failed to
ignite any emotion.
Somewhere deep inside himself, Boromir knew that this emptiness was
just a shield for his real emotions. But they were either buried too
deep, or Boromir had far more control over them than he thought,
because there was not a sign of them on either his outside or his
inside.
How long he stood there, Boromir did not know. Afterwards he
reflected that he was lucky that no one had come along at that
moment, for he surely would have been taken to the Houses of Healing
in an instant. He did not even think he had been listening for
sounds inside the room he had just left—either of victory or
pursuit. He had just stood there because he could not think of
anything else to do.
But eventually, and as if automatically, Boromir pushed himself away
from the wall and continued on down the corridor. His thoughts had
taken on an almost mechanical quality—telling him what to do, and
forcing his body to do it. At the moment they were telling him that
he had to obey Aragorn's last command. "You may go." And go he
would. He would leave Minas Tirith. It was obvious that he was not
needed or wanted in the city. In fact he would probably leave Gondor
altogether. There would be nowhere he could go within the kingdom
without rumour and lies following him. But there his thoughts
halted. He had no idea where he would go, or what he would do when
he got there. But for the moment, leaving Minas Tirith was enough.
And for that he would need possessions and provisions.
Boromir's feet led him on down the corridor and around the corner to
his bedchamber. But as soon as he opened the door he knew it had
been a futile exercise. For his chamber was as bare and looked as if
it have never been used. Which, indeed, it almost never had. For
Boromir had spent most of his nights, and some days too, in Aragorn's
chamber, and so all of his things were there. Boromir sighed. He
would have to retrace his steps.
A few moments later, Boromir stood outside the door to Aragorn's
chamber. For a few seconds he listened, trying to detect if anyone
were within. No noise reached his ears, so he tentatively pushed the
door open.
Boromir had been correct in his assumption—the room was empty... of
people. However, instead it was full of signs of life—his life and
Aragorn's. Clothes hurriedly discarded the night before were still
strewn over floor and furniture. A book Boromir had been reading lay
open on the windowsill. Through the door into the dressing room
could be seen a pile of Boromir's clean clothing, brought there by
his valet—it was well-known that Boromir rarely used his own room.
And on the pillows of the bed still lay the note he had left for
Aragorn that morning.
Carelessly, Boromir caught up the note, intending to throw it away.
But unwittingly, he found himself reading it.
'Morning sleepyhead! Or should that be afternoon? Have gone to
inspect the aftermath of yesterday's celebrations. Will be back in
time for lunch, if you can bothered to rouse yourself for such an
insignificant act as eating. See you later.
Boromir.'
With shocking clarity, the full force of what had happened crashed
down on Boromir like the roof had suddenly caved in. Shaking
violently, he sank down on to the bed, still clutching the
note. 'How could it be,' he thought, 'that only a few short hours
ago I could write such a note as this, full of familiarity and
humour, and yet now it means nothing? That lunch will never happen
now. And what care I for the celebrations of Gondor?'
The howling misery that Boromir knew he should have been feeling; had
been subconsciously keeping in check, forced its way to the surface,
and he collapsed face down on to the blankets. A familiar scent
washed over him—that of Aragorn, and to some extent, himself.
Boromir could not help but inhale deeply, and the sweet familiarity
of that smell brought tears to his eyes. He wept then, sobs wracking
his body. He wept for what he had lost and for what he would never
now have. He wept for how foolish he had been, and how deceived he
had been in his lover. For a long while he did not move, and the
bedclothes grew damp from his tears.
A noise outside the door made him draw in his breath sharply. He sat
bolt upright on the bed, hastily wiping away the traces of his
sobbing. It suddenly occurred to him how awful it would be to be
found in such a position, especially if the person who discovered him
was Aragorn. But the noise passed - obviously a servant on an
errand, not intending to enter the King's room at all. However,
Boromir took notice of the warning. He rose from the bed and went
into the dressing room. Pulling a couple of blankets from the
closet, he laid them on the table and proceeded to toss various
belongings on top of them, including the pile of clean clothes,
various other articles from the chest of drawers, and his purse.
Drawing the corners of the blankets together, he made the whole lot
into a bundle.
As he shouldered the bundle, Boromir looked around the dressing room
and then the bedchamber. Both looked a lot barer without his things
strewn about, and for a brief moment he considered what Aragorn would
think when he returned. But those thoughts threatened to overwhelm
him again and so, after one final longing look around he departed the
room.
Boromir knew he would need certain other things before he could leave
Minas Tirith—first and foremost his horse and his weapons, and with
that in mind, he headed for the stables. As he reached a junction in
the corridor, he looked left and noticed a bustle of activity at the
door of his and... no, he corrected himself—it was just Aragorn's now...
study. He suddenly felt certain that something was wrong with
Aragorn, and every fibre of his being screamed at him to go and
help. But instead he resolutely turned to the right, away from the
commotion. He wasn't noticed, and reaching the end of the corridor
he descended the staircase and passed from sight.
Chapter Seven
Aragorn swam back to consciousness. All around him was blackness.
Vague recollections presented him with a selection of sounds—startled gasps, loud calls, and hurrying footsteps. But he couldn't
really remember anything before the comforting darkness that now
surrounded him. He tried to open his eyes, thinking that he might
see something that would aid his memory. However, even that simple
action seemed to take too much effort, and so Aragorn had to content
himself with remaining in the darkness. But now a face floated
there, instantly recognisable against the background mass of his
confusion.
"Boromir," Aragorn murmured, putting a name to the face.
"The Lord Boromir is not here," replied a voice.
At those words, something snapped into place in Aragorn's mind, and
his eyes flew open. "Boromir!" he cried, struggling to sit up. A
restraining hand was placed on his shoulder, pushing him back down.
Turning his head, Aragorn saw that Marin sat by his bedside. There
was a cold, hard look on the councillor's face that slightly confused
Aragorn, but he was in no condition to ponder its meaning. He was
fully occupied with thoughts of Boromir. "What have I done?" he said
miserably.
"What was necessary," replied Marin, and Aragorn now noticed that his
voice had the same steely quality as the expression on his face.
"Marin, what is wrong? What has happened?" asked Aragorn. "Apart
from the obvious, of course," he finished bitterly.
"Wrong? Nothing is wrong, My Liege," said the councillor. "In fact,
you could say that everything has worked out beautifully."
It was with a start that Aragorn noticed the heavy sarcasm place on
the words 'My Liege'. A horrible suspicion sprang to life in his
mind. "What do you mean, everything has worked out beautifully?" he
said.
"I must congratulate you on what seems to have been a superb
performance," Marin continued. "I had my doubts that you would be
able to pull it off. But it seems that you were very convincing. At
least, Boromir appears to have believed you. And by all current
appearances, it seems that you cannot do without him."
"What do you mean?" Aragorn asked again.
"Why, simply that you have been unconscious for two days," said
Marin, with a slight smile. "If this is the effect that his leaving
has on you, then his absence will make my task a lot easier than I
ever imagined."
The suspicion in Aragorn's mind suddenly solidified with startling
clarity. "Then it was you!" he said.
"If by that you mean that it was me who left you that little note,
then you are correct," replied Marin. "As you will no doubt
remember, I expressed my opinion that the Lord Boromir would provide
an extreme hindrance to our plans."
"And what are your plans?" inquired Aragorn grimly. "They must
involve me, otherwise you would got rid of me as well as Boromir, and
by the more drastic means you spoke of in the letter."
"Correct again, your Majesty," said Marin. "You have probably worked
out by now that I am one of those people who uphold the views of the
late Lord Denethor. However, my associates and I could not simply do
away with the King and take over the kingdom, or indeed even the
city. There are far too few of us to make that viable. We have
strong allies, but your supporters would have overthrown us long
before they could ever arrive. Therefore, we decided that the best
way to have things run our way was to do it through you, instead of
against you."
"Through me?" said Aragorn, trying to sit up again, and this time
succeeding. "But you must know that I will never agree to that."
"Oh, but you will," said Marin, with a malicious smile. "We may have
used the more creative option to get rid of your lover, but the more
drastic course of action will always remain in reserve. Boromir may
have left Minas Tirith, but there are enough of us to at least have
him watched and followed constantly. You will follow our
instructions, or your recent performance will have all been in vain."
Aragorn's shoulders sagged, and a wave of misery and defeat rolled
over him. He was cornered. He had no way to know if Marin was
telling the truth about having Boromir spied upon, or if indeed
Boromir was even still alive, but he knew he would not take the
risk. If it were just himself involved, he would have quelled this
rebellion straight away, but he would never put Boromir in danger.
But now there was no one to aid him. Marin's 'creative option' had
been completely successful. It was true that Boromir had presented
an insurmountable obstacle to his plans, and by sending him away,
Aragorn had unwittingly delivered himself into the hands of someone
he had trusted almost as much as the Steward. And he had no way of
knowing who Marin's associates were, and so there was no way he could
eliminate the threat.
"All right," Aragorn said quietly. "Tell me what you want me to do."
Chapter Eight
Aragorn sat straight and tall on his horse, peering ahead into the
gathering darkness. It was nearly time to halt for the night, but up
ahead he thought he could descry a group of twinkling lights nestled
against the side of a hill. The place was familiar to him, and for
the first time in four months he felt a smile twitch at his lips.
Aragorn was on his way north with his entourage to visit Fornost, the
former capital of the North-kingdom that was now being resurrected
and renovated so it could fulfil its function once more. The work
had been going on for eight months now but, with so much to take care
of in Gondor, Aragorn had not been able to visit Fornost in person to
inspect the progress being made. Until now. The most inopportune
time imaginable. But of course it had not been his idea. No, it was
Marin who had made this decision, as he did every other one that
affected the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, and Aragorn's reign over
them as King.
Aragorn knew very well why it was that he was taking this trip now.
Over the past four months the situation in Gondor had become
unbearable. Rumour and confusion abounded amongst the people of that
land. Why, they asked, was Minas Tirith overrun with Southrons?
They were a cruel race, and they did not bring any benefits to the
city as far as the people could see. Indeed, they seemed intent on
making life a miserable as possible, starting fights, stealing, and
generally acting like they owned the place. And the King, instead of
preventing them from coming, actually welcomed them! The change in
their ruler was apparent to everybody. He was a cold and harsh now
as the Southrons he had allied himself with. And the disappearance
of the Lord Boromir had not gone unnoticed either. It was whispered
that he had been disposed of because he was in opposition to the
King's plans. Which, with what seemed like cruel irony to Aragorn,
was not too far from the truth.
And now the King had left, leaving one of his councillors in charge.
Aragorn knew the people would see it as the final betrayal, the King
departing when they were under such oppression from outsiders, even
though he probably would not have done a thing about it. 'And I
wouldn't,' Aragorn thought miserably. 'I wouldn't have been able to
do a thing about it.'
But now, seeing those twinkling lights in the distance, Aragorn felt
something akin to peace wash over him. But it was tinged with
sadness, for Aragorn knew it to be a superficial feeling. Yonder was
a place that he had spent much time in during his wanderings as a
Ranger. The village of Bree. During that time he had wanted nothing
more than to escape from that life and fulfil his destiny to become
King and restore harmony to Middle-earth. And now, ironically, he
desperately wished he could go back to that uncomplicated, if
wearying, life. But he knew that he couldn't, and that his happiness
on seeing this place was limited. He was determined, however, to
preserve the feeling for as long as he could.
Abruptly, Aragorn reigned in his horse. His guard came to a confused
and messy halt around him, all of them eyeing him somewhat
suspiciously. It was clear to Aragorn that the members of his
bodyguard were all in the pay of Marin, but that did not mean they
would not protect him. On the contrary, Marin's plans depended on
him staying alive, at least for the present.
Before long, the sound of hooves from behind warned Aragorn of the
approach of Marin. He smiled again, but this time grimly. He knew
that Marin would not be amused by the delay. He was proved correct
when the councillor's horse broke through the ring of guards and
pulled up right next to Aragorn's mount.
"What is the meaning of this?" he hissed angrily.
Aragorn ignored him, raising his voice to address his whole
entourage. "We will halt there tonight," he announced, pointing
towards Bree. "It is long since many of you slept in proper beds,
and although we are now not far from Fornost, I see no sense in
wasting this opportunity." Aragorn knew that this act of kingship
was fooling nobody—most of the people he was addressing knew that
he was not really the one in charge here. Seeing that Marin was
about to speak he continued, but in a tone of voice that only the
councillor could hear. "I will brook no refusal in this." Aragorn
refused to ask permission. He was determined that for once he would
be the one doing the telling. And he knew that he had won when he
saw Marin shut his mouth and incline his head slightly. However, it
was but a shallow victory, one that would mean little in the long
run.
Half-an-hour later they had reached Bree, the horses had been
stabled, and Aragorn was standing in front of the Prancing Pony
inn. Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold, instantly
struck by the familiarity of the place. However, he could not fail
to notice the cold stares he was getting from some of the customers—
even this far north his reputation was sullied; by yet more agents of
Marin, Aragorn did not doubt. But he did his best to ignore them,
instead gazing around at the interior of the inn. Everything was as
he remembered it—the roaring fire, the crowds of laughing men and
hobbits. Even the landlord Barliman Butterbur hadn't changed a bit.
And, he thought wryly, it seems as if even I am still here. For,
glancing over at the dark corner where he had been wont to sit,
Aragorn perceived that his place had been filled by yet another
scruffy stranger sitting quietly behind his drink, his face
overshadowed by his hood.
Chapter Nine
Boromir sat staring at his pint of ale, contemplating drinking it but
knowing he wouldn't. It was the same every time he came here, but he
had fooled himself into thinking that having it on the table provided
some sort of barrier between himself and the world. Of course, it
was not this that really stopped people talking to him—it was the
fact that they simply never talked to strangers. At least, not the
ones who so obviously did not want to be spoken to. But nonetheless
Boromir felt somewhat at ease here. Here he could preserve his
anonymity—something he would never have been able to do had he
stayed in Gondor, or even in Rohan. Rumour and questions would have
followed him everywhere had he remained in the south. So he had
travelled slowly north, seeking to leave behind all reminders of his
former life.
And he had ended up in Bree. A place he had heard tales of from the
hobbits during the Quest of the Ring. For them a place of dread, but
also a place of hope. For it was here that they had met Strider, a
friend of Gandalf's who had proved a true companion over the
following months, and who had turned out to be Aragorn, heir of
Isildur, and true King of Gondor and Arnor. Boromir knew that he was
only bringing more pain on himself by coming here, but he had found
himself unable to completely sever all links with the past. So he
had come to Bree, although he did not spend all of his time there.
He had taken to wandering the wild, shunning company for most of the
time. Several times he had found himself on the borders of the
Shire, and had been tempted to visit his hobbit friends. But the
thought of telling them of the change in Aragorn always made him turn
away, although doubtless they had heard of his new found cruelty, if
only in rumour.
The lifestyle had taken its toll on him. He had sold his horse for
much needed funds on reaching Bree, so all his wandering had been
done on foot. So whereas before he had been somewhat broad of frame
and sturdily built, he was now leaner and thinner—more like Aragorn
if he had but known. His clothes were worn and frayed, his cloak
patched and dirty from sleeping on the ground. And his hair
straggled over his shoulders, left long not now by the request of a
loved one, but because he simply could not be bothered to do anything
about it. And he had stopped tying it back in a braid as he had been
used to do, preferring to let it hang loose—to hide his face, as he
told himself.
At that moment the door to the inn opened, and a group of people
entered. Boromir did not look up to see who had arrived—doubtless
it was just another group of Breelanders looking for a few pints of
ale and some talk and laughter. He simply wrapped his cloak more
tightly around himself to ward off the cold draught from outside, and
went back to contemplating his glass. So he did not notice the
sudden changes that came over the small tavern; the expressions of
surprise and disdain that appeared on most peoples' faces, the
suddenly flustered manner of the landlord Barliman Butterbur, or even
the almost complete hush that descended at the entrance of this group
of people. The silence lasted for about five seconds before it was
broken.
"Landlord!" The word was rapped out. "His Majesty King Elessar is
travelling to Fornost, and wishes to stay here tonight before
continuing his journey. Have you suitable accommodations?"
Boromir's head snapped up. Surely he couldn't have heard correctly…
could he? But turning to look towards the door, he saw that it was
true. Aragorn was here. At the sight of him, Boromir's breath
caught in his throat. Standing in the firelight, Aragorn looked as
tall and noble as Boromir remembered him. He seemed every inch the
royal leader of Middle-earth. But Boromir could also see that he
looked tired and wan. His face was pale, and Boromir noticed that he
had lost weight. It had only been six months since he had seen him,
but Aragorn was changed. Almost Boromir rose from his seat and went
across to him, wanting to comfort him, to put a smile back on that
grim face. Then with a start, he remembered why it was that he was
sitting here while Aragorn was standing across the room surrounded by
his guards and officials. Abruptly, his face clouded over and he
made as if to turn back to his drink.
But he was too late. As if bored with Butterbur's flustered
ministrations, Aragorn had turned away and was surveying the room.
In that instant his eyes met Boromir's, and Boromir could see that
for a split second they widened with shock and…something else? But
before Boromir had a chance to identify that second emotion, it
disappeared, and the slightly bored, cold stare returned. It was as
if shutters had slammed down behind Aragorn's eyes, blocking off all
emotion from the outside world. Refocusing, Boromir realised that
Marin, the King's senior councillor, had appeared beside Aragorn.
The expression on Marin's face was one of pure malice. The
expression was only there for a flickering second, and then the
councillor's calm, unruffled exterior was back in place, but in that
instant, Boromir saw that something was dreadfully wrong.
A sudden suspicion leaped into his mind. It had no definite form,
but it told him that everything was not as it seemed. The way
Aragorn had immediately clamped down on his emotion as soon as Marin
had appeared suggested that Marin had some sort influence over the
King. Boromir knew that Aragorn had seen Marin as his most trusted
advisor after himself, but the expression on Marin's face seconds
before illustrated that this influence had become something much more
sinister.
From that vague notion, Boromir's mind took a running jump into the
territory of his heart. He knew it was a foolish hope to entertain,
but what if Marin's influence over Aragorn even extended to his
relationship with Boromir? What if everything Aragorn had said to
him at their last meeting was a lie? 'But why?' a voice inside him
whispered. 'What have Marin's plans, whatever they may be, got to do
with you?' But that was the point, Boromir suddenly realised.
Marin's plans didn't have anything to do with him—that was why he
had been gotten out of the way. 'But,' whispered the traitorous
little voice again. 'There are much easier ways to get rid of
someone. Killing them, for instance.' Boromir frowned. That was
right. Surely having him alive made him some sort of threat to
Marin, even if he was at the other end of the kingdom. Unable to
fathom a reason for such a course of action, Boromir sighed.
It was then that he noticed Aragorn being hustled out of the bar by
his guards. His whole thought process had only taken a few seconds,
but Marin had obviously decided that the current situation was
unacceptable. Gone was the chance for Boromir to deduce anything
more from the King and his councillor.
One thing he knew for certain, however, was that he was putting
himself in danger by remaining here. The fact that Marin hadn't
killed him six months ago provided some little reassurance, but
Boromir knew he shouldn't take the risk that the councillor might
suddenly change his mind.
But he knew that he couldn't leave it there. He had to find out what
was going on, and resolve the confusion in his heart once and for
all. And to do that he would have to follow the company to Fornost.
But right at this moment, Boromir knew he needed to concentrate on
staying alive. He rose from his chair, and walked across to the
door. Opening it slightly, he peered out to make sure there were no
nasty surprises waiting for him. Satisfied it was safe, he opened
the door further, and slipped out into the night.
Chapter Ten
Boromir sank down into the shade of some trees. The day was warm,
and he welcomed the momentary coolness. Before him, about half-a-mile distant,
rose the walls of Fornost, capital of the North-kingdom.
They looked newly repaired, and Boromir knew his only way
to enter the city was through the main gates.
He had followed the King's company as closely as he could, but even
though they had travelled at a relatively slow pace, they were still
on horseback, whereas Boromir was walking. Still, he knew their
destination, and it was not imperative that he arrive there
immediately after them. Nevertheless, looking at the walls of
Fornost, Boromir calculated that Aragorn had to have arrived there at
least two days earlier, if not more.
Although he had not been able to afford a horse in order to keep up
with the King and his company, Boromir had invested in some new
clothes before leaving Bree. Having to enter the city by the main
gate meant he wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible, and his
weatherworn apparel of the last few months was not conducive to such
a goal. Such a scruffy stranger would certainly be halted and
questioned, especially if Marin's influence had spread this far
north. So now, although he still wore his old boots and breeches, he
had on a clean shirt, and a new cloak was slung over his shoulders.
He had also bound his hair back again, as he was wont to do when
doing his Steward's duties in Minas Tirith. Instincts honed over the
past few months, told him that letting his hair hang loose would hide
his face, but he knew he had to appear as respectable as possible.
Boromir hoped that as long as he kept his head down and didn't draw
attention to himself, he wouldn't be recognised.
As Boromir drew nearer to the city, he was dismayed to see numerous
people passing in and out of the gate. But these people did not look
like friends of the Reunited Kingdom. Indeed, most of Arnor's allies
this far north were to be found far to the east, on the other side of
the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood, in the settlements of Dale and
Esgaroth. No, these visitors to Fornost looked like Dunlendings from
Dunland to the south. They were an unfriendly race, and resented the
resurrection of the King, much as the Haradrim to the south of Gondor
did. It made Boromir uneasy to think that such men were freely
admitted to the greatest city of the North-kingdom. He had heard
rumours that Minas Tirith was being overrun by Southrons, and his
bile had risen at thinking of such a fair city being dirtied by such
men. But seeing it here, firsthand, Boromir could appreciate just
what changes must have been effected to allow such a thing to
happen. 'Marin's influence must be great indeed... or else Aragorn's
cruelty extends a lot further than his own personal life,' he
thought. But he did not wish to entertain such ideas, so he cast
them aside, concentrating on how to get inside the walls of Fornost.
As it turned out, however, the presence of the Dunlendings aided
Boromir in his task, for many of them had been employed in the city.
As Boromir approached the gate, he could see that the guard there was
made up almost entirely of these northerners, none of whom gave him a
second glance. To them he was just another commoner attracted to
Fornost by opportunity, not the virtually exiled former steward and
lover to the current King.
Once through the gate, Boromir immediately headed for the keep that
towered above every other building. Although it was still in
disrepair, he guessed that, as the heart of Fornost, it was the most
likely place from which to start looking for the King's
accommodation. However, he did not get very far...
"Boromir?!" said a voice full of question and surprise.
Boromir swung around, his hand already on his sword-hilt, cursing
that he had not been more careful to keep out of sight. But when he
saw who it was, his hand dropped back to his side and his face broke
into a smile as he recognised Caern, the overseer and friend that
Aragorn had sent to supervise the rejuvenation of Fornost, so many
months ago.
"Caern!" he said, with relief. "It is good to see you, a friendly
face amongst so many hostile ones."
"Boromir," Caern repeated. "What are you doing here?"
Boromir's face clouded over. "That I cannot tell you," he replied.
"Is it something to do with the King, and his... councillor?" asked
Caern.
The expression on Boromir's face switched to one of surprise, and
then one of rueful relief. "You show an uncanny ability to see into
the hearts and minds of men," he said.
Caern smiled wryly. "There is nothing uncanny about my deduction,"
he said. "I have suffered at the hands of Marin, as have you, it
seems. Boromir, rumours are rife about your sudden disappearance,"
he continued. "That and the changes in King Elessar's method of rule
have combined to make him very unpopular, even here in the north.
But it is not his fault. Marin exerts a very strong influence over
the King. He holds only one card, but it is powerful enough to make
Elessar do his bidding."
"Me," Boromir whispered. Suddenly he understood why Marin had kept
him alive.
"Yes," agreed Caern. "Marin knew that you would be too great an
obstacle to his plans, so he had to get rid of you. But he also knew
that he could use you as a pawn to keep the King under control.
Unless Elessar does what Marin tells him, Marin will have you killed."
Boromir's mind reeled. He had already worked it out for himself, but
hearing the words spoken aloud was like a punch in the gut. "He
should have told me," he murmured. Then he looked up at Caern. "How
do you know all this?" he asked.
"When the King arrived here, I could see immediately that something
was wrong," replied Caern. "He seemed agitated, but at the same time
somehow spiritless—not at all the man I knew in Minas Tirith. So I
went up to his rooms to see if there was any thing I could do... and I
overheard him a conversation between him and Marin. It told me
everything that I... and you... needed to know."
Boromir nodded. "I must get to him," he said grimly. "Marin must be
stopped."
"I agree," said Caern. "And I believe the need is urgent. Marin is
currently using the King to put his plans into action, but soon his
opinion that the monarchy is surplus to requirements will come to the
forefront. Killing the King previously would have put his plans, as
well as himself, in jeopardy. But he now has sufficient allies in
both Fornost and Minas Tirith to support him once Elessar is dead.
Fornost is filling with Dunlendings, as you must have noticed. As
soon as word arrived that the King was coming here, they began to
flood in. Although I was put in charge here by Elessar months ago,
my authority is now nominal at best. It is allies of Marin who
really run Fornost now, and there was nothing I could do to stop this
invasion of outsiders. And they will support him wholeheartedly when
he seizes power. Time is of the essence," he finished, little
guessing just how right he was. "Come, I will take you to their
lodgings."
Chapter Eleven
Aragorn paced backwards and forwards, an activity he seemed to have
been engaged in for a large proportion of the last three days, ever
since he had arrived at Fornost. His agitation was extreme. Seeing
Boromir like that at Bree—so unexpectedly—had shaken him to his
very core. He wanted desperately to believe that he hadn't done
anything to alert Boromir to the fact that something was wrong, but
he knew it was a foolish hope. In that split second when they had
stared at each other across the crowded tavern, Aragorn knew that his
emotions had been written all over his face. He also knew that they
had disappeared the moment he had been aware of Marin's presence
beside him. If that didn't tell Boromir that something was amiss,
then nothing would.
And Aragorn knew that, because of that single second of carelessness
on his part, Boromir was now in certain danger. For he knew that the
other man would come after him, to try and find out what was wrong.
But Aragorn knew that if he did find out, then Marin would not be
pleased.
Aragorn was no fool. He knew that his own life was in danger at
least as much as Boromir's. He was well aware that he was outliving
his usefulness as Marin's pawn, and that soon Marin would have no
more need for him. But Aragorn could take care of himself. It was
Boromir in his ignorance that needed to be kept safe. As much as he
felt that something wasn't right, he had no real idea what he would
get himself into by coming to Fornost.
At that moment, Aragorn heard the door open behind him. Knowing it
would be Marin, come to berate him again for his carelessness, he
turned around slowly, his face wearing a resigned expression. But it
was not the councillor who stood before him. It was Boromir.
Aragorn's first coherent thought was that, seen in daylight instead
of in a dingy tavern, he looked... different. Leaner, muscles more
defined, skin weatherworn. That coupled with his clean, but coarse
shirt, simple green cloak, and worn leather breeches and boots made
him look like a man of the wild—like a Ranger, truth be known. His
only concession to his former life was that his hair was bound up in
a King's braid. Aragorn felt the familiar momentary flash of amused
irritation that Boromir did not let his hair hang loose, but it
disappeared as he suddenly realised the seriousness of the
situation.
However, before Aragorn could say a single word, Boromir held up a
hand to silence him. "I know," he said simply.
Different reactions warred with each other in Aragorn's mind: denial,
pretence, amazement, relief. But he could not seem to express any of
them. In the end he settled for a question. "How?" he asked.
"Caern," replied Boromir. He stared at Aragorn for a few moments,
taking in the shock and pain that contorted his features. "You
should have told me," he finished quietly, his voice filled with
sorrow, and a little rejection.
Aragorn opened his mouth to defend himself, to protest that he had
only been trying to keep Boromir safe, that there was nothing else he
could have done, but the words were cut off by the re-opening of the
door.
"Well, well," said a sardonic voice. "It seems that cruelly
separated lovers have finally been reunited." It was
Marin. "Actually, I'm quite pleased," he continued, giving neither
Aragorn nor Boromir time to respond. "I find that my plans have very
nearly come to fruition, and therefore I no longer have need of
a `King' to hide behind. Your Majesty, I believe your reign is at an
end."
So saying, Marin withdrew a dagger from somewhere within his robes.
Aragorn was unarmed; Boromir's hand immediately went to his sword
hilt. But although he managed unsheathe it, there was no time to
raise his weapon before Marin struck. But not at Aragorn.
Quick as lightning, Marin plunged the dagger deep into Boromir's
chest, withdrawing it again almost as fast. Boromir staggered
backwards, his sword dropping from his hand, a red stain blossoming
on the front of his shirt. Briefly he looked down at the wound, but
then he raised his eyes again. They were filled with confusion, as
if he couldn't quite understand what had happened.
"No!" cried Aragorn. He made to leap across the room towards
Boromir, but his progress was impeded by the sight of a now red
dagger being waved in front of him. All he could do was watch in
horror a Boromir stumbled against the wall, and then slid to the
floor.
Marin tutted. "So sad, watching a loved one die in front of your
very eyes, and not being able to do a thing about it," he said. But
his voice, instead of being sorrowful, was filled with malice. "But
don't worry, My Liege," he continued, addressing Aragorn. "You won't
be parted from him for long." And he laughed—a high, cold, cruel
laugh.
That laugh jerked Aragorn out of his horrified trance. He was
suddenly overcome with rage, like a red fog descending in front of
his eyes. Abruptly, he jumped sideways away from Marin, and snatched
up Boromir's fallen sword from the floor. Without even pausing to
think, he swung back around. There was the clash of metal on metal,
and suddenly Marin's dagger was spinning away through the air, coming
to rest with a clatter in the farthest corner of the room. For a
brief moment, Aragorn stopped to consider how wonderful it felt to
hold a weapon again, how comforting the feel of a sword hilt in his
hand was.
But all that was pushed aside when he raised his eyes to contemplate
Marin. As he did so a grim smile twisted his features. For it was
now the councillor's turn to look shocked and horrified. Plainly he
had not expected Aragorn to possess enough spirit to provoke any sort
of retaliation. He had obviously thought that this final horrific
act would break the King, and make him easy to dispose of. But he
had been wrong. For it was now he who had a weapon pointed at him.
"Well?" asked Aragorn. His voice, although quiet, seethed with rage
and venom.
Marin opened and closed his mouth several times. Aragorn could not
tell if he were trying to say something, or if he was simply gulping
for air. His former bravado was completely gone, and he was now a
shaking wreck.
"Nothing to say?" said Aragorn mockingly. "Oh well, never mind. I
think I've heard quite enough from you anyway." So saying, he
advanced on Marin until the point of his sword was at the other man's
throat.
So intent was he on his revenge that Aragorn had not even noticed
that someone else had entered the room. "Aragorn, no!" cried a
voice. And then a hand was on his arm, forcing him to lower his
weapon. Looking around, Aragorn saw that it was Caern. He struggled
against Caern's restraining hand, wanting desperately to finish the
job, to give Marin exactly what he deserved. "No," repeated
Caern. "Aragorn, you cannot do this."
"And why not?" inquired Aragorn icily.
"Because it is not right," replied Caern. "You cannot kill an
unarmed man in cold blood. You would not be able to live with
yourself afterwards, and you know it. There has been enough
bloodshed," he finished softly.
Aragorn's shoulders sagged. "You are right," he said wearily.
Casting one last loathing look at Marin, he gave up the sword to
Caern, his fury and rage melting away as if by magic. He would have
watched as Caern dealt with Marin, but a sudden, wracking cough from
the other side of the room made him whirl around. "Boromir!" he
cried.
"Boromir!" The cry rent the air. Aragorn sprang across the room, falling to
his knees at Boromir's side. Leaning over, he gathered Boromir up in his arms.
His tunic was instantly stained red, but he didn't notice. "Don't worry, my
love," he whispered. "Everything will be alright." He didn't notice the
sorrowful look Caern gave him or the malicious and triumphant smile on Marin's
lips as the two left the room. His whole focus was on the man in his arms.
Boromir coughed again and then smiled weakly. "We both know that's not the
truth," he replied. "No more lies, no more pretence. Please."
Guilt washed over Aragorn as he realised to what Boromir was referring. "Oh
Boromir, I am so sorry. So sorry." He repeated the phrase over and over like a
mantra.
"Sssh, love. It's alright, I know," interrupted Boromir. "I know you were only
trying to keep me safe, and I thank you for it. I think some part of me always
knew it wasn't true, but I just didn't want to admit it. I was too scared of
being hurt. It was easier to cut myself off, to pretend that I didn't care... "
Boromir was cut off by another wracking cough, and a spasm of pain twisted his
face. When the coughing died, it was replaced by a look of utter weariness. "So
tired," he murmured. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to remain conscious for
a little longer.
"No!" said Aragorn roughly. He held Boromir even tighter to him. "You can't
leave me now, not when we are finally together again. I won't let you."
"Can't... fight... it," replied Boromir. His breathing had become laboured, and the
effort of speaking seemed to visibly weaken him. "Nothing... we can... do." His
eyelids fluttered again, and his gaze seemed unfocused.
Aragorn said nothing, but the tears poured down his cheeks as he looked down at
his lover. There was silence for several minutes. Boromir seemed to be slipping
away, and Aragorn felt a black despair settle over him. However, as he watched,
the look of pain and weariness on Boromir's face was replaced by one of peace,
and seeing that, Aragorn felt something like peace wash over him too, although
the tears continued to fall. He closed his eyes, and sighed, his breath
catching in his throat.
"Don't cry, love," said Boromir suddenly.
Aragorn opened his eyes and looked down at him, noting how pale his skin was,
and the harshness of his breathing. "You may as well tell a hobbit not to eat,"
he replied with a weak smile.
Boromir chuckled. At least, he tried to, but the action quickly turned into
another coughing fit. Aragorn was alarmed to see that a trickle of blood
escaped his lips, but he did not let his fear show, concentrating instead on
soothing Boromir, absentmindedly brushing a few strands of his hair off his
slick skin. But that simple action seemed to momentarily bring Boromir back to
himself. "Take it out," he rasped.
Aragorn was confused. "Take what out?" he asked.
"The cord," Boromir replied simply.
Suddenly Aragorn understood. Boromir meant the cord fastening his hair, most of
which had already escaped its confining braid. Gently Aragorn lifted Boromir's
head, unwinding the cord and tossing it to one side. Then he ran his fingers
through Boromir's damp hair, fanning it out over his shoulders.
"I'm sorry," said Boromir brokenly, turning his head slightly to indicate his
hair. "It was such a stupid thing to argue over."
If the situation hadn't been so serious, Aragorn would have laughed. Instead,
fresh tears sprang into his eyes. "Nonsense," he managed to say. "You were
sensible to keep it as it was. Besides," he continued, smiling cheekily through
his tears. "It was always loose when it really mattered."
Boromir returned the smile until another spasm of pain contorted his face. More
blood fell from his lips, and his breathing grew shallower. Aragorn just sat,
holding him, knowing the end was near, and knowing he could do nothing about it.
He had never felt so helpless.
Then he saw Boromir's lips move once more. He had to lean close to catch the
words.
"Goodbye." No more than the faintest whisper now. "I love you."
"I love you," said whispered Aragorn in return. But he was not certain whether
Boromir heard him or not. He had slipped away, and when he exhaled his last
breath, Aragorn felt as if he would never breathe again either. He had already
had a taste of life without Boromir, and he had felt lost without him.
But now he was gone... forever. And Aragorn didn't know if he would ever find his
way again.
Aragorn stood at the window of his chamber, gazing out over Minas
Tirith and the Pelennor. In the north, the land was already in the
grip of autumn, and around Fornost many of the trees had already
dropped their leaves. But here, in the south, summer still lingered,
and foliage was only showing the slightest hint of gold. The mellow
evening sunlight struck the walls of the city, making them shine like
silver and pearl, as he knew the spire above him was, providing a
beacon to all those returning home after a long journey.
As it had for him.
Minas Tirith was clean now. Even air sparkled with renewal, now that
the vermin that had dirtied it with their very breathing were gone.
It had two weeks to persuade—forcefully—all the Southrons in the
city to leave. And a week in Fornost to eject the Dunlendings. But
Aragorn was grateful for these tasks, for they at least gave him a
solid path to tread. He could not lose himself while he had the well
being of his kingdom to fight for. Even the hurried journey between
the two cities had provided a distraction, his head filled with plans
about what to do about the Haradrim. As well as the numerous stops
at Dunlending settlements to remind them just who their King was.
But now all that was finished. The Reunited Kingdom was no longer
under threat from Marin and his associates. Caern was doing an
admirable job in continuing the resurrection of Fornost, and the King
was back on his throne in Minas Tirith.
Except that he didn't feel like a King. The gaping void inside him
made Aragorn feel like but a hollow shell of his former self. And
this afternoon had brought that home to him with shocking clarity.
For it was on this day that he had to inform his people of his loss…
of their loss.
It was not new to them. Indeed, it had been felt for more than six
months now. But many had believed it was not permanent, that what
had been taken from them would be returned. Aragorn had not looked
forward to telling them otherwise. He knew he would be blamed, and
so he had delayed, not wanting to bring more troubles to his people
after the last ones were so latterly solved.
But they had a right to know. And so he had told them. Told them
that they would not regain their lost sheep. Confessed his own part
in their bereavement. But he had also told them of reconcilement,
and reminded them that their loss was not in vain. And lifting his
face to them, he had expected to see disgust in their eyes. Had
expected to be rejected by them one and all. Instead he had seen
pity and sorrow on every face. And in that moment he had realised
that the emptiness he felt inside him was shared by all. And it had
overwhelmed him.
Sighing, Aragorn turned away from the window. He had fled up here to
his chamber, trying to escape the depth of his pain and the reminder
of it on the face of every single one of his subjects.
And he thought he had succeeded. This room had been tidied and
freshened many times over the past six months. It did not appear as
if even a King lived here, and all traces of its second occupant had
vanished. Or so he had thought.
As he turned into the room, Aragorn's eye was caught by something on
the floor by the bed. All but obscured by the hangings, he would
never have noticed it had not the sunlight been slanting through the
window at exactly the right angle, illuminating a corner that was
normally in shadow.
As he straightened up from retrieving the object, Aragorn was struck
by a shock of painful recognition. Dangling from his fingers was a
piece of cord, once used to control an errant crop of blond hair, now
discarded in a fit of passion. A flood of memories washed over him,
making him feel faint, forcing him to sink on to the bed.
He was powerless to stop them. Images of laughter, comfort and
passion flashed in front of his eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks as
he remembered the happiness he had felt in this room. Happiness
shared with another.
As more and more memories came to him, Aragorn felt a deep pain awake
inside him, one he had been trying to hide from ever since that
fateful day in Fornost. But oddly enough, despair did not accompany
it, as he had expected it would. Instead, he almost felt as if he
was being cleansed.
And, with a flash of insight, he understood why. Running away from
the pain wasn't the way to deal with it, he realised. He had to
accept it, had to let it in.
Flopping back on the bed, Aragorn indulged in the memories, allowing
them to crowd out everything else in his head. Now was the time to
remember. Now was the time to mourn. The piece of cord was twisted
around his fingers, a talisman of the one he had lost.
Boromir.
ragorn pushed open the door to the study he shared with Boromir. It
was almost a year since the destruction of the Ring and his
coronation as King of Gondor and Arnor, but Aragorn didn't think he
ever get used to the boredom that was a result of official council
meetings. Today's was a spectacular example. He had sat at the head
of the table trying not to fall asleep while his councillors debated
a farming dispute over land in Lebennin. He knew he should have paid
more attention—as King it was his duty to see that all his people
were happy. But sometimes it was hard to be interested in something
with which he personally had nothing to do. The only interesting
part of the meeting had come at the end, when Marin, his senior
councillor, had drawn him aside...
