After Images I
The rest of the insult drowned in raucous laughter, but Boromir had
heard every word and rose from his seat in the corner of the inn
where he and Aragorn had seated themselves, hoping to find out more
about the Black Riders. Boromir fumed with anger, slamming his mug
down hard, foam and ale sloshing on the table, rivulets of beer
dripping slowly on the floor. Aragorn rose with him, putting his mug
down next to Boromir's and he held the younger man, hand on his
chest, staying him, warning him wordlessly.
"Leave it, Boromir, leave it be," he said, with more calm than he
felt, the other man's rage trembling against his hand, radiating from
him in righteous waves through the worn leather garment. The rage
threatened to engulf him too, pulling him down, rekindling feelings
of anger and resentment he had managed to keep carefully hidden for
so many years.
"But I cannot let this insult pass, Aragorn," Boromir hissed, teeth
clenched, shoulders stiff and square in anger, his right hand
reaching for his sword.
"You can, and you will, Boromir," Aragorn whispered and he led him
away from the boisterous group of drunkards towards the bay window in
the farthest corner of the inn. Filtered autumn light fell through
its squared windows, the late rays of the sun playing over Boromir's
golden tresses, fading sun framing his head in flames, setting his
blood red tunic on fire. His breath came hard, wrath marring his
words, his voice harsh and unforgiving.
"But they insult us, Aragorn, they mock the White City of Gondor and
make light of you and your companions' hardships. Have you no honor?
Do you not feel the need to set those ignorant fools straight? Show
them who is King?"
There now, it was out in the open, the thing that had kept them apart
since the Council of Elrond.
"This is not Minas Tirith, my friend," Aragorn said, his hand still
lying on Boromir's breast, feeling oddly and precariously balanced on
the edge of the abyss that he had carefully stayed away from all
these years. Boromir had voiced his innermost thoughts for him, so
that he might look down over the edge of the cliff and see what was
there. But still he did not know the answer to the question Boromir
asked of him. He spoke slowly, his voice soft, his words soothing in
all their cruelty.
"Boromir, in here you are not the Captain of the Guard sworn to
defend the White City's honor against slanderous words; in the
Forsaken Inn you are not the Steward's son. Nor am I King, not even
in my dreams."
He sighed softly, his hand subconsciously caressing the worn,
skinwarm leather under his fingers.
"Boromir, we are months away from the White Mountains. To these
people, you and I are just men, filthy Rangers even, not one bit
worthy of their attention. And neither should we be. My friend, they
named this place aptly. The people here feel they have been forsaken
by the realms of Gondor and Arnor, that history has passed them by
and that they have been left with the dredges of all things glorious
and wonderful. They do not count it as their blessing that they lead
uneventful lives, wanting to be part of that great and glorious thing
they consider history. Disgruntled by everything, they do not care to
remember that Gondor's deaths and the hardships of the Rangers are
buying them the freedom to defile and deride their protectors so
easily. It is the price we have to pay, my friend. It is the price of
those who were born to serve and protect their fellow men. So be
seated and leave it be, we are drawing enough of attention as it is
with our insistent queries about the Black Riders."
He still would not sit down, although Aragorn felt his anger subside
just a little at his last words and he truly felt sorry for his
companion. Despite all his experience as a leader of his men, despite
his heroic battles against Sauron and his armies, Boromir had led a
sheltered life. Cosseted by the love of his people, engulfed by the
unswerving loyalty of his men of the Guard, the younger man had never
firsthandedly experienced the thoughtless degradation of people who
knew no better, nor cared about anything except themselves. It had
taken Aragorn years before he could finally let the thoughtless
insults slide off of him and not feel the hot flare of anger take
over his thoughts. And even now he would occasionally feel the need
to strike out, or worse, to run away from it all. He bowed his head
slightly and spoke softly, seeking for a way to help Boromir with
this hard lesson.
"Do you remember the ancient oak tree we saw earlier today, Boromir,
standing a mere ten miles outside Bree? Do you remember its massive
trunk, its bark scarred by lightning and winter storms? Yet its crown
was wreathed in green leaves, and it dominated the forest around it.
Such a tree may hold out against the heavy winter storms coming from
the North, giving shelter to the wood life that has taken refuge
there, but it did not grow to such magnificence by being strong from
the start. Had it stood like that in its youth, it would have been
ripped from the ground by the first fierce gusts of wind, its roots
not yet gripping the earth strongly enough. It could only have
survived by having bent with the wind, bowing to the storms that
whipped its branches until it grew strong and tall enough to
withstand the storm, letting itself be scarred, its youthful, smooth
bark becoming gnarled and weathered. And even the tallest tree still
is wise sometimes to bend its branches to the wind, lest they break
and fall. Bow and grow we must, Boromir. That is the fate we must
fulfil and our failure to do so may prove to be the ruin of us all."
Boromir grumbled, angry still, but he seemed to see the wisdom of
Aragorn's words and he seated himself again, staring morosely at the
wooden table, his hands clenched around his empty mug. Aragorn put
his hand on Boromir's, gently, a mere touch of palm on skin. Boromir
looked up as laughter surrounded them again and rough drunken voices
were raised in a bawdy song. Their eyes met and slowly his fists
unclenched as Aragorn beckoned the bar maid who came over in her own
good time and changed their empty mugs for full ones.
The End
Inn
by Sasjah Miller
"...The hobbits had been nearly two months in the House of Elrond,
and November had gone by with the last shreds of autumn, and December
was passing, when the scouts began to return. Some had gone north
and others had gone west, and with the help of Aragorn and the
Rangers had searched the lands far down the Greyflood, as far as
Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined
town..."
—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring,
book 2, ch.3: The Ring Goes South.
"...filthy Rangers; ruffians they are if you asks me. Who says they
haven't gone over to the shadow from the East, eh? Always sneaking
around in the wilderness, they are. And those soldiers from the White
City? If you wants my opinion they're just too frightened to..."
