In Memory Yet Green
That year had been full of terror and fear. Battles had been fought
and fearsome enemies encountered. More than one friend had been lost,
though no loss had been so keenly felt as that of the Steward's son.
And yet there had been wonder in the past year as well. The war had
been won and Gondor had begun down the path of a new golden age, her
people safer than they'd been in generations. With Arwen at his
side, King Elessar had vowed to restore the city to its former glory,
to fill its streets once more with families and laughter, to make its
borders secure from all threats.
But if the future seemed blessed, Elessar would not have the past
forgotten. He had already seen the signs of forgetfulness in his
people.
Those that had fallen in battle were fading from memory, their faces
grown hazy with the passage of time, their sacrifices spoken of
barely at all. This forgetting of those who had given the most for
their people saddened Elessar. He considered for many weeks how to
stave off this loss of memory, finally settling upon a day of
remembrance, a day when the sacrifices of so many could be recalled
and proper honour rendered.
There were many dates that he could have chosen: the day that the
Rohirrim emerged victorious from Helm's Deep; the day of the battle
of the Pelennor Fields; the day that the free people of Middle Earth
attacked the Black Gates. But in the end, there was only one date
that seemed right: the day Gondor lost one of its favoured sons; the
day Boromir breathed his last. Today.
Elessar awoke before dawn. Leaving his lady wife sleeping in the
warmth of their bed, he dressed in plain breeches and a linen shirt,
a simple cloak and well-worn boots completing his attire. Quietly, he
made his way out of the Citadel, moving through the levels of his
city, enjoying the luxury of passing through the streets unnoticed by
all but a very few early risers.
The sun had just crested the horizon, bathing the city in a rich
golden light, as Elessar reached the gates of the city and the new
statue he had ordered raised in the public square. The stone visage
of the statue was Boromir as he'd first encountered him in Imladris:
determined and resolute, every inch the hero.
What that impassive countenance could not show was the gentleness of
the man. It could not reveal his humour, or his vulnerability, so
unexpected in a man of such strength.
"It looks very like him, does it not?"
Elessar started at the voice, pulled from his reverie. He turned to
find his Steward at his side. Like him, Faramir had not yet donned
the formal attire that would be expected of him at the day's
ceremonies, but instead was clothed in leather breeches and tunic.
"Very like him, indeed," Elessar said, smiling. "Our stonemason's
have done a fine job."
"They did their best. Boromir was well loved by the people."
Elessar could see the fond regard for an older brother in Faramir's eyes.
"And by his brother."
"And his king," Faramir added.
Elessar sighed. "His king wishes that he had the man before him
instead of a statue.
"So do I," Faramir said, melancholy overtaking his features.
"What is your best memory of Boromir?" Elessar asked, hoping to steer
Faramir's thoughts to happier times.
Faramir chewed on his lip a moment before answering. "I think it is
perhaps the first day that I was allowed to attend sword practice
with him. He was fifteen and I was only ten, but he made sure to take
me very seriously. I thought he was the best brother in the whole
world." Faramir paused to swallow hard. "I still do."
"I'm sure he was."
"And you, my king? What is your favourite memory of my brother?"
Elessar had to stop and think, for he had so very few memories to
choose from. They had known each other such a short time and under
such trying circumstances. But one memory did stand out.
"The day I first saw him smile." In his mind's eye, Elessar could
see that stern face light up in amusement at one of Pippin's sillier
jokes, green eyes crinkling at the corners, head thrown back in
laughter. "He was always so serious. For days, I wasn't entirely
sure that he could smile."
Faramir laughed at that. "Oh, I know what you mean. Some of our
soldiers were terrified of him. But I always knew better."
"I'm sure you kept him from taking himself too seriously."
"He claimed I undermined his authority. But he always laughed when
he said it."
Elessar laughed himself, and once again the image of brilliant green
eyes came to him, piercing his heart with memories both happy and sad.
Not wanting to be overwhelmed by melancholy himself, Elessar clapped
Faramir on the shoulder. "Come, my Steward. We should return to the
Citadel. We both must prepare for the coming day."
Faramir nodded, and arm-in-arm, they strode through the city streets,
sharing more memories of the brother and friend that both had lost.
But the King could not tell his Steward everything. There were other
secret memories that were too precious to share, memories that he
held close to his breast, and only took out in the dark of night.
By the time they reached the seventh level of the city, the whole
Citadel was awake and bustling with the final preparations for the
celebration of their fallen brethren. Advisors and knights, ladies
and pages swirled around them, a brightly coloured whirlwind
threatening to engulf them both. Elessar allowed himself a single
sigh before surrendering himself completely to the chaos he had
wrought. For this cause, he would submit to all the stultifying
formality the court had to offer.
The day passed in a blur of parades and speeches, dedications and
feasts. Many were the times the King found reason to be proud of his
people as each shared stories of sacrifices made and brothers lost.
Memories of men dead this past year were resurrected and cherished.
Eowyn's tribute to the noble Theoden brought tears to more than one
eye, as did Faramir's memoriam of his brother.
But the day saw more than tears. There were smiles and laughter too,
as better times were remembered. By day's end Elessar could see a
new kind of healing in all his people, and knew he had been right to
decree this celebration.
Their honoured dead would be remembered, but all Gondor would forget
what it was to live in perpetual fear of attack. Wives would forget
the need to surrender their husbands to the gaping maw of war.
Children would grow up with no memory of living constantly under
threat of war, would never experience the grief of losing fathers and
brothers in clash of battle.
It was late indeed when the last guest left the feasting hall.
Elessar watched as the servants extinguished the torches one by one,
leaving the hall in solitary gloom. Arwen had removed to their
bedchamber an hour earlier, after bestowing a loving kiss on her
husband's lips and admonishing him to make his own remembrances.
As the night flowed inexorably to midnight, Elessar left the darkness
of the feasting hall. A single candle lighting his way, he wandered
through the Citadel, through main halls and narrow stairs and finally
to a corridor that had been deserted this year past. From around his
neck, Elessar drew a thong holding a single iron key. Touching the
key briefly to his lips, he placed it in the lock of the door before
him. Key turned in lock with a satisfying click, and Elessar passed
across the threshold.
He had never before set foot in this place, the chamber of the
Steward's eldest son. After his coronation he had seen to it that
it was sealed, its contents undisturbed. The pain had been too fresh
then, the loss too near. After a year, he was ready to face his
grief.
The chamber surrounding him was as forsaken as the corridor, dust
accumulating on all surfaces, an aura of abandonment permeating it.
In the candle's guttering light, Elessar could see a tapestry of the
White Tree hung on the far wall, a constant reminder of Gondor's
heritage to the room's inhabitant. A tunic lay discarded on the bed
and a pair of fencing gauntlets awaited their owner's return from a
dresser. Elessar ran a finger down the spine of two books on a
nearby shelf: one, the expected volume of martial history, the other,
a collection of tales of ages past.
Setting the candle on the nightstand, Elessar sat on the bed. The
day had been for his people, to let them make peace with their past,
to preserve their memories of loved ones lost while they found
healing for their future. This night he must take for himself, find
his own peace, his own healing.
Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to
remember everything.
He remembered his first meeting with the Steward's son in Imladris,
the spark that had flared between them from the start. He remembered
the unconscious grace of Boromir in battle, the economy of his
movement, the elegance of his attack. He remembered Boromir's concern
for the Hobbits and his amusement at their games. He remembered
green eyes hardened with determination and clouded with pain.
And he remembered more, so much more: the feel of a calloused hand
caressing his cheek; the taste of sweat-salt skin on his tongue; the
sound of Boromir's breath, panting as they joined their bodies
together in passion.
A shuddering breath wracked his body, and he wondered why his cheeks
were wet. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, roughly
wiping the tears from his lashes with the back of his hand.
He drew another breath, and was amazed at its steadiness. Another
breath still and he could feel his heart lighten. These new tears
had lanced the wound of his loss, releasing the festering poison that
threatened to consume him. The pain was still there, an ache in his
very centre that would live with him always, but it would not now
overwhelm him.
"We will remember you," Elessar whispered. "I will remember you."
Taking the candle in his hand, he stood to leave the chamber. A
breeze kissed his cheek, making him turn. His eyes saw nothing, but
he felt a tickling at the back of his neck. As he moved back toward
the door, a voice whispered in his ear.
"Be at peace, my brother," the familiar voice said. "Be well, my king."
Elessar tried, but he saw nothing in the chamber that had not been
there before. The air was still and the beloved voice was now
silenced forever.
"Farewell my love," Elessar said.
King Elessar strode forward to meet his future, while vowing never to
forget his past.
by P.R. Zed
t had been a year. One year since Boromir had fallen; one year
since they'd consigned his body to the Anduin. One year since the
ranger Aragorn had promised a dying man to protect the city they both
loved.
