Memento
Mark Knopfler—"What it is"
That the blood on Boromir's tunic stained the fabric into a
shade of red he would never forget. That the shape of the
warrior's body was utterly wrong, as he lay slumped
ungracefully against the tree. That Boromir whispered hoarse,
pain-filled words to him and that they drowned out the
moaning of the dying Orcs that lay around them.
That it did not rain just then, and that the winter sun filtered
through the tree tops, casting a sudden ray of light on
Boromir's face. That the blood of them both mingled on
Aragorn's lips and that it tasted like his tears, like the sea
that had salted his lips when he raided the Corsair ships so
long ago, his sword singing and bloody.
That Legolas came running, but did not draw near, giving
them for the last time the silent space they had never been
able to fill with anything other than high-strung words of
honour and bloodlines. Meaningless. It had all been
meaningless, even if Boromir's death had been the pivotal
point of their journey, breaking up their Fellowship and
ensuring that each of them were in the right place at the
right time.
"Out of something bad, something good may come."
She was wise, his wife, perceptive and understanding. And
he hated her for that. For she was not the one who had
stood beside him in Moria, witnessing Gandalf's fall and
screaming his name, taking the lead and rescuing them all
from certain death. He hated her for not dying in a mossy
glade in his shaking arms, the bloody broken sword between
them, burning blood and cold steel separating them forever.
As it had done during their short time together.
For being here.
This the High King of Gondor remembered when he stood on
the White Tower of Ecthelion in the evening, watching the
sun set over blood-red mountains and the western sea,
where maybe now he drifted forever in a little grey boat,
alone, with nothing to accompany him but the weapons of
his vanquished foes.
That Boromir had accepted him as his king in the end,
thrusting the fate of his people into a ranger's hands,
entrusting him with the lives of the White City. That the Man
had gripped his hair in agony, pulling him so close to him
that Aragorn had screamed inside when he finally realized
that this was what he had yearned for all along. But that it
had been denied to him by duty and honour and
stubbornness. That death was giving him the only thing he
had never thought he wanted. That death was taking it
away from him forever. That he could kiss him only after
death had ensured that his kiss could never be returned.
That Gimli had stood by, respectfully, eyes shimmering with
tears, as they sung their lament, finally pushing the boat
over the shimmering Rauros Falls. That he had wanted to
stay there forever, but that he had he had felt the image of
the White Tree under his fingers when he put on the dead
warrior's bracers. That duty and pledges given had driven
him on to fulfill his fate.
This he remembered whenever they would host a banquet in
honour of distinguished guests, feasting on strong wine from
the South and delicious dishes, laughter and merriment
ringing through the high-ceilinged hall, soft music playing to
enlighten the mood.
That they would go hunting together like a pack of wolves
and that for once they would not fight for dominance, but
work together in perfect unison to bring down a deer or
snare a rabbit so they all would eat that night. That their
eyes would meet suddenly, as they lay under cover in the
underbrush, dirty and tired, but delighting in the hunt and
each other's company. That sometimes, suddenly, Boromir
would smile at him then and that he could do nothing but
return it.
This he remembered when Merry and Pippin finally came to
stay with him in Minas Tirith and they spoke of times gone
by, remembering fallen comrades and those who had long
since left this earth.
That he was the only one who truly remembered him. That
even Pippin, who had liked Boromir well enough, had lost
his memories of him, the warrior just a dim mirage from a
long distant past. That the Hobbit had given his firstborn
son the name of Boromir's brother. That he himself had not
even dared to name his son so. That Boromir's name would
disappear forever from the memories of mankind when he
would forget him too.
This he remembered as he lay in Faramir's arms: secret
stolen moments on his journeys to Ithilien to handle matters
of state. This he remembered as his hands caressed the
scars on his lover's body.
That Boromir had died in his arms, riddled with arrows in a
mossy sun-dappled green glade and that his healer's hands
could not save the one he most wanted to save.
by Sasjah Miller
"The garrison sleeps in the citadel
With the ghosts and the ancient stones
High upon the parapet
A Scottish piper stands alone
And high on the wind
The highland drums begin to roll
And something from the past just comes
And stares into my soul."
his he remembered as he lay next to Arwen in their cold
wide bed, while she dreamt unseeing of lands forever
beyond her reach, in the misty grey hours before dawn.
