"Rivendell!" the old man had bellowed, pounding his fist on the arm
of his chair. "It is a dark day indeed when we must look to the
elves! Hidden away in their northern havens—what little power
their race ever had is dwindling. You would do well to remember,
Boromir, that it was a man, not an elf, who cut the Ring from
Sauron's hand."
That was many months and nearly a whole world ago, for in the end,
Boromir had defied his father, and traded battle for this lonely ride
through the wilderness. He could count on one hand the people he had
met this side of the Gap of Rohan, and he had seen no one since he
began following the River Loudwater, which he hoped would lead him to
Rivendell. The elves, it was rumoured, had ways of hiding their
settlements from uninvited travellers, and he had not come this far
to wander aimlessly in the wood.
He eyed the shallow water as he rode along the bank. It was more a
glorified creek than a river. A trickle compared with the reach and
depth of the Anduin in Gondor. The proud, treacherous Anduin, which
had swept away so many of his company the day they lost the bridge at
Osgiliath. Familiar faces seemed to float on the surface of the
Loudwater, brave men who had followed him into battle and would never
do so again. He gathered his resolve and urged his horse onward. As
faint and desperate as his chance might be, he would not turn back.
He could see what his father could not: the threat from Mordor was
growing, and if they did not find help somewhere, they risked being
nothing more than Stewards of the dead.
Rivendell, when he finally found it, was unlike anything Boromir had
ever seen. From a distance, it seemed to have grown out of the rock
and wood surrounding it; up close he could see the craft that had
gone into every inch of the place. It was beautiful, and utterly
foreign. The elves who had greeted him were solemn and circumspect,
but had agreed to his request to see Lord Elrond readily enough. And
so he paced back and forth on a terrace overlooking a series of
waterfalls, waiting for his audience with the elf lord. There was no
shame in wanting to defend his people, he reminded himself. No
matter what his father said.
"You are a long way from home, Boromir of Gondor."
Boromir turned to see Elrond at the foot of the stairs. He hadn't
heard him approach. Head held high, the elf seemed to glide across
the stone floor, making Boromir feel rough and clumsy by comparison.
He wondered for a fleeting moment if the effect was deliberate.
"I would not have come if the need were not so great."
Elrond listened intently while Boromir spoke his piece, then stared
out at the water. His expression did not change, but Boromir got the
distinct impression that the elf was making up his mind about
something.
"There is more to your tale than you know," Elrond said finally, "and
far more than Gondor and Rivendell will be drawn in before the end."
"But—"
Elrond silenced him with a look. "Tomorrow we hold a Council on
these matters. Your questions may be answered then."
Another elf arrived to show him where he could lodge for the night,
and that was that. Dismissed until morning, Boromir stowed what gear
he had, and set out to explore the elves' city. He hadn't gone far
when he came round a corner and stopped in his tracks with
astonishment. Three small figures stood, barefoot, leaning against
the rail. Two of them were engaged in a lively debate about
something; the third returned Boromir's stare with a slightly fierce
expression. They all looked like they had wandered out of a legend,
or a dream, and he half-expected them to vanish before his eyes.
"What brings three halflings to Rivendell?" he asked as he walked
toward them.
"Hobbits," the fierce one replied.
"We call ourselves hobbits, not halflings," one of the others
elaborated.
"Ah. Your pardon then," Boromir said, sitting on a bench so as not
to tower over them. "You are the first hobbits I've met. I'm
Boromir, of Gondor."
"That's alright," said the hobbit on the left. "You're the first man
we've met, apart from Strider."
The hobbit in the middle shook his head. "What do you call everyone
at the Prancing Pony?"
"They don't count. Anyway, they never introduced themselves, did
they?"
"Butterbur did," said the fierce one, looking not quite so fierce
now.
The hobbit in the middle looked at Boromir. "I'm Merry, this is
Pippin, and that's Sam."
"I'm honoured to make your acquaintance," Boromir said, giving them
a small nod.
"I'm going to see how Frodo's doing," Sam said. He gave Boromir a
wary look, then headed inside.
"He's just worried," Merry said, by way of apology for Sam's lack of
manners. "Our friend Frodo was very ill."
"He nearly died!" Pippin cut in, with the excitement of someone with
a story to tell. "We all would have died, if Strider hadn't been
there, it—" He was silenced by an elbow in the ribs from Merry.
"I trust he's feeling better now?" Boromir asked, before the silence
became too awkward.
"He is, thank you," Merry replied. "Where is Gondor? Is it far?"
"Oh yes," Boromir said. "My city, Minas Tirith, is over one hundred
days' journey south of here."
Pippin's eyes grew round. "One hundred days?" He thought for a
moment. "Would that be anywhere near Mordor, do you think?"
"Pippin!" Merry hissed, and the hobbit pressed his lips together, a
guilty expression on his face.
"Merry! Pippin!" The pair looked past Boromir's shoulder. He turned
to see a tall figure walking toward them. "Bilbo's asking for you."
The two hobbits were halfway to the door when Merry stopped and
turned back. "It was nice to meet you!" he called, then hurried
after Pippin.
Boromir stood, and faced the man—for it was a man, and not an elf
as he had originally assumed. He carried himself like an elf, and
his footfalls were as silent, but he did not have their pale, stern
beauty.
He had something entirely different.
"You must be Strider."
The other man watched him carefully, but said nothing.
"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor." Still nothing,
and the silence was making Boromir suspicious. Between its enigmatic
lord and overly curious halflings this Rivendell was a strange puzzle
indeed, and he was certain this man was yet another piece. "I hear
it is your habit to rescue hobbits from certain death."
Strider shrugged. "I am a Ranger," he said, as if that explained it
all.
This time, it was Boromir who kept silent, and studied the man before
him, trying to take his measure. He was dressed in a long tunic that
looked to be of elvish making, but his face was weathered and his
hands were those of a warrior. Boromir had, of course, heard tales
of the Rangers of the North, but in the tales they were not nearly so
civilized. This man didn't seem to fit, either to Rivendell or to
the tales.
"You're a long way from home, Boromir of Gondor."
Boromir looked up, startled. Elrond had used those exact words. "I
am here on behalf of my people," he said, raising his chin.
Something flashed across Strider's eyes, but was gone before Boromir
could name it.
"As are we all," he replied, then turned and walked back inside.
Boromir stood, not knowing what to think, a long time after Strider
had gone.
The elves, it seemed, had very long memories. As Boromir explored
the city, he passed through chamber after chamber of painted images
and statues, figures out of legends and half-forgotten songs. Night
fell as he wandered, and at last he found himself standing in a
moonlit room, before a large painting of Isildur wielding a jagged
blade in defiance at the fell form of the Dark Lord. Boromir looked
at the scene in awe, and idly wondered what his father would say if
he knew of this commemoration by the elves.
Turning, he found a statue bearing several pieces that glinted in the
dim light. "The shards of Narsil!" he gasped, astonished to find
them here. As far as Gondor knew, they had been lost thousands of
years ago. He gripped the sword hilt in both hands, wishing he could
feel the full measure of its power.
"The blade that cut the Ring," he whispered. If only his people had
such weapons now. He tested the jagged point against the tip of his
finger, drawing blood. It was still sharp.
The sting of the cut had brought him out of his reverie, and he now
felt eyes watching him. A slow, sidelong glance revealed the form of
Strider, staring at him over the edge of a book. Those eyes seemed
to see right through him, and he suddenly felt as if he had been
caught playing with his father's armour. He muttered a few words and
tossed the hilt back onto its shelf. He had far more pressing
concerns than broken swords and territorial rangers.
Still, when he heard the clatter of the hilt falling to the floor
behind him, he found he could not bear to turn and face those eyes
again.
Boromir's mind worked furiously as he picked his way back to his
chamber. Elrond, Strider, even the halflings clearly knew more than
they were willing to tell. It rankled somewhat that the Ranger must
have been invited to attend tomorrow's Council, whereas he had
clearly stumbled into it by chance. He thought of Narsil, the
rightful heritage of Men, hidden away by the elves for century upon
century, and wondered what else the House of Elrond might be
concealing. Perhaps his father had the measure of the elves after
all.
His dreams that night were a tangled swirl of elves and halflings,
jagged swords and the glint of a ring on a dark fist. And through it
all, a pair of piercing blue eyes from which he could not hide.
"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been
summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor."
Boromir shifted slightly in his chair, and looked at the assembled
circle with suspicion. So these had all been summoned, had they?
Elves, dwarfs, wizards, even a halfling... and three men whom he did
not recognize. Northerners, most likely. And of course, the
ubiquitous Strider, who Boromir ignored in favour of studying the
small figure sitting across from him. This must be Frodo, the ill
friend. He looked pale and uncomfortable, completely out of place,
and yet he had been delivered to this Council. Annoyance prickled
the back of his mind. Elrond spoke of the races uniting, but it was
clear that Gondor was never meant to be represented here at all.
"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."
The ring that the halfling set down before the assembly was a plain
band of gold, but there could be no mistaking what it was—its power
seemed to hum in the very air. It was the One Ring, Isildur's bane.
The greatest weapon ever forged.
He understood now, why the North wind had sent him to Rivendell. It
was clear what must be done. He had only to make them understand.
He rose to his feet, and began to address the Council. They may have
thought they could decide the fate of the One Ring, but none of them,
not an elf, dwarf, nor these soft northern men, had ever been on the
front lines—had ever borne the burden of keeping the forces of
Mordor contained. If this Ring could give Gondor the one chance it
so desperately needed—
"You cannot wield it! None of us can."
It was a voice that Boromir recognized, and he turned slowly around.
Strider was staring at him as if he were an impetuous child, needing
to be told time and again that the swords in the armoury were too
sharp to play with. He felt an irrational stab of betrayal that one
of the few men in the assembly should contradict him, then pushed it
aside. If this man was so badly in need of being put in his place,
Boromir would be more than happy to oblige him. "And what would a
mere Ranger know of this matter?"
Strider had no reply, and Boromir was about to continue his case when
a new voice spoke up.
"This is no mere ranger." One of the blonde elves had risen to his
feet, and was scowling in Boromir's direction. "He is Aragorn, son of
Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."
Boromir blinked in surprise. Aragorn was a name known throughout
Gondor, but it was a name only, out of a tale that many fighting men
had long since ceased to believe. "This is Isildur's heir?" Half of
him refused to accept it; the other half wanted to leap at this man,
dressed in his elven finery, and demand where he had been when they
were being driven from Ithilien, when brave men lay dying at the
hands of Mordor.
"And heir to the throne of Gondor," the elf continued, sneering.
Strider said something in elvish then that Boromir could not
understand and did not trust. It was clear where this Aragorn's
allegiances lay. He was simply one more secret, collected and hidden
away by the House of Elrond. As far as Boromir was concerned,
Rivendell could keep him. "Gondor has no king," he informed the
upstart elf. He glared at the Ranger as he returned to his seat.
"Gondor needs no king."
The Council, of course, sided with this so-called Aragorn, and
Boromir slumped in his chair at the pronouncement that the Ring must
be destroyed. Elrond had not been seeking council at all. He was
merely trying to find someone to carry out his decisions for him.
One of the dwarfs ran forward, and was hurled off his feet when he
tried to cleave the Ring with an axe. Boromir felt the shock of the
blow from where he was sitting, and was strangely relieved to see the
Ring sitting untouched on the table. It was not to be destroyed so
easily, then.
Elrond took command of the Council again, declaring that the Ring
must be taken into the fires of Mount Doom, and be destroyed there.
Boromir was stunned. Surely the Elf Lord did not mean to send
someone blindly into Mordor? Why didn't he simply hand the Ring over
to Sauron, and have done with it? That at least would spare the life
of whoever was foolish enough to take up the quest.
He was speaking again before he realized it. He knew what Mordor
was. Whoever took the Ring there would be lucky to survive, let
alone prevail. There might not be a single member of the Council
that he trusted, but Boromir could not, in good conscience, let any
of them be mislead to their deaths.
The elf who had spoken earlier leapt to his feet, and from there the
Council quickly dissolved into argument. Boromir found himself face
to face with the wizard, who insisted on pressing the danger of
anyone wielding the Ring and refused to hear any argument of the
greater danger that Sauron would end up wielding it himself.
It was a small but persistent voice that brought the assembly to an
astonished silence.
"I will take the Ring to Mordor."
The halfling stood in the middle of the circle. Obviously trying to
look braver than he actually felt, he continued, "Though... I do not
know the way."
Boromir watched, amazed, as the wizard stepped forward to offer his
assistance. Surely they weren't going to agree...?
But it seemed they were, for Aragorn stood up next. "If by my life
or death I can protect you, I will." He knelt, and pledged his sword
to the cause. A pretty speech, Boromir thought, coming from a man
who, for all his ancient bloodline, would not undertake the burden
himself. The elf and the dwarf came forward while Boromir was sizing
up the situation, and in the end, there was nothing to do but pledge
Gondor's help as well. Perhaps once they were out in the wild, away
from Elrond's influence, he could make them see reason.
"He should never have agreed they could come!"
"Ah, but he did agree. And they will not be left behind now."
Gandalf had emerged as the leader of the Company, and it had not
taken long for Boromir to realize that the wizard could be by turns
unfailingly patient, and infuriatingly implacable.
"It is not compassion to allow them to march to their deaths,"
Boromir insisted. "They would be safer at home in the Shire."
Gandalf set down his noxious smelling pipe and fixed Boromir with a
long look. "Gondor is part of a much wider world. You know that, or
you would not have come here. Do you really think the Shire is any
different? If Frodo does not succeed, there will be no safe places
left for any of us." The wizard's expression softened then, and he
settled a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "They are stronger than you
think," he said kindly. "And they have us to watch over them."
And so the hobbits set out as part of the Fellowship. After the
first few days, Boromir realized that the Ringbearer was indeed
better off in his tightly-knit group of friends than he would have
been had he been forced to journey without them. Aragorn spoke
little to anyone, except to confer with Gandalf, while Legolas and
Gimli both seemed to alternate between watching each other with a
wary eye, and pretending that the other didn't exist. Boromir was
inclined to side with Gimli—he had not forgotten the elf's sneering
condescension during the Council—but they were all committed to
protecting the Ringbearer, and so, for the sake of the Fellowship, he
tried to push his anger aside. There would be enemies enough in
Mordor.
In his efforts to avoid such confrontations, Boromir found himself
spending much of his time in the company of Merry and Pippin. The
pair had an unending supply of questions, and a wide-eyed enthusiasm
for the adventure that was often contagious. The more he grew to
know the halflings, though, the larger the worry loomed in his mind.
He did not doubt their courage, but he had seen raw recruits sent out
to battlefields with such courage and little else. They were often
never seen again.
He finally decided there was only one course of action to take, and
when the Company stopped that evening, he offered to train the
halflings in the basics of swordsmanship. Frodo and Sam politely
declined, but Merry and Pippin were eager to begin immediately. As
the weeks passed, sword drills before the evening meal became part of
the standard routine for Boromir and the hobbit pair, and there was
no doubt that they were improving both in skill and confidence.
Aragorn began coaxing Frodo and Sam into basic drills of their own,
and a truce developed between the two men as they began to compare
observations and suggestions as to which moves were better suited for
the shorter reach of the hobbits and the short swords they carried.
The days turned clear and cool, and the Company made good time
journeying south among the foothills of the Misty Mountains. On one
such evening, Aragorn joined in Boromir's sword drilling, so that
Merry and Pippin might practise at the same time. There was a glint
in Merry's eye that made Boromir suspect that he was up to something,
and he watched the halfling closely.
His attention was misplaced, however, for a few moments later, he
heard a cry of "The Shire!" behind him, and Frodo and Sam leapt into
the fray. He shared a grin with Aragorn, then spun around to face
the new combatants. It was a challenging exercise, mostly because
Boromir wanted to avoid actually harming Frodo or Sam. Their style
differed from the more familiar moves of Merry and Pippin, a
reflection of their respective teachers, Boromir realized. He felt
Aragorn move behind him, and without a word, without even having to
think, he switched places, stepping around to face Merry and Pippin
while Aragorn moved to take on Frodo and Sam.
The rest of the world seemed to vanish, and a fierce sort of joy
pounded through Boromir's veins. It felt right to be here,
defending Aragorn's back; instinctively trusting Aragorn to defend
his. It was as if someone had given the air a quarter-turn, and
allowed everything to click into place. He quickened his defence,
testing Merry and Pippin, seeing how hard they could be pushed, and
for the first time since setting out from Rivendell, the tight knot
of fear in his chest began to ease.
The long days of walking and living rough smoothed the sharper edges
between all the members of the Company, though Legolas and Gimli
still grimaced whenever it was the other's turn to fix the evening
meal. Even Sam eventually overcame his awe of Legolas, and on a
clear, chilly evening finally worked up the nerve to ask the elf for
a tale.
Legolas looked mildly pleased, and drew closer to the fire. "I
will," he said slyly, "if Aragorn will favour us with a song when I
am through."
Aragorn shot a dark look in Legolas' direction, but the hope that
shone openly on Sam's face could not be rejected. "Very well," he
said with a small smile.
The tale that Legolas launched into was long, and dramatic, and had
even Gimli on the edge of his seat by the time it was through, though
the dwarf later claimed that he had hardly been paying attention at
all. Darkness was falling, and it was Boromir's turn to take the
watch. Excusing himself from the others, he found a broad, flat rock
a little ways from the camp, and settled in.
The night air was quiet. He could hear Aragorn singing softly behind
him, and shook his head, smiling. Aragorn the Ranger was never quite
what Boromir expected him to be. After the mock battle with the
hobbits, what had been professional courtesy between the two men had
given way to genuine friendship, and Boromir found he enjoyed the
enigmatic man's company. It was something of a comfort, after
travelling so long alone. He thought of his brother, and his
companions left behind in Gondor. May they be victorious, he
whispered to the stars overhead. May they be safe.
He had come to understand, from Aragorn's description of the Rangers,
that the other man had been fighting Mordor in his own solitary way,
and it made him feel a little less guilty to be here, on what stood
every chance of being a fool's errand, rather than leading the charge
in his father's name in Gondor.
'In Aragorn's name, really,' said a traitorous voice in his head, and
he swiftly squashed the thought down. It was strange enough to find
himself naming Aragorn 'friend'. It was far too soon, and far too
complicated, to consider naming him anything more. He pushed the
subject firmly out of his thoughts, and found himself looking up at
the stars, trying to pick out the constellations Legolas had
described in his tale. It was strange, he thought, how men and elves—and even hobbits, he supposed—could look at the same sky and see
a completely different set of stories. He had never had much time
for such tales, but Faramir loved them, and had passed many long
watches by explaining the sky to his elder brother. He wondered what
tales Faramir would see in these stars, were he here.
He heard a light step, then Aragorn was sitting down beside him,
holding his pipe.
"Anything?" he asked, between puffs.
"Nothing." Boromir knew that he should give over the watch and rest,
but his mind was still too busy to let him sleep. He glanced over
his shoulder at the others. While most of the companions had found
their own pallets, relishing some small bit of privacy, Frodo and Sam
were huddled tightly together. "Inseparable, even in sleep," he
murmured, turning back around.
"Hmm?"
"Frodo and Sam."
Aragorn glanced back at the camp, then returned to his pipe, staring
out into the night air. "When I first met Sam," he said, smiling at
the memory, "he had burst into the room, fists raised, ready to
rescue Frodo from my nefarious clutches." The smile faded, and he
shook his head. "He would have gone up against my sword, bare
handed."
"Frodo is like a brother to him."
Aragorn studied Boromir's face for a moment. "Frodo is far more than
that."
Boromir stared at Aragorn as the meaning of his words sank in. "You
think... Sam...?" He turned to look at them again, but was stopped
by Aragorn's hand.
"Frodo must go, so Sam will follow. That is all we need know."
Boromir shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how close Aragorn was.
He flexed his hands, momentarily wishing that he smoked, if only to
have something to occupy them. "You make it sound so simple."
Aragorn looked at him, surprised. "You do not think it so?"
Boromir was silent for a moment as he tried to sort through his
tangled thoughts. "To subjugate one's will to another—that is no
simple thing," he said finally.
"And if it is Sam's will to follow Frodo?"
There was a challenge in Aragorn's eyes that Boromir had no wish to
answer. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning away from the
warmth of the man seated beside him. Staring at the dirt, he did not
see Aragorn's puzzled frown.
"Men have followed you into battle."
"They fought for Gondor, not for me. And many of them died for it."
He ducked his head, and saw again the shore of the Anduin, from which
his men would not return. He could feel Aragorn watching him, but
had no words to make him understand, and realized at last that he did
not wish to try. "I should rest," he said.
As he walked back to where the others slept, he heard Aragorn
speaking softly behind him.
"You underestimate yourself, Boromir."
He found his bedroll, and lay down upon it, but did not sleep.
The brightness of the sun reflected on snow was dazzling, and as
Boromir squinted up into a brilliant blue sky, he questioned again
the wizard's judgement in leading them over Caradhras. They were far
more vulnerable now than they had ever been in the lower country—a
ragged line of dark figures against unblemished snow, with a clear
path stretching behind them and nowhere to hide should the crebain
return. Sam had insisted on bringing the pony and Gandalf had
allowed it, though Boromir privately thought it would have been
kinder to spare the creature the climb up the mountain. Kinder to
spare the halflings themselves, with their bare feet and only
homespun cloaks to ward off the chill, but Gandalf had declared there
was no other way, and so up the mountain they went.
A small gasp and a sudden commotion behind him had Boromir turning to
see Frodo tumbling back down the path. As Aragorn picked Frodo up
out of the snow, a strange glint drew Boromir's eye. Blinking, he
realized that the chain Frodo wore had come unclasped when he fell
and the Ring lay before him in the snow. He picked it up without
thinking, watching the sunlight dance as the Ring dangled from the
chain in his hand. It was nothing—a flash of light against the
sky, the small tug of the breeze against his hand. Yet for the sake
of this little scrap they must cower beneath rocks, and climb
mountains, and leave their homes undefended...
"Boromir!"
The edge in Aragorn's voice startled him out of his thoughts, and he
looked up to see the Ranger watching him. He had, for a moment,
forgotten that anyone else was there.
"Give the Ring to Frodo."
Frodo was looking at Boromir with a wary, and somewhat lost
expression, which Boromir might have found amusing had Aragorn not
been glowering behind him. He looked as if he had lost the Ring
forever, rather than carelessly dropping it in the snow. Boromir
walked toward him slowly, offering the Ring in an outstretched hand.
"As you wish," he said, humouring the pair and letting Frodo grab the
Ring as soon as it was within reach. "I care not." He took a step
closer, and was startled to see that, behind Frodo's back, Aragorn's
hand had gone to his sword hilt. He made a cheerful show of brushing
the snow from Frodo's head, then turned and headed back up the path.
As the morning wore on, Boromir found that he could not get the
image of Aragorn clutching his sword hilt out of his mind. What had
the other man been thinking? Was it really so easily believed that
he, Boromir, would try to take the Ring as soon as the opportunity
presented itself? Was the pledge of a Man of Gondor so little
esteemed? "He means to lead us, but he has no idea who we are,"
Boromir muttered, "or who I am."
He had let himself fall to the back of the line, and he squinted
ahead at the others. He was no threat to the Ring. If he had kept
it, what then? The halflings claimed that the Ring had made Frodo
invisible, but even an invisible man would leave fresh tracks in the
snow. Of any of the company, it was Legolas who should be watched.
The elf slept little, and could travel faster than any of them. If
Legolas were to steal the Ring, it would never be seen again.
He heard a whisper on the wind and looked up to see that Gandalf and
Aragorn had stopped, and were discussing something. He strained his
ears, and thought that he may have heard his name. He quickened his
pace, but the others had started to move again.
He could see, now, the lines that divided their Company. Gandalf,
Aragorn, Frodo and, because he would not leave Frodo's side, Sam,
were the true companions, the inner circle of the Fellowship. Legolas
kept to himself most of the time, but his counsel was respected, no
doubt because he was an elf. Gimli, with his self-appointed task of
ensuring the elf didn't take all the credit, and Merry and Pippin,
allowed to come along because they refused to be left behind, had no
real role in the Fellowship whatsoever. Gandalf had been sly—Boromir could see that now—in setting him to look out for Merry and
Pippin. No doubt the wizard was counting on the halfling pair to
keep him out of the way. Gandalf might appear to be above desiring
to control the Ring, but his constant efforts to control the
Ringbearer gave him away. He wondered if Aragorn would dare to draw
his sword on the wizard, if it came to that. "Foolish to even ask,"
the quiet voice in his mind laughed. "He has put all his trust in
Gandalf; he has none to spare for anyone else."
The snow had begun to fall as they had been walking, and thick flakes
were soon blowing into Boromir's face. As the wind picked up, the
whispering in his ears was drowned out, and he noticed Merry and
Pippin floundering on the path ahead of him. Feeling slightly
ashamed for neglecting the pair, he hurried ahead and offered to
carry them. They hung on, one on either side, as Boromir strode
through drifts that were rapidly growing deeper. He had never seen a
storm come on so fast. The howling wind brought a sharp drop in
temperature, and though they never complained, Boromir could feel
Merry and Pippin shivering in his arms. They could not last much
longer. They had to get off the mountain.
Still Gandalf led them on, until a rockfall caught them on a narrow
ledge. Even Aragorn argued that the company must turn back, but
Gandalf held his ground, trying to fight the will behind the storm
with his own power. Two voices echoed across the wind, and then it
happened. Lightning flashed, and with a terrible roar, the side of
the mountain above them gave way.
Boromir had never liked confined spaces, and the prospect of being
buried alive was almost more than he could take. It was only the
thought that the halflings would suffocate that kept him moving. He
saw with relief that the others had also dug themselves out, and that
no one had been swept down the mountainside. Gandalf was at last
forced to admit that they could go no further.
It was a long, bleak march back down the mountain. Even after the
storm ended, the cold air seemed to follow them down, and it was a
miserable group that at last approached the walls of Moria. Only
Gimli was able to muster any real enthusiasm for the path that lay
ahead. The air lay dank and heavy in the valley, and their approach
skirted the edge of a large, murky pool.
Boromir eyed the water, then looked over to Aragorn, who nodded
grimly. They would both be on their guard. Whatever had been
affecting Aragorn had been left behind on the mountain, to Boromir's
relief. Their friendship, precariously begun, had quietly grown over
the weeks of their journey, and Boromir had found himself ill at ease
without the Ranger's taciturn company.
Their progress was halted by Gandalf's prolonged attempt to open the
stone doors. Merry chose that moment to become both bored and
reckless, and had splashed two stones into the pool before anyone
could stop him. The water rippled out from where the stones had hit,
but then the pattern of the ripples changed. Boromir joined Aragorn
at the water's edge. As they watched, a small wave emerged near the
center of the pool. Something was out there, and it was heading for
shore.
The drama unfolding in the water was interrupted when the rumble of
grinding stone filled the air, and Boromir turned to see that the
doors to Moria had at last been opened. Gimli breathed a loud sigh
of relief. Boromir, looking at the darkness that lay between the
stone doors, could only hope that the dwarf's optimism was justified.
The twinge of panic that Boromir had felt on Caradhras was nothing
compared to the bone-chilling horror of feeling a mountain crumble
from the inside. The choice between a massacre inside the walls and
a hungry monster outside had been brutally and irrevocably made for
them, and now they were all entombed in the smothering darkness of
Moria, as surely as the dwarven skeletons that littered the floor.
The air was musty, smelling of dust and decay, and Boromir felt for a
moment as if he couldn't breathe. He dimly heard Gandalf leading the
Company on, and saw Aragorn glance at him with a curious expression
on his face. He tried to swallow the bitter taste in his throat,
then forced himself to draw a deep breath. There was nothing to do
but follow.
Night had already fallen when Gandalf had cracked open the doors of
Durin, but none of the company complained at having to walk a few
more hours before stopping to rest. The roar of falling stone had no
doubt echoed throughout the mountain, and everyone recognized the
wisdom of being far away, should anything come to investigate.
Gandalf led them at last to an out of the way chamber, and declared
they could stop for the night. In the dim light of the wizard's
staff, Boromir could see that the stone floor was dusty from long
disuse, and thankfully free of skeletons. As the hobbits gratefully
collapsed in a corner, he set his gear on the floor and saw Aragorn,
beside him, doing the same. A weary silence had settled over the
company, and it was only a moment before everyone had found their
bedrolls and Gandalf doused the light.
As he lay in that darkness, waiting for sleep, Boromir could feel the
fear gathering at the edges of his mind. He heard once again the
harrowing shriek of moving stone and felt his skin go cold. The rock
around him seemed to take on a living presence, pressing in on him
from all sides. It resented their intrusion. It wanted them gone.
With a great effort, he pushed those thoughts aside. There were real
enemies enough in these cursed depths; it was foolish to waste
strength fretting over imagined ones. He closed his eyes, and
focussed on the sound of Aragorn's breath. He pretended that they
were once more in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and kept his
mind busy conjuring up their campfire, and the small mountain spring,
and a sky full of stars overhead. Lulled by the steady rhythm of
Aragorn breathing, calm and sure beside him, he finally slipped into
sleep.
He did not know how much time had passed when the pressure on his
chest returned. The weight, though, felt different somehow, and he
was strangely unafraid. The stark chill of the stone had given way to
warmth, and he felt a breath against his ear. Fingers traced his
hairline, his cheek, his mouth, mapping his face in the darkness.
Without quite knowing how, he recognized that touch. More than that,
he welcomed it.
"Aragorn," he breathed.
The weight began to move against him, slow and persistent. Pinned by
the other man's body, he could do nothing but lie still and feel. It
was not enough—he ached to lift his arms and hold that body close,
to arch up into that exquisite pressure, but even those small
movements were denied him. As the gentle torture continued, Boromir
thought he should go mad. "Aragorn!" he whispered, "please!"
He was awoken by a kick to his ankle, and the sound of someone
falling.
"Sorry!" came a muffled voice from the floor down by his feet. "I was
looking for some breakfast."
"I knew we could count on your stomach, Meriadoc," Gandalf said. He
lit his staff, and Merry carefully picked his way over to the food
packs.
Boromir looked back to see Aragorn sit up and rub the sleep out of
his eyes. A quick glance at the dusty floor confirmed that the
Ranger hadn't moved all night. Aragorn caught his stare, and looked
at him curiously. He quickly turned away, hoping to hide the flush
he could feel on his cheeks. It had been a dream. Nothing more.
As they took up their journey again, Boromir did his best to
concentrate on the path before them, and seeing to the safety of
Merry and Pippin. The halflings seemed to have grown accustomed to
making their way in the dark, and Boromir soon found much of his
watch unnecessary. They had come a long way, these two, from the
clumsy—though enthusiastic—pair that had set out from Rivendell.
He had been both surprised and pleased at their willingness to keep
practising, even when a long day's march had clearly tired them both.
Many a new recruit to the Guard could not claim that resolve.
He called to mind their training sessions, trying to assess the
strengths and weaknesses of Merry and Pippin's fighting styles, but
his thoughts began to slip away from the halflings to dwell on the
memory of Aragorn fighting alongside him. Of knowing the other man
was at his back. Of lips burning a path along his neck...
Boromir's mouth went dry as he stared at the Ranger, who walked
alongside Frodo near the head of the line. Such dreams were easily
explained; he had been long alone since leaving Gondor, and even
before then. More disturbing was this hunger for the return of a
touch that his waking skin had never known. He drew a deep, ragged
breath and peered into the darkness above him. Perhaps he needn't
worry about the mountain crushing him after all; perhaps it had
abandoned its designs on his physical form and was simply going to
drive him mad instead.
As soon as he thought it, the notion proved too fanciful for
Boromir's normally prosaic turn of mind, and he laughed out loud.
Aragorn turned, and as their eyes met Boromir suddenly found himself
unable to move. He reached for defiance to cover his confusion, and
eventually Aragorn turned away.
Freed from the spell of Aragorn's gaze, Boromir clenched his teeth in
frustration at his predicament. This was Isildur's heir, who would
no doubt press any advantage to force his allegiance. He could not
afford to lose control. He rubbed at his eyes, and then surveyed his
surroundings. They were in a large cavern, on what looked to be an
old causeway, perhaps once used for hauling stone. He pushed all
thoughts of the Ranger out of his head by concentrating on where a
solitary orc would most likely attack them right now. A pair of
orcs. A patrol. A company. His head full of imaginary battles, he
walked on.
Boromir lost track of how many hours they trudged through the
darkness before Gandalf led them to a side room and allowed the
hobbits to break open the food packs. As he checked the perimeter of
the room, Boromir found an ornate wooden door, which opened to reveal
what he surmised was a small dining chamber, with a long stone table
flanked by benches. He found a torch hung in a bracket on the far
wall, and lit it from his own. The small circle of firelight caught
the end of the table, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. Not
ideal, but it would do.
When the others had bedded down for the night, Boromir quietly
carried in his gear and placed it on the table. He wasn't yet
exhausted enough to risk whatever dreams sleep might bring. He began
unbuttoning his tunic. There hadn't been time to tend to his chain
mail, after fighting off that tentacled thing, whatever it was. He
peeled of his mail and undertunic, sighing in relief as the cool air
soothed his back and shoulders.
He sat astride the end of a long bench, his back to the door, so that
the torchlight would allow him to find any chinks or spots of rust.
As his hands worked methodically, he let his mind drift back to the
caverns they had crossed. He couldn't help but find it strange that
so much craft had gone in to building walls and pillars that would
never know the sun, that could only be seen in the flickering shadows
of firelight. He thought of the tower of Ecthelion gleaming in the
sunlight, tried to transplant the image into the gloom of Moria, and
failed.
Three days ago, he would not have believed there could be such a
place. He idly wondered what dwarves born to this gloom must think,
stepping out of the darkness and into the open world for the first
time—what they would make of stars, and sunlight, and open sky.
He was jolted from his thoughts by a pair of warm hands on his
shoulders. The mail shirt slipped from his grasp and clattered to
the floor.
"Shh... it's all right," a soft voice whispered. The hands continued
to work on his shoulders, kneading sore muscles, trying to draw the
tension out of his neck. He moved to speak, to turn around, but the
hands held him in place. "Let me do this for you."
Boromir wondered for a moment if he was awake or dreaming. As his
tired muscles began to relax, he discovered he didn't care, and let
his head fall forward.
The warm touch moved lower down his back, and... changed. Deep,
soothing strokes gave way to light, tentative touches, fingertips
moving slowly over the surface of his skin. A shiver went through him
as fingers traced the lines of his ribcage, and began to draw slow
circles on his chest. He felt warm breath against his shoulder,
making the rest of his skin seem chilled, despite the torch.
A low, unsteady voice filled his ear. "Last night, as you slept, you
whispered my name."
In a deep corner of Boromir's mind, an alarm sounded. He should
resist; he should refuse. He should remember that this man was not
to be trusted. He should—
Objections were swept away unvoiced by the sensation of lips
caressing his neck, and hands moving lower, stopping when they
reached the ties of his leggings.
"Whisper my name, Boromir."
Boromir was lost. "Aragorn!" he gasped, leaning back, wanting those
lips on his own.
He was rewarded with the taste of sweat, and smoke, and something
deeper, wilder, that he could not name. Cool air brushed his skin as
quick hands unlaced the ties, making his mind swim. An arm snaked
across his chest, pinning him in place, and the world shrank to the
feel of calloused skin moving against his, and the echo of ragged
breath against stone walls. He moved, instinctively, into that
touch, wanting to forget where he ended and Aragorn began, muscles in
his neck straining as he tried to climb deeper into the mouth that
claimed his. It was dizzying, and he let himself fall until he
shattered, stifling a cry against Aragorn's cheek.
He rested, gasping for breath, until arms pulled away from him, and
the solid frame he leaned against slid back. He turned, and saw
Aragorn holding up his hands, staring as if he did not recognize
them. He looked up, and Boromir was surprised to glimpse something
very much like panic in his eyes.
"I should... check on the others," was all Aragorn said. He looked
at Boromir once more, his expression unreadable, then stood and
walked into the darkness.
Boromir stared after him for a long moment, not trusting himself to
move. At last, the chill against his skin reminded him that the
torch was burning down. He gathered up his gear and dressed,
covering himself against the oppressive dark, the weight of his mail
strangely reassuring and solid. His mind spun with questions, but
exhaustion quickly won out. He wrapped himself in his mantle,
stretched out on the floor, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
It was Legolas who shook him awake some hours later. He emerged into
the main room, now dimly lit by Gandalf's staff, where the others
were shouldering packs and belting on swords.
"Now, why do you suppose he slept in there?" Pippin asked, slightly
more loudly than he should.
Merry glanced at Boromir and gave a small, apologetic shrug. "Most
likely to escape your snoring, I should think."
"I don't snore!"
Three small heads turned, surrounding Pippin with three identical
expressions.
"Well, maybe a little, when it's cold out," he admitted. "But I'm
not nearly so bad as Gimli."
"What!"
Pippin bolted, and hid behind Boromir before the dwarf could reach
him.
"IF you are quite ready," Gandalf said pointedly, "it's time we were
going."
Gimli spared one last growl for Pippin, then followed the wizard out
the door. Aragorn adjusted his quiver and bow, then held out a hand.
"Come along Frodo, Sam," he said quietly. He did not look at
Boromir.
The signs of a large-scale battle grew more pronounced as the company
journeyed farther beneath the mountain. Fallen stone littered the
floors of battered passageways, and twice Gandalf had to retrace his
steps when the way ahead became impassable. And everywhere, it
seemed, the bodies of fallen warriors gave a mute and desperate
warning of the dangers that lay in the deeps. The halflings, as they
often did when uncomfortable, walked in a tight, silent group,
huddling in to themselves. Boromir walked behind Gimli, and thought
he could see in the set of his shoulders something of the dwarf's
fury and despair. As the hours passed, the mounting number of
corpses made it more and more likely that there had simply been no
one left to tend to the dead.
The thought of an entire city lying dead where it fell made Boromir
shudder, and he couldn't bear to watch Gimli's stiff march any
longer. He cast a brief glance at the ceiling, looming just over his
head, swallowed thickly, then fixed his eyes on the back on Aragorn's
head. Again.
He wondered, not for the first time, just what it was that Aragorn
was up to.
He wished he could feel angry. Anger was an honest, simple emotion,
and entirely justified if his worst suspicions proved true. As the
hours had worn away, however, he had found himself unwilling to
believe the worst of Aragorn, which had effectively put anger beyond
his reach. His foot slipped on a shallow step, and he cursed the
small feet of dwarves, and his own foolishness in the bargain. He'd
be far better off to keep his mind on the task at hand.
He reached the top of the steeply inclined staircase to find the
company halted at the junction of three passageways. Gandalf was
looking back and forth between them and muttering to himself. By
unspoken agreement, everyone fanned out to claim a spot to rest while
the wizard made up his mind which way to go. Aragorn set his torch
on the stairway, and habit had Boromir sitting down beside him before
he even realized what he was doing. The Ranger merely glanced at
him, then offered the stem of his pipe.
Boromir shook his head. He had grown accustomed to the smell of
pipeweed over the course of their journey, but he still failed to
understand the appeal of breathing it in deliberately. "You're as
bad as the wizard," he commented, trying to sound as normal as
possible.
Aragorn looked up to where Gandalf and Frodo were talking, and
shrugged. "Who do you think got me started?" he replied, in an
equally light tone.
Boromir could think of nothing more to say. Aragorn puffed away on
his pipe, and the silence between them quickly grew strained. At
last, Aragorn lowered the pipe, looked at it rather fiercely for a
moment, then said quietly, "It was ill done."
The anger that had lain dormant in Boromir's mind flared to life. He
would not stand to be reprimanded by this man. "You sought me," he
pointed out coldly. He caught a flash of impatience in Aragorn's
eyes, and it belatedly occurred to him that he may have been trying
to apologize, rather than reproach. He held his tongue, and waited
for Aragorn to speak again.
"I did not mean to go so far."
Boromir's eyes opened wide in disbelief. He remembered the
proceedings—vividly—and there had been little opportunity for
misinterpretation. The suspicion returned that Aragorn was somehow
trying to twist events around so that the blame lay with him, and he
had to work to keep it out of his voice. "What did you mean, then?"
"I thought to offer comfort," Aragorn said, his eyes fixed on the
flame from the torch, "nothing more."
Something in his voice gave Boromir pause. He watched Aragorn's face
for a moment, and realized, with no small degree of astonishment,
that for the first time since leaving Rivendell, the Ranger looked as
though he did not know the way.
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to
see Legolas approaching. He turned his head back, not trusting
himself to look at Aragorn or the elf. The pieces were rapidly
tumbling into place in his mind, and he could not help but feel a
certain smug satisfaction. It was one thing to find oneself wanting
a man. It was quite another to know that the wanting had broken the
other man first. It would seem there were some things that even
Isildur's heir was powerless to control.
"My thanks, then," he said, loudly enough for Legolas to hear, "for
your selfless concern for my welfare." Aragorn flinched, and did not
reply.
"Ah." Gandalf announced, causing everyone to look up the stair, "It's
that way."
Boromir quickly got to his feet and followed the wizard, leaving
Aragorn to take up the torch.
Dwarrowdelf was a wonder. The great pillars and archways not only
stood, they soared in a way that was beyond Boromir's ability to
imagine in these dark depths. Its splendour was marred, though, by
the gruesome evidence that Dwarrowdelf had been one more battlefield.
Gimli gave a strangled cry, and ran to a side chamber. The Company
followed, and Boromir realized with a sinking heart that the shaft of
sunlight on the sepulchre could mean only one thing. He reached out
a hand to comfort the grieving dwarf as Gandalf confirmed that his
kin, the lord of Moria, was dead.
Gandalf freed a large and dusty book from the clutches of its owner,
and quietly read out the scribe's final account. 'We cannot get out.
We cannot get out. They are coming.' The words froze in Boromir's
veins. Terror held him captive until the clattering of a skeleton
tumbling down the well shattered the silence, and any hope they had
of getting through Moria undetected. The drums began their deadly
echo, and when he felt the breeze of the first arrow on his cheek,
Boromir almost felt relieved. Here, at least, was something he could
fight.
The next hour passed in a disjointed blur. The fetid reek of orc
blood. Mingled pride and horror as Merry and Pippin leapt at the
cave troll. The desperate dash through halls and stairways to the
bridge. Fire and crumbling stone. Frodo fighting his grip as he ran
them to safety.
Aragorn, frozen in disbelief, staring at the chasm where Gandalf had
fallen.
The sky above the Misty Mountains was overcast, but light enough to
sting eyes grown accustomed to the long dark of Moria. Gimli, mad
with grief, wanted to charge back in, but was at last persuaded that
the wizard was lost. The halflings were inconsolable. Boromir
merely felt numb. He had been longing for sunlight for so many days,
but now it seemed bleak and cutting, as if it meant to lay the whole
of the earth bare to its unforgiving touch.
It seemed Aragorn was determined to pick up where Gandalf had left
off, and he ordered the company to stand and march. His initial
protest rejected, Boromir found he did not have the heart to argue.
The further they were from Moria, the better.
Aragorn insisted that they put as much distance between themselves
and the orcs as possible before dark, so they trudged on, hour after
hour. Boromir took pity on a straggling Pippin, and the young
hobbit, too weary to protest, dozed at his shoulder. Merry, Sam and
Frodo marched in a tight pack, each doing his best to keep the others
on their feet. Aragorn, far ahead in the lead, had just disappeared
around a large rocky outcropping when Sam tripped, bringing the other
two down with him. Collapsed in a heap, they lay there until Boromir
and Pippin caught up. Frodo let out a small groan as he tried to
push himself upright.
"No," Boromir said, carefully depositing Pippin on the ground beside
them, "We'll rest here a while." The hobbits gave a collective sigh
of relief.
Legolas and Gimli had stopped when the hobbits went down, and were
watching Boromir with interest as he walked toward them. "Keep
watch," he instructed Legolas, who looked mildly surprised for a
second, then nodded. Boromir patted his arm, then hurried around the
outcropping.
Aragorn was a little way ahead, but stopped when he glaced back and
saw only Boromir standing before the rock. He quickly retraced his
steps. "What is it?" he asked, his hand going to his sword hilt.
Boromir held up a hand. "Only that we must rest. I've been carrying
Pippin this last mile or so, and the others are little better."
Aragorn looked up at the cloudy sky. "We cannot spare more than a
few minutes," he warned.
"Merry assures me he is too exhausted to eat," Boromir replied,
unable to suppress a small smile.
Aragorn laughed and leaned against the rock of the outcropping.
"Then he is weary indeed."
Relieved that Aragorn was not going to make an issue of his decision
to stop the company, Boromir relaxed and leaned against the rock
himself. "They fought well," he said.
"They did. Though I suspect Sam is more comfortable wielding a
skillet than a sword."
Boromir had not seen Sam fighting. "He didn't."
Aragorn shrugged. "If you and I are surprised, think how the orcs
must have felt."
Boromir searched his memory, trying to piece together what had
happened when the orcs attacked. "It did not look good, near the
end," he said, staring at the ground, trying to sort out the
memories. "You fell, and then Frodo... I finished with the last of
the orcs just in time to see Merry and Pippin leap onto the troll's
back." He did not see Aragorn's eyes widen as he continued, "The
troll picked Merry off and flung him to the ground, but Pippin
managed to pull the creature's head back so Legolas could send an
arrow to its brain." He looked up at Aragorn, who nodded.
"I remember hearing the troll fall."
They were silent for a moment, neither one wanting to speak of what
had followed at Khazad Dum.
"We should never have set foot in Moria," Boromir said finally,
shaking his head. "There was nothing there but shadow and regret."
Aragorn slowly raised his hand, his fingers tracing lightly down the
other man's cheek. "Not entirely," he said softly.
Boromir did not know who kissed whom first, only that in a matter of
moments they were clinging to each other, as if to drive the last of
the shadows away. The numbness around Boromir's heart melted,
letting his grief run free at last. He twined his fingers through
Aragorn's hair, feeling the other man do the same, wanting to seize
this new freedom, to hold on to the sheer defiance of being alive.
He was brought back to himself by Sam, calling from the other side of
the outcropping.
"Strider? Boromir?"
There was a warmth in Aragorn's eyes as he pulled away, and he
caressed Boromir's cheek for a moment, looking as if there was
something he wanted to say. He let his hand fall, and looked away.
"Onward to Lothlórien," he said, leaving Boromir to wonder if that
was a command or a promise.
As they were marched through the wood, Boromir felt a familiar sense
of unease settle over him. The pale elves that escorted them were
even more aloof and self-important than those of Rivendell had been.
He could almost see the nervousness radiating from Merry and Pippin.
The halflings had grown more accustomed to being among 'big folk',
but Lothlórien was built on a scale that made even a man seem to
shrink to insignificance.
"Boromir, son of Denethor."
It was a woman's voice that he heard. He looked around, but there
was no one save the Fellowship and the elves who guided them up the
winding stairs. He remembered Gimli babbling about a witch in the
wood, and realized with a stab of fear that the voice had spoken
inside his mind.
"You carry a great unrest within you. Your father would not see you
suffer so."
"What do you know of my father?" he silently demanded, but the voice
did not answer.
They reached a platform at the top of the stairs, and a pair of elves
approached to grant them an audience. Boromir paled as dread
overwhelmed him, for there could be no doubt that this was the Lady
of the Wood, who had looked into his heart and seen in a moment the
twisting knots that he had been hiding from for so long. Loyalty and
guilt, hope and despair, love and betrayal twined and snarled around
each other so that to think of one was to get tangled and lost in
them all. As she spoke aloud to the others, Boromir met her gaze,
and was terrified of the cool certainty he saw there. She had
penetrated the maze in a single glance, he was certain of it, and the
realization that he had no wish to know what she had found there
frightened him even more.
"The White City stands yet," she said in his mind. "Hope remains,
Man of Gondor, only mind which bargain you would make."
The audience concluded, and the Company were led back down the stairs
and shown where they might rest for the night. Boromir wandered a
small distance away, craving solitude in which to gather up his
whirling thoughts. His father would not see him suffer so, the Lady
had said. If the Lord Denethor had had his way, Boromir would be in
Gondor, where everything was simple. Simple and hopeless, but his
father could not see that. He would call the quest Folly, and
Boromir's part in it Treason. It troubled Boromir to think ill of
his father, but in truth, the Steward of Gondor was a difficult man,
easily blinded by his own stubborn pride. And Boromir was his
father's son.
"You should take some rest."
Boromir looked up, startled out of his thoughts.
"These borders are well protected," Aragorn continued, making his way
past the spot where Boromir was seated.
Part of him wanted to let the man walk on, to be left alone with his
fears. But only part. "I will find no rest here," he blurted out,
and was surprised to hear desperation in his voice. Aragorn must
have heard it as well, for he turned.
"I heard her voice inside my head," Boromir began, and told him
something of the Lady's words. Aragorn said nothing, but sat down at
Boromir's side, giving him the courage to continue.
"My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing, and our—" he
stopped, realizing to whom he was speaking. "Our people lose faith."
It was a painful admission. Gondor had been vouchsafed to her
Stewards, and above all Boromir wished to be worthy of the trust of
her people, and to keep the White City safe. It was his home, but it
was more than that. It stood for more than that. With an unexpected
twinge of hope, it occurred to Boromir that this was something
Aragorn might understand. "One day," he promised, placing a hand on
Aragorn's thigh, "our paths will lead us there, and the Tower Guard
shall take up the call—'the Lords of Gondor have returned!'"
Aragorn looked away, his expression troubled, but he did not move
from Boromir's touch. There will be time, Boromir thought, still
viewing in his mind's eye the banners of the White Tower. There will
be time to make him see.
A flash of white at Aragorn's throat caught his eye, and he reached
for it, only to be stopped by the other man's hand. "What is that?"
he asked in wonder, peering to get a better look. The jewel gleamed,
even in the fading light of the evening.
Aragorn covered the brightness with his hand. He looked, for a
moment, as if he would stand and leave, but then he sighed, and
leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It is a gift," he
said quietly, glancing at Boromir, and then looking away, "from
Elrond's daughter Arwen."
An ugly feeling rose in Boromir's chest, but something in Aragorn's
expression made him put a firm check on his emotions. This was not
about him. "She loves you," he said, and saw that he had guessed
correctly. For all his resolve, though, he could not bring himself
to ask Aragorn if he loved her.
"She knows she cannot bind herself to me and keep her immortality."
Aragorn's fingers lightly traced the jewel at his throat, and when he
looked at Boromir, there was anguish in his eyes. "How could any man
be worthy of such a pledge?"
Boromir, feeling anew the twisting barbs of love and guilt in his own
heart, had no answer. He laid his hand gently on Aragorn's back, and
sat with his friend in silence.
It rained the whole of the next day, a misting rain that was hardly
felt at first but, given time, soaked everything through. The
Company had spent the day sheltered beneath Lothlórien's enormous
trees, and while Boromir was glad to be out of the rain, his
restlessness grew by the hour and by late afternoon it was all he
could do to keep from pacing back and forth. He spied Aragorn
wandering out into the rain, and after a moment decided to follow.
It would be an exercise of his tracking skills, if nothing else.
The Ranger picked a meandering path, making slow but steady progress
through the trees. He did not seem to be headed anywhere specific.
Boromir followed for the better part of an hour before Aragorn
slipped behind a stand of trees and seemed to vanish. When Boromir
came around the trees, he found a small clearing, and Aragorn waiting
for him.
"Was there something you wanted?" Aragorn asked politely. A wry
smile revealed why he too was wandering out in the rain, and he
laughed when Boromir shook his head. The trees afforded them partial
shelter, and the trunks were broad enough to give each man a place to
lean somewhat comfortably.
"Do you miss it?" Boromir asked at last. "Being a Ranger, patrolling
the wild?"
Aragorn looked thoughtful for a moment, then looked at Boromir with
shrewd eyes. "Would you miss it?"
"I imagine there is great freedom in such a life," he said, looking
out into the rain. "Simplicity, and solitude."
"We cannot escape what we are, Boromir." Aragorn's voice was tinged
with sadness, and resignation.
"Might we not forget?" Boromir's voice was rough, and his hand
trembled as he gently pushed a lock of wet hair away from Aragorn's
cheek. "Simply forget, for a little while?"
Aragorn said nothing, but the need in his eyes mirrored Boromir's
own. Boromir moved closer, his hand hovering just above Aragorn's
chest. "Only let me touch you," he whispered.
The barely perceptible nod was enough for Boromir to close the
distance between them. Fingertips traced the hard line of muscle
beneath Aragorn's tunic, and the skin on Aragorn's neck was warm, and
tasted of rain and woodsmoke. For the first time since their arrival
in Lothlórien, the turmoil in Boromir's mind quieted. There was no
questioning here, no need to repress or equivocate. There was only
the soft sound of Aragorn gasping, the strength of Aragorn's arms as
they pulled him closer. His lips found Aragorn's, touching off a
skirmish in which neither man was willing to give ground until they
were both dizzy and gasping for breath.
Boromir recovered first, and reached for the clasp of Aragorn's
cloak. It was a battered oilskin garment, shabby to look at but
well-suited to its purpose. He laid it carefully on the ground, then
quickly discarded his own cloak. His eyes flashed a challenge at the
Ranger as he peeled off his tunic, and he felt his heart pound when
Aragorn did the same. The body before him had a slighter build than
Boromir's own, but he did not doubt its strength. Aragorn was
beautiful and deadly, and Boromir burned with the need to touch him.
Neither man spoke a word as Boromir guided Aragorn onto the outspread
cloak and followed him down. He captured Aragorn's mouth, revelling
in the feel of the rain misting against his back, and the warm skin
pressed against his chest. He moved slowly down Aragorn's body,
exploring leisurely with his lips and tongue, drinking the rain from
pale skin. His hands went to the ties of Aragorn's leggings. He
carefully peeled back the damp cloth, smiling when the other man
gasped. He bent then, and tasted the hard, smooth flesh, teasing it
until Aragorn was writhing beneath him. With a small snarl of
triumph, he returned to Aragorn's lips, laying claim as his tongue
plundered the mouth beneath him.
Aragorn responded with a low growl and a brief flurry of movement
that left Boromir lying on the oilskin cloak. The smell of dark
earth filled his nostrils, mixing with the clean scent of the rain
and the heady aroma that was Aragorn. He surrendered to them all as
Aragorn's hot mouth laved circles on his chest, leaving a fiery trail
on chilled skin. He felt his leggings loosen, and moaned as he
arched into the touch that had haunted him since Moria. It wasn't
enough, though, and he reached out for Aragorn, who obliged him by
moving to cover Boromir's body with his own. His breath caught as
Aragorn began to rock against him, pinning him between solid earth
and the gathering waves that coursed through his body. He pulled
Aragorn closer, wanting to dissolve into the man's touch, to be
driven into the earth until nothing but this burning need remained.
He felt his body arch to meet Aragorn's, bringing him closer and
closer to oblivion until, with a desperate cry, he let it swallow him
whole.
When Boromir came back to himself, Aragorn was sitting, staring up at
the rain with a haunted expression on his face. Watching him,
Boromir realized that nothing had changed. Nothing could change. He
wiped the rain from his face and got to his knees. Without quite
meaning to, he took Aragorn's face in his hands and gently kissed his
forehead in a silent farewell to what could never be. Aragorn had
been right. They could not escape what they were.
Their leave-taking from Lothlórien was elaborate, and to Boromir's
mind, overly drawn-out. The Lady of the Wood had been generous,
gifting the Company with new supplies and equipment and, most
notably, boats. The halflings, though they said nothing, clearly had
misgivings about their new form of transportation, and spent the
first few hours on the water gripping the gunwales.
Boromir's mood wasn't much better. There was too much time to think
while paddling. Too much silence, broken only by the sound of the
waves. The water here ran swift and shallow, sparkling in the
sunshine, but as Boromir looked upon it, he found himself shivering.
He remembered other waves, dark and treacherous, obscuring the
shoreline, cutting him and his men off from help. The desperate
struggle to keep moving, to stay close to Faramir, hoping that they
were headed for shore. Four men only had emerged from the water that
night, frozen, exhausted and defeated.
The murmur of the waves grew louder as the tributary they had
followed joined the Anduin, and it seemed to Boromir that he could
hear in the swift flowing water the voices of the men he had lost,
whispering his name, repeating over and over the litany of his
failures. He had abandoned the warriors of Gondor, his men, and now
dared to return empty-handed. He had offered himself and his City to
a man who did not want them. Bitter ashes stirred in Boromir's
heart. Aragorn had used him for his own pleasure, deceiving him into
thinking he stood with Men, all the while planning to return to his
Elf-maid. The claim to the throne of Gondor might be his by birth,
but he did not deserve the allegiance of her people.
The anger that Boromir had denied for so long finally began to take
hold. He had been foolish, utterly foolish to let himself believe
that Isildur's heir would be concerned with any fate but his own.
Foolish to think he had ever been anything but alone.
The boats rounded a bend in the Anduin, and Boromir was pulled out of
his thoughts at the sight of the Argonath. The twin figures of
Isildur and Anarion rose stern and commanding on either side of the
river. Their silent sentinel over the passage into Gondor was a
testament to the will of Men, and Boromir felt a lump of awe in his
throat as he approached the Pillars of the Kings.
As they made their way past the feet of Anarion, Boromir saw the
pride and reverence on Aragorn's face, and his own wonder turned
sour. Imposing as the ancient Kings were, their powers to protect
Gondor were long dead, and the bloodline that Aragorn cherished was
just as weak. Boromir, too, was descended from a Numenorian house—a house that was charged with the protection of Gondor in the wake of
the failure of her Kings. In the roar of the approaching falls,
Boromir heard his father's voice, branding him traitor and coward,
berating him for being misled by elves and wizards into foresaking
his duty to his people. Resolve hardened in his heart as he followed
Aragorn to the western shore of the river. No more.
They came ashore at a shallow, stone beach. As the bottom of the
boat scraped the bank, the roar of the water seemed to grow louder,
demanding how he dared set foot on the soil of the ancient realm.
The twisting knot in his chest grew tighter and doubt assailed him
from all sides. Any way he turned, now, he was foresworn. He stayed
in the camp long enough to unload the boat, then slipped away into
the trees, away from the sound of the river. He needed space in
which to think.
The woods in which he walked were scattered with ruins and stone
figures, monuments to the glory and works of Men. He wanted to feel
pride in their ancient dignity, but the stone statues regarded him
with blank, dead eyes and the ruins reminded him of nothing but the
frailty of his race. 'I would see the glory of Gondor restored,' he
had told Aragorn. It shamed him to admit that he did not know how.
He caught sight of Frodo among the ruins, and made his presence
known, carefully hiding his exasperation at the halfling's
foolishness. They were not far from Mordor, and the Ringbearer ought
to have known better than to leave the protection of the others. His
frustration was tempered by pity when he saw Frodo's haunted
expression, and Boromir allowed that perhaps he was not the only one
in search of solitude. Elrond had set Frodo an impossible task, and
Frodo was clearly struggling under its weight. It did not need to be
like this. He tried to make Frodo understand that Elrond's blindness
need not condemn them all, but the halfling would not listen.
"I ask only for the strength to defend my people!" It was
humiliating that he, Captain of the Tower Guard, must beg for help
from a halfling, and he could not keep the anger from his voice.
That this half-grown creature could stand between Gondor's ruin or
salvation, and recoil from Boromir's honest entreaty was an affront
to Boromir's pride.
"You are not yourself," the halfling accused.
At his words, something deep in Boromir's mind gave way. They were
nearly at the Dark Lord's gate, and still Frodo did not see that he
was merely choosing to lose the Ring to the enemy. But perhaps, came
the whisper inside his mind, that was what Elrond had intended all
along. Frodo would be sacrificed, and all of Gondor was doomed to
share his fate.
It would not happen.
Frodo tried to run, but he could not match Boromir's speed and
strength, and it took only seconds to chase him down and pin him on
the ground. Boromir tried to grasp the Ring, but Frodo struggled
against him, twisting away until he suddenly vanished under Boromir's
hands. Boromir felt a sharp kick at his chest, and realized that the
halfling had put on the Ring.
Boromir was furious, both at Frodo and at himself. He had waited too
long to assert Gondor's claim. The halfling was already in the Dark
Lord's power. His mind filled with a howl of frustration, and he
added his own curses to the empty air. The halflings had been
nothing but trouble from the beginning. He never should have trusted
any of them. He looked around wildly, trying to discover which way
Frodo had gone. The hill beneath him was slippery with fallen
leaves, and in his haste he lost his footing, and fell heavily to the
ground.
There was silence. The rage he had felt just moments ago was gone,
replaced by a dull emptiness, and in one moment of horrifying
clarity, he understood. It was not Frodo who had been under the
spell of the Ring. He scrambled to his feet, desperately searching
for Frodo, to explain, to apologize, to put things right between
them. Frodo did not answer, and Boromir felt a chill go through him
as he realized the magnitude of what he had done.
Of all the Company, the Dark Lord had broken Boromir first. It was
his heart that was weak, his mind that had been unable to see the
Ring for what it was. He would have done it—all that he had
accused Frodo of. He would have brought darkness down upon Gondor,
enslaving the people he was sworn to protect. A sick feeling twisted
in his stomach, and he wanted to retch, to purge himself of the Dark
Lord's taint.
Galadriel had warned him, and in his pride, he had not heeded her.
The bargain he chose was ruinous, and only the courage of a halfling
had saved him. He had failed the Fellowship, and failed his people.
He wandered among the ruins, trying not to see the cold stone faces
that stared at him in silent accusation. He must leave the
Fellowship, for none of the Company would trust him now. He knew
that whatever ties he may have had with Aragorn were forfeit, along
with any hope that Isildur's heir might look to Gondor instead of
Rivendell, and the knowledge nearly broke his heart.
He would return the camp, he decided, and tell the others that he was
going on to Minas Tirith. They need not know why. If he left
quickly, perhaps Frodo would not reveal what had happened between
them. He heard Merry and Pippin's voices through the trees, and
wondered how to tell them he would not be continuing on. The voices
grew more frantic, and a moment later Boromir heard the heavy trod of
armoured orcs. He ran toward the sound, sword ready, all thought of
leaving abandoned. He was still needed. He would fight.
The orcs were bigger than the ones he had fought in Moria, and they
were everywhere. Boromir threw himself between the halflings and an
enemy axe, cutting and slashing his way through the orcs that
surrounded them. There were more coming through the trees, though, a
force far beyond what he could hope to defeat himself. His hand went
to the Horn of Gondor, his birthright as the Steward's eldest son.
He raised it to his lips, and three desperate notes rang through the
trees. "Run!" he called to Merry and Pippin, and blew the horn
again.
It was said that if the Horn were blown at need anywhere within the
bounds of ancient Gondor, help would be summoned. As the moments
passed, however, it seemed to Boromir that all he had summoned were
more orcs. His sword did not stop as he tried to keep the monsters
from reaching Merry and Pippin.
He felt a sharp pain near his shoulder, and looked down in
astonishment to see the shaft of a crude arrow lodged in his chest,
inches from his heart. The force of the blow brought him to one
knee, but he quickly regained his footing and continued to fight,
trying to ignore his burning shoulder. He heard the ragged creak of
the bow behind him, and his blood ran cold as he realized he had left
his shield by the river. He turned just in time to see the arrow fly
free. Pain tore through him, this time bringing him to his knees.
Time stopped. Boromir had been a fighting man all his life; he knew
that a man shot in the stomach did not recover. Merry and Pippin
stood and stared, and it was their horror and fear that prodded him
to action. He was already dead, but they might still be spared. He
forced himself to his feet, willed shaking arms to keep moving,
prayed he could keep his balance as the world began to spin around
him.
The third arrow drove the air from his lungs, and it was all he could
do to keep drawing breath. Against his best efforts, he swayed and
fell to the ground. This time, he knew, he would not rise again.
The world shrank to a haze of pain, and he dimly heard Merry and
Pippin being carried away by the orcs. A succession of boots tramped
by him, their owners taking no notice of his gasping and choking. He
had already been defeated. Had he the strength, Boromir could have
wept. He had blown the Horn, and no help had come. Gondor had
passed judgement on her fallen son, and now Merry and Pippin must pay
for his failure.
The orc archer remained. Boromir watched him, helpless against the
twisted look of feral pleasure of the monster's face. He heard the
creaking of the bow once more, and tried to meet his death bravely.
Out of nowhere, Aragorn was suddenly there, somehow, charging the
orc, sending its shot wide. Dizzy with pain and relief, Boromir
dragged himself away from the fray until he was propped up against a
small rise of earth. His strength was failing, but he made himself
keep breathing. Merry and Pippin's fate depended on Aragorn knowing
of their capture.
He could barely feel Aragorn's hands on his chest, but it did not
matter. Moments ago, he had thought he would die without seeing the
Ranger again, and he understood that there was no time for anything
but truth between them now. He confessed his attack on Frodo, and
was surprised when Aragorn did not pull away. He felt a hand caress
his neck, and thought he might break under the other man's
compassion.
"Forgive me," he begged. "I did not see. I have failed you all."
Aragorn spoke of a warrior's exoneration through bravery, but Boromir
was not fooled. Far more had been lost than his honour. A wave of
hopelessness rose within him, fuelled by the knowledge that Aragorn
still did not understand. "Leave it," he said, stilling Aragorn's
hands. "It is over. The world of men will fall, and all will come to
darkness." It was hard, so hard to say the words, but he would not
leave them unsaid. "And my City to ruin." He tried to push the
other man away, but Aragorn grabbed his arm and held it fast.
"I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you, I
will not let the White City fall." The truth of the pledge shone in
Aragorn's eyes. "Nor our people fail."
Hope that had long since been abandoned stirred in Boromir's heart.
"Our people?" he asked, not quite daring to believe what he had
heard. Aragorn nodded, and Boromir felt as if a great weight had
been lifted from him. "Our people."
He was forgiven. The Horn had been heeded after all, and Gondor
would have her champion. With a small smile of relief, he reached
out for his sword. He could die in peace, now, as a warrior of
Gondor. With Aragorn's help, he clutched the hilt to his chest. The
air around him began to grow bright, and he struggled to hold what
little remained of his strength. He owed Aragorn one last truth.
"I would have followed you, my brother," he said, knowing that
Aragorn would understand. "My Captain." In the brightness beyond
Aragorn's shoulder, Boromir thought he saw the shimmer of the White
Tower, its banners flying high and defiant in the North Wind, and a
sense of pride deeper than any he had ever felt swept over him,
washing the pain away. "My King."
He kept his eyes on Aragorn's face until it was lost in a brilliant
flash of light. Boromir heard on the wind the echoes of silver
trumpets, and rejoiced. The White City had welcomed him home at
last.
The End.
For He Is Long Away
by Sar
he men of Minas Tirith sang songs about the North wind, and the
strange and chill tidings it carried overland to the towers of the
city. When the heros of the old tales had been taken with
wanderlust, more often than not it was the North wind that set them
on their journey. Boromir had never had much time for the old lore,
but now, with the thick fog along the Misty Mountains in view, and
the chill in the morning air reminding him how far he had journeyed,
he wasn't so sure there hadn't been an uncanny influence at work.
His father had certainly thought so.
