Mending Broken Hearts "You might find this useful one day," Gandalf had whispered
secretively when he smuggled the box's content into Elessar's palm on
his day of leaving.
Forcing his attention away from the small container, the King looked
around his room indecisively, then walked over to one of the numerous
stained-glass windows and opened it.
Bright sunlight wafted into the room, bringing with it the scents and
sounds of spring.
It was the fifth month of the fourth year of the reign of King
Elessar, and he smiled gently as he heard the voices of children
playing in the lower parts of the city. Elessar was very fond of his
study, high up of one of the towers of his palace, his new home, here
in Minas Tirith.
He often came here when the hustle of court-life and the endless
chatter of politics grated on his nerves, and watching the city below
from his silent study, he almost always managed to rekindle the calm
within him that he had acquired when he had been a mere ranger of the
north.
How long ago that seemed, Elessar mused.
Leaning his elbows on the windowsill, he let the warmth of the early
afternoon's sun caress his face, and though his eyes wandered down
through the city, out over the fields to the ruins of the ancient
capital of Osgiliath, his thoughts always came back to his study and
the little black box on his desk.
For there had been another reason for him to choose these rooms for
himself, a reason that, except maybe the Queen herself, nobody alive
could know.
For this had also been the private study of the late Prince of
Gondor, Boromir the Fair, or Boromir the Tempted, as he was often
called these days. The first and only member of the fellowship of the
ring to have fallen. The man who had given many a worry to the ranger
Strider, another member of that Fellowship.
The man who had died in said ranger's arms.
The one man that ranger had loved with all his heart.
King Elessar sighed and closed his eyes.
True, he had been that ranger. But that was so many years ago by now.
And he had loved that man. In a way, he still did.
But so much had happened since then. So much had changed.
The war had been over for several years now, actually lawn was
beginning to grow in the ruins of Barad-Dur.
He was a married man by now, his first son born not even a year ago.
The Aragorn, ranger of the north, that Boromir had come to know and
love, was no longer.
He was King now, High King Elessar of Gondor, the Elf-stone.
There was no place in his life anymore for such frivolous affections.
Shouldn't be, at last.
A dirty little smile touched the corners of the King's mouth and eyes.
Frivolous, he thought, how true. His eyes were sparkling as he
remembered that one night he had shared with Boromir as his lover,
and the memory as usual did not fail to make his body shiver.
He could almost smell the prince's body close to him, feel the heat
his massive chest had radiated, feel his callused hands all over his
own exposed skin.
He missed Boromir so terribly.
Though there truly was no reason why he shouldn't be utterly happy
with what he had achieved since then.
The country, nay, the world was at peace, his City had been rebuilt
most splendidly, his people prospered.
His wife, the Queen Arwen, was a constant light in his life—beautiful as no mortal wife could be, wise, gentle and caring.
A little too wise and caring, perhaps.
For it had been she who had, one mild spring-night not so long ago,
noticed the growing shadow on her husband's heart.
"My beloved husband," she had said, her voice mellow and deep as
ever. "It is spring, and all the world around you rejoices."
He had turned to her, a questioning look on his face.
"All is well, yet when you feel unwatched, you look as if your heart
were broken."
She softly touched his face, her deep love plainly written on her
lovely face.
"What ails you?"
"I—" he had begun, realising that he had not known what darkened
his lonely hours himself.
"Is it your lost love, once more?" she asked softly, her voice
showing nothing but care, nothing but love.
He had already told her what had happened between him and Boromir on
that fateful night in the forest of Lórien, years ago. That his love
for that fiery-tempered prince had been awakened, and that it had
refused to die when Boromir himself had died in his arms.
He had carried this lost love for many years, and as human emotions
always will, it had grown out of the confines in Elessar's heart
where to it had been exiled.
And now, this love demanded attention.
So, that night, he had merely nodded, grateful for a wife that simply
took him into her arms, holding him, comforting him.
After a long while, though, she said:
"He is dead. Please, Love, let me help you to let him go. As much as
I'd wish for you, there is no way at all to bring back your
brickheaded Gondorian Prince."
She smiled at her use of the affectionate insult Elessar often used
in private when speaking of Boromir, but seeing the utter
astonishment in her husband's face slowly changed her smile into a
questioning frown.
'A gondorian brick...', that expression rang a bell of alarm deep in
the King's mind.
And then he remembered.
'Gondorian bricks are no good to rest your head on, young King, yet
sometimes they are of more use in beds than in graves!' Gandalf had
shouted when he stood at the railing of the ship that would carry him
into the West.
Could he have known? Could he have guessed? All Valar, if he had known!
The shock that the old wizards parting gift might somehow be
connected to Boromir dazzled Elessar.
Boromir was dead! Of what use could that gift be by now?
Curse that wizard, Elessar had thought more than once since that
night. Curse him, and curse the fact that his wisdom had to be paired
with such a quirky kind of humour!
Surely the old fox had intended something with his gift, and even
giving his advise in such a riddled way surely would prove most wise
in the end.
But right now, that insecurity almost drove King Elessar crazy.
What could Gandalf have intended with his cryptic remark?
Had he truly known about the feelings between the King and Boromir?
Or had his riddle about gondorian masonry nothing to do with this,
instead hinting at something concerning the way in which to govern
that country? Or something entirely else?
Damn that cryptic old man!
If Gandalf still were around, he'd probablybe sitting somewhere,
smoking his pipe, watching silently with his eyes sparkling of
subdued mirth.
Damn him!
King Elessar left his place at the window, sighing, pacing though his
study with annoyed insecurity.
During the last days, he had done some research of his own concerning
the content of that ebon box on his desk. The small, ivory-coloured
thing, no bigger than a palm, shaped like a pebble, like an elongated
and flattened egg, had been inscribed with elven runes of the most
obscure and ancient kind. His wife had never before heard of such a
thing, and though she knew the runes to be of the oldest kind, she
could only read a scattered few of them. Even Elessar, who had grown
up among the elves in the house of Elrond at Rivendell, had had to do
some heavy research until the two of them finally unravelled the
meaning of the inscription.
And what they had read only increased his doubts and irritation.
'Woe!' had been the first word they could translate.
'Woe to all those who have broken oath, for bound to serve they are,
and neither distance nor death will keep their Liege from calling
them back!'
What, by the Valar, was that to mean?
Boromir hadn't broken oath, especially not to him, and the
inscription did not really clarify the artefact's intended use.
What had Gandalf thought when he gave this thing to him? Had he
really intended something beyond leaving one last riddle, one last
thing to remember him by?
Damn!
If the thought hadn't been so painfully tempting, Elessar would have
merely shrugged and left that thing in one of the castle's deep
cellars to rot.
But what if?
What if the old fox had known, had seen the distant pain in the eyes
of the newly crowned King?
What if Gandalf had found a way to bring back Elessar's beloved
Prince?
What if?
King Elessar once more leaned himself onto the windowsill, watching
his city.
Spring had been unusually mild this year, and everywhere soft green
leaves graced the white walls of Minas Tirith. The scent of flowers
was in the air, the land beyond the city's walls fresh and green as
far as eyes could see. Bright and gentle, the sun banished all
memories of winterly gloom, and all life was buzzing and humming in
anticipation of a mild and lovely summer.
Even the study of the King seemed to glow with life, the sun casting
tiny spots of coloured light through the stained-glass windows, some
dust-motes glittering in the air like so many minute stars.
Elessar sighed.
Why, surrounded by all this joy and beauty, whydid his heart still
feel so sad and heavy? Why couldn't he rejoice like all the others?
He sighed again.
Why was it that his heart, after all these years, was still bound to
this man? Why had there to be that cold feeling of loss and
loneliness whenever he tried to feel happy and beloved?
He felt ashamed that he could not be a husband as faithful to his
wife in heart as he was in body. She only cared for his well-being,
disregarding her own feelings.
And he couldn't simply ignore the fact that he was a married man,
now, the King of a country with a reputation to protect and
expectations to fulfil.
First of all, he would never dare anything that might hurt his
beloved wife, lovely Arwen who even had urged him to write down his
memories of his time with Boromir, hoping that it would ease his
troubled mind. He had done so, and she never even once had asked to
read any of this.
But then, writing down his emotions had only increased his feeling of
loss, his feeling of being stuck in a cold void, unable to move,
unable to grow.
'Boromir,' Elessar thought to himself. 'Boromir, why'd you have to
go? Leave me here, though you had sworn to be at my side?
Though you had sworn to protect me from harm both in body, heart and
soul?
Elessar's thoughts abruptly stopped.
'Could that be?
Could it be that there truly was an oath Boromir had broken in dying?'
King Elessar shook his head, trying to get that irrational thought
out of his mind.
'No, it couldn't be. Definitely that was too far fetched by any means.
Truly too far fetched.'
'But very Gandalf.'
'Damn that old bastard!'
This was too mad. There was no rational reason why he should even so
much as believe that there was a chance to recall the dead. Far less,
if such means would exist, should he waste that precious gift on a
mere Prince of Gondor, as beloved as he might have been, when so many
of humanity's heroes had died so prematurely.'
And then—if he'd really brought back the man he had loved? Would it
be the same? Would they still love each other? Would he stay for his
mortal life-span or would he fade away after mere minutes?
Elessar hid his face behind his hands, closing his eyes, trying to
calm the circular racing of his thoughts and failing miserably.
'Why, why by all the wisdom of the Valar, why should he try to call
back his lost Love who might not even recognise him anymore with an
artefact that he did not know how to use into a world that most
probably would make his Boromir suffer?'
Because, if he didn't at least try, he'd suffer for the rest of his
life of a broken heart.
Elessar could have screamed.
There was no logical reason, every fact advised him against this—
and yet, his heart sat there, looking at him, wide-eyed like a puppy,
melting away his resolve like the sun had molten the last traces of
snow.
'This is madness', the King thought to himself. 'And if ever I am to
meet Gandalf again, I'll make him eat his hat for this.'
'Or, more probably, I'll kiss him.
If it works.'
Elessar opened his eyes again, finally having come to a conclusion,
though a conclusion whose possible consequences he dreaded.
'By the Valar, I had thought that the time of trials had ended with
the death of the last orc.'
He grinned sadly.
'Well, once more I see that the worst enemy man can face is his own
heart.
And once more, I have lost most flamboyantly.'
'So then', the King who had once been a mere ranger thought to
himself, 'I have to try.'
'And better now, for if I only wait one moment longer, reason might
get the better of me.'
He left his place at the window, turning towards the desk nearby. The
small black box still stood there, unadorned, apparently harmless.
Its lid slid open easily, revealing the inner lining of precious dark
velvet.
That—thing—still lay inside the mould that had accommodated it's
shape for several years by now, and when he took the artefact into
his hand, it still felt more like a pebble than anything magic.
'But not all that doesn't glitter is not gold', he thought with a wry
smile.
'Please forgive me, Boromir, if I fail.
Please forgive me, Arwen, if not.
Gandalf, I'll get you for this.'
He went over to the windows, pulling one of the comfortable armchairs
with him, feeling that pale white thing in his hand slowly lose it's
coolness.
He placed the chair in such a way that he sat with his back facing to
the room, his face turned towards the windows. Tiny freckles of red
and golden light danced on the floor in front of him, and with silent
bemusement the King watched the faint, sparkling clouds of dust that
rose out of the upholstery when he sat down.
Sighing one last time, he braced himself, leaning back, closing his
eyes.
The artefact in his hands felt warm now, as if warmed as well by the
sun, friendly and expectant.
Elessar relaxed, emptying his mind from all but silence, trying to
find a way how to initiate whatever magic was hidden in this thing.
'Boromir,' he thought clearly.
Lover
What was that? Had he only imagined that or had there truly been an
answer in his head?
'Boromir!' he thought again, this time with more force.
Lover
There was something! Faint, utterly far away, painfully weak. Yet,
undeniably, it was there.
The thought that maybe, as incredible and illogical it may seem,
there was a chance to see his lover again, even merely to hear his
voice, released a sudden burst of pain in the heart of King Elessar,
pain that long, too long had been denied.
Tears stung behind his closed eyes, and he felt his throat tighten
with excitement.
'Lover?', he thought, his mind hard to control, hard to keep himself
from bursting into mental chatter.
I love...
'Was it getting fainter? Valar, what am I doing wrong? Why was his
voice so far away?'
love...
'Oh gods, don't leave me again! Don't leave! Love, come to me!'
love
Elessar franticly searched his mind for an answer, for an idea to
keep his lover's mind from slipping away, from disappearing now that
he had only found him after such a long time. He knew he couldn't
stand to lose him once more.
And then, gratefully, he remembered the artefact's cryptic
inscription.
Pulling together all royal command he could gather in the turmoil of
his mind, he mentally drew on every bit of majesty, of unquestionable
regality he could come up with.
'Boromir, son of Denethor, I name you oathbreaker!' he thought with
all the volume a thought could have.
'Boromir, I call you!'
I love you...
He was getting stronger!
'Boromir, I call you to fulfil what you had sworn.'
I love you.
'Boromir, you Liege is calling you!'
I love you, and wherever I may go, I will never forget.
Suddenly, with an audible crack, the artefact in the King's hands
crumbled, brittle like an egg-shell. Simultaneously, the mental
contact with his lover snapped and, terrified, Elessar opened his
eyes.
He blinked in worry and astonishment when he saw the bright golden
glow radiating from his still-clenched hands. The light was getting
brighter and brighter, pouring out between his fingers, shining
though his hands, scintillating bright enough to outshine the already
brilliant sun.
Bewildered, Aragorn opened his hands, and blazing white light filled
the room, blinding him, blotting out all colours and shapes in the
room, leaving darkly etched shadows outlined against brilliant white.
Shading his eyes with his left arm, Elessar stood up, slowly seeking
cover behind the chair he had been sitting in, yet unable to take his
eyes away from that painfully white blaze in front of him.
Strange bluish shapes began to dance in Elessar's sight, his eyes
tearing, but whatever happened in his study, he would not take away
his look.
At first, the King was insecure, maybe his over-taxed eyes only
imagined shadows where none were—yet then, he was sure.
A darker shape was forming inside the blaze, faint and small at
first, hovering a few paces in front of him, between the chair and
the window.
And it was growing. Growing in size as well as in solidity, and soon,
to his breathtaking bewilderment, Elessar recognised a vaguely human
shape inside that painful light.
Standing upright, arms close to his sides, it was the silhouette of a
man that took shape—and there was no mistake in guessing whose
blocky frame it was that manifested itself in front of him.
How often had he seen his broad shoulders in his dreams, remembered
how his heavy body moved with strength and agility in combat.
Though rationally he was sure that it was truly impossible, the
King's heart didn't doubt for a single thought: it was the body of
Boromir, son of Denethor, that somehow, wondrously, manifested inside
his study.
Then, all of a sudden, with almost audible alacrity, all the light
that had been blazing in the room seemingly was sucked into Boromir's
silhouette, giving it more density, filling it's edges, disappearing,
leaving nothing but a black human figure standing in front of faintly
glowing, pale stained-glass windows, framed by bluish, dancing
afterimages of light.
Elessar straightened, blinking tears out of his eyes, bewildered
close to shock.
He tried to think of anything to say, of anything to do, anything to
word the feelings in his heart, but once more, his lover took
initiative before him.
For the dark shadow in front of him swayed, turning partially around
himself, falling to the ground like a huge tree felled by man.
The painful thud of a body hitting hard ground shocked Elessar out of
his confusion, and with a single jump he was beneath his lover's
body, looking for him, trying to see what had caused his fall.
When he cradled Boromir's head in his arms, his heart rejoiced,
flowing over with joy, for this unclad body was real, he was real, he
was back into his arms.
And yet, at the same moment, flashes of fear tore though him,
foralthough Boromir was apparently unharmed his eyes fluttered, his
mouth moving uncontrollably, his breathing unsteady, failing.
Too close was this scene not to conjure memories of his lover's death
into the mind of King Elessar, and the only thought he could gather
was:
'Not again!'
What if this monstrous thing had only brought back the body, only the
shell, unable to live without it's soul?
By the One, no, that mustn't be!
"Boromir!" Elessar said, his voice almost choked by tears.
"Boromir, can you hear me?"
The breath of the body in the arms of the King turned low, it's
trembling subsided.
Elessar could not believe this, feared to have lost his love a second
time, crying silent tears of pain and anguish.
"Aragorn?"
Coarse and husky, but undeniably Boromir's voice, the sound shattered
all thoughts in Elessar's head.
"Gods," Boromir said weakly, one of his arms moving slowly, his eyes
in and out of focus. "Who—who dressed you up like this—"
A fit of coughing interrupted Boromir's sentence, and Elessar took
him into his arms, holding him as tight as he could, sobbing and
crying like a little child.
He sat there with him, crying, sobbing, holding him as if this body
were the most precious thing in all the world.
Which, to him, it truly was.
by
Osiris Brackhaus
aking in a deep breath, King Elessar set the slender ebon box on the
desk in his private study.
Yes, I am loved.
Yes, I am respected and adored.
Yet without you, there is no-one here to make me feel alive. I am
choking.
You had given me your oath never to harm me, yet you—'
Because, after all this time, he still loved him.
His lover had returned.
Finally, undreamed of, he had returned.
End of Part One.
