Guarded
You take them anyway, at the last moment, just before
Legolas begins to push the boat away from the shore to
send him on his journey down the Anduin. You bend over
and a tear that you did not know had formed falls on
Boromir's lips, on his mouth, now closed and still forever.
The grief inside you is a raging animal, clawing and biting
into your soul and you know that long after it has become
dumb with age, caged by the progress of time, the scars it
has carved in your heart will still be there, still threatening
to rip open at every opportunity. Finally, you understand
why Elves can die of grief. You would do the same if you
were free of the bonds that tie you to this world and its fate,
and to the promises you have made.
But you won't die. Not because of this. Because you
promised. So you take his hand, colder now than when you
were trying to scale Caradhras' treacherous flanks, and you
look at his face, his eyes closed, the darkness behind them
deeper than that of Moria's mines. Somewhere in the back
of your mind you make the decision. Because you
promised.
You remove your own bracers, the ones you'd had made in
Bree when you were there on a reconnaissance trip with
Halbarad and life was simpler then, or so it now seems, and
you lie them on the ground, kneeling to do so, kneeling for
him. You gently undo the clasps of Boromir's bracers, only
now truly noticing the design; the White Tree tooled into
the tough leather, its silver leaves still shimmering through
the blood and grime that covers the crest.
It hits home. Hard. Boromir had been born under the
shadow of the dead White Tree of Gondor, had lived there
all his life, defending it and all that it stood for, had even
gone to search for seedlings with Faramir in the mountains
to replace the withered tree. But he will never see the White
Tree in bloom: both of them dead now. And you will never
be able to resurrect either of them.
Another tear glides down your face; you feel it trail over
your cheeks, mingling with the blood that has dried there,
sticky Orc blood, as well as your own. You cry in silence as
you pull the vambraces tight around your wrists, almost
enjoying the pain this causes as the sturdy leather presses
against the bruises from the fight with the Uruk-Hai that
slew Boromir. Nothing broken, nothing that time will not
mend. The bruises will fade, the aches will go away, the
cuts will scab over and heal, and probably leave scars on
your body; adding another silvery white line to the map of
your past. But you don't care; those are not the wounds that
matter, this is not the pain that will remain. The pain that
you will feel from now on; every time you lie awake at
night, the campfire crackling softly, the embers casting an
eerie glow on Legolas or Gimli as one of them keeps first
watch and you pretend the soft pressure of the vambraces
are Boromir's strong hands gripping your wrists as he
bends over you and claims you with his hungry kiss. And
your hands will work their way furtively and shamefully
into your breeches while you try to pretend that they are
Boromir's.
Afterwards you will fall asleep because you have to, lying
on your side, your head resting on your arm, the leather of
the bracers warm and soft against your skin, the White Tree
leaving a mark on your cheek, and the fading scent of
Boromir enfolding you like lover's arms.
The End
by Sasjah Miller
ou don't really know for sure why you take the
vambraces from his arms; his body lying limp and deadly
white in the little Elven boat, the one that had brought him
here, to his death, to his redemption.
