Companions
Boromir recalled his first encounter with the one called Strider, standing
before Isildur's mural in Rivendell. Blood drawn by Isildur's father's sword
burned down his own finger. For a split second, he had felt as though he were
being watched by Isildur himself—the great hero and great failure, the man
seduced by the Ring. Was Isildur's image there to serve as model or warning to
Boromir?
He knew not; he knew only the great shock of feeling that surged through him. It
continued to do so whenever Isildur's heir smiled at him, with confidence and
curiosity flickering behind his shadowed eyes. Boromir found it hard not to bask
in that gaze, to return it, to begin to burn with it. Already he burned with
thoughts of the Ring, a constant murmur throbbing in his head. Sauron's Ring of
Power gleamed like the Tower of Ecthelion, as alluring as the descendant of the
man who had brought the Ring from Mount Doom into their world.
Tempers among the Fellowship began to fray as they climbed into the Pass, for
the temperature dropped steadily and their muscles protested the increasingly
hostile terrain. Following Gandalf's lead, Aragorn pressed forward without
relent. It fell to Boromir to look after the small ones, particularly Merry and
Pippin who made no secret of their trouble keeping up. Elrond had resisted
allowing these halflings to accompany Frodo and Sam on the journey, but Boromir
found their easy humor a pleasant diversion from the grimness of their task. He
wondered whether hobbits might be incorruptible by the evil in the Ring, despite
their long proximity to it.
To relieve his own tension, he taught the little ones fencing and archery
whenever they stopped to rest. Aragorn watched bemusedly, a half-smile turning
up his mouth. It reflected his unvoiced awareness that the skills were
necessary, but also seemed to contain a winking recognition that Boromir did not
offer the lessons for entirely selfless reasons. Boromir wanted to show off for
the others—for Gandalf because the wizard had ignored him in the council, for
Legolas because the elf suggested that he owed Aragorn his allegiance, and for
Aragorn to impress with his talents as a warrior. And because Boromir savored
the feel of the other man's eyes on his body as he moved, showing off his
muscles, demonstrating his flexibility.
Boromir's turmoil was all the more disturbing because these impulses were not
new to him. In the past he had felt similar urges to impress men with his
strength and prowess—shield-brothers of Gondor, usually men under his own
command, not the ones over-eager to serve the Steward's son but those who had to
be convinced that he had earned his captaincy through deeds rather than
birthright. The best warriors and most noble guards did not simply accept him as
a peer, but had to be won over with daring and dexterity. Once they were, they
often became his most ardent supporters. In truth his most pleasurable memories
lay not within the silks and lace of Gondor, but the sweat and exigency of
martial campaigns, where the polite expectations of society fell away.
This long journey into the hills often had the routine of a military march. The
halflings would fall asleep right after supper, exhausted by the long days of
marching and running from menace. Frodo, in particular, needed the escape of
sleep, though his dreams were troubled by the Ring and he often cried out in the
night. Gandalf, Aragorn and the others often spent the evening discussing the
next day's route or supplies they needed to acquire, and sometimes they
reminisced about past campaigns or crises—Gimli never passed an opportunity
to brag about the skills of the dwarves, and Legolas had much of the elves' long
history committed to memory. Sometimes they sang as well.
But Aragorn rarely spoke of his own upbringing, and Boromir felt that the others
were judging them both, holding them as reflections of their fathers rather than
their own men. Sometimes he grew sullen, even angry—he, who had more right to
bear the Ring than any of them, for the good of the race of men who guarded the
hidden realms of the elves and dwarves. Then he would retire early and seethe,
hunched under a cloak that increasingly could not protect him from the elements,
despite its fine fur lining and the leather of his collar.
At such times, Boromir thought he could feel Aragorn's eyes upon his back, but
the concern implied condescension that only frustrated him more. Curled within
himself against the cold, he heard the Ring calling to him, making promises for
the safety and stewardship of Minas Tirith that he craved like a hunger in his
body.
On the night before they would traverse the Pass, they lay in a camp dug beneath
rocks to avoid the snow, circling a weak fire that could not drive out the
chill. Boromir lay within his cloak in the most exposed spot, on the far side of
the flames from where the others slept. He could not sleep in such conditions,
tossing about in a futile effort to warm his limbs. Long after the others had
fallen silent—the hobbits in a huddle between Gimli and Legolas, obscured
under all the blankets—Aragorn moved around the fire to sit beside him.
"You seem close to freezing," he observed.
No point in denying what his shivering lips already confessed. Yet it was unlike
Aragorn to make idle conversation, unless he wished to ridicule Boromir for
succumbing to the cold. "Have you a way to warm the mountain?"
"No, but we can warm one another. Come share my blankets."
Boromir felt a surge of feeling in his chest, quickly dismissed as irritation.
Aragorn's "blankets" consisted of his cloak and the heavy lining of his tunic.
Rangers were in the habit of sleeping on the icy ground, in caves, in mud,
wherever they happened to be. But Aragorn's expression held no mockery, and
Boromir realized that the other man might envy his own thick cloak. By joining
the heat of their bodies, they would both be warmer and stronger on the morrow.
He grunted assent, avoiding Aragorn's eyes.
As if to confirm Boromir's suspicions, Aragorn spread his cloak on the ground
and lay atop it, waiting for the warrior to share the fine velvet and fur of
Minas Tirith that lined his clothing. Though tempted to taunt Aragorn for his
deviousness, Boromir restrained the impulse. Aragorn might withdraw his offer in
the face of ridicule, and Boromir was very cold. And eager to lie near Aragorn
before that overprotective elf or one of the halflings inserted himself under
the prodigal prince's wing. Again Boromir felt a surge of emotion in his chest,
harder to repress, as he lay down beside his rival for Gondor.
Aragorn shifted close, pressing shoulder to shoulder under the heavy cloak. The
man's strong, familiar scent engulfed Boromir at the same moment their bodies
made contact, and he could not withhold a tremor of reaction to the proximity.
At that, the Ranger turned, putting an arm over Boromir's chest to hold him
closer in shielding warmth. Without his bracers or mail, piled at his side with
his sword and horn so that he might sleep unrestrained, Boromir felt naked and
tensed against his body's unwitting betrayal.
"I am making you uncomfortable," his companion observed quietly.
Boromir barked a laugh, too loud for the hush of the others sleeping nearby.
"Perhaps you think I have been spoiled in a comfortable bed at Gondor." Thinking
of his bed only made him more ill at ease, as his mind brought forth embarrassed
memories of girls he had tumbled there, contrasted with more cherished memories
of other shared blankets under the skies. Since he had been a teenager, women
had offered themselves to the son of the Steward—some in hope of eventual
marriage, some out of curiosity and a desire for second-hand power. He had no
aversion to bedding a willing lady, especially one who lacked inhibition and
liked to experiment, but none of those affairs had ever equaled the urgency and
passion of men facing their doom in battle.
As if he could read minds, Aragorn murmured, "I know of your feats as a warrior.
When you lead men into battle, do you deny yourself the comfort of a shared
blanket on a night such as this?"
Boromir's head jerked sharply to the side to see whether his companion derided
him, but again, Aragorn's expression bore no malice, only curiosity. Their faces
were close enough for the steam of one's breath to curl the other's hair. The
quick, panting breaths that lifted his chest under Aragorn's arm revealed more
than words, yet Boromir dared not speak at first. "This quest is different," he
said finally. "And you are not a soldier under my command, but..."
"...Isildur's heir," Aragorn finished for him with a wry smile. "What makes you
uncomfortable, Captain of the White Tower—do you fear that I covet the throne
of Gondor, or resent that I have shunned it?"
"I do not fear you, Ranger," scoffed Boromir with such force that he winced
inwardly at his own defensiveness. In a more subdued tone he continued, "Many
matters of this fellowship remain uncertain. The dwarf does not trust the elf,
who does not trust me, though he trusts you. The Ringbearer may like you and Sam
as well, but he does not trust any of us near the Ring. And you...you do not
trust me either."
Without removing the arm warming Boromir's chest, Aragorn raised himself up on
an elbow to gaze down. "I trust you to fight bravely. I trust you to defend
Gondor with your life." The hand on his chest moved up to Boromir's face,
turning his chin up to meet Aragorn's eyes. "I trust you as you trust me."
The artery in Boromir's throat pulsed against the faint pressure of Aragorn's
scalding fingers. The bright eyes hovering above him revealed so much yet at the
same time too little; Boromir did not know how to interpret the promise there.
For an instant, emotion overwhelmed him so that he could not breathe—the same
sentiments he had felt since he first laid eyes on Aragorn, secretly nurtured,
now laid bare.
This was no mere fascination, but a passionate allegiance he would give to none
but a king. Yet Gondor acknowledged no King, and the son of the Steward wanted
to despise this unthroned claimant. It pained him to feel his own weakness —
that he could not despise Aragorn, that he felt drawn to the man, that he wanted
to impress him, that he yearned to call him friend, that his loins stirred as he
lay captive beneath Aragorn's hand.
With a grunt, Boromir disengaged his eyes and rolled away onto his side, letting
the cold ground absorb the flush of his skin. He knew his companion would find
him unconscionably rude, yet the risks of continued familiarity were greater
still. Aragorn stiffened in surprise, but after a moment he settled back and
squeezed Boromir's shoulder as if in sympathy.
"If you feel no fear, you need feel no shame."
"I do not understand. What shame?" Still Boromir's heart pounded so forcefully
that his belly fluttered, as if he were a very young man going to war for the
first time.
"You respond to the connection between us just as I do. But I have spent more of
my life among elves than men; the immortals do not share the same taboos." Soft
whiskers tickled Boromir's neck, then he felt Aragorn's lips beneath his ear —
a brief kiss that might have conveyed mere solidarity, yet offered so much more.
How weak Aragorn must think him, lying trembling with his back turned. Boromir
managed to ask, "Would you unman me, Ranger?", hoping the other would interpret
his words and the tremor in his voice as annoyance rather than the longing which
shook him throughout. Yet he felt relief and even joy when Aragorn's arm slipped
around Boromir once more, cupping his hip, brushing his thigh and finding the
evidence of desire his leggings could not hide.
Hotly whispered words filled his ear: "You feel quite like a man to me."
It was too much. In a moment he would fall under Aragorn's spell and become his
to command. With a choked gasp, Boromir sought the protection of obstacles.
"What of the Lady Arwen?"
"I love the Lady Arwen with all my soul," came the reply. "But she is an
immortal, who has lived much longer than I have, in realms ethereal and pure. I
am only a man, and I find myself drawn to those like myself, who struggle with
the legacies of our fathers and would die to undo the damage to our realms."
Boromir rolled and for the first time beheld Aragorn in full, vulnerable
arousal, with glittering eyes and breath that came too fast. "If you believe it
is wrong for us to take comfort where we can, then I apologize," the earnest
face beseeched Boromir's forgiveness. "We travel in the presence of a great evil
whose power is felt by all. I know that you have felt it—I know that the Ring
calls to you to take it to Minas Tirith."
"If you find me so weak, Ranger, that I can be seduced by the Ring, what victory
would it be to seduce me yourself?" Boromir's voice was harsh and grating.
Aragorn's reply sounded pained.
"This is not a battleground between us, and I do not seek your surrender to any
touch you would not welcome. We march together against a common foe. I truly
believe that any happiness we find on this journey may empower us to withstand
the temptations of the Ring, and give us the strength we need to fulfill the
journey to Mordor. Will you share it with me?"
For long moments, the two men lay silent, listening to one another's uneven
breathing, contrasted with Gimli's burbling snore and Merry's wheeze on the far
side of the crackling fire. Then Boromir took Aragorn's face between his hands
and crushed his lips to those of Gondor's rightful king.
He knew in his heart that it was a battleground, and that he had already
surrendered. But as Aragorn's hands and mouth summoned feeling back into his
frozen flesh and freed him, for a few moments, from the siren song of the Ring,
he knew too that he would have no regrets. And when he allowed his body to offer
the devotion he would not allow to pass his lips, when he heard Aragorn's choked
cry and long shudder of gratitude, he understood that within this surrender lay
a glorious victory.
2 Depths
The stench of Moria might have wiped entire civilizations from Middle Earth.
When the Fellowship had first entered the entrance cave, Legolas had had the
uncharacteristically bitter thought that perhaps this was why dwarves stank so,
living in an underground of sulphur and unrecycled waste. When they found the
rotting bodies, he deplored his harsh judgment and vowed to be kinder to Gimli,
though Gimli had barely been polite to Legolas since his insistence that no elf
would take the Ring without a dwarf as a companion.
Legolas felt fortunate to have learned to control his sensitivities and dampened
his responsiveness to scents—a trick Gandalf seemed to have mastered as well.
The dwarf and the hobbits either lacked the same awareness of odors or had
learned to repress their own reactions. But the humans lacked such control; both
Aragorn and Boromir had become ill from the fumes.
Now Boromir slept fitfully, limbs twitching and lips murmuring oaths. Finally
Aragorn drew a heavy arm around him and lulled him to quiet. Legolas watched
them thoughtfully, knowing that he would not sleep himself until they passed
through Moria. Gandalf had said it was a four-day journey to the other side, but
they had kept a rapid pace—fast enough to be through by the next day, and
they might have emerged even more quickly had the hobbits not been overcome by
the need to rest their smaller legs. Considering the condition of the staircases
and walkways they traversed, Gandalf had thought it best to let them sleep,
though Legolas did not believe any of them could truly relax in the mines.
Aragorn and Boromir had given up all pretense of disdain for one another while
high on the mountain. In the mines they lay as close as lovers, though Legolas
did not think they had gratified their longings since the night he had woken to
the sound of ragged breathing, imperceptible over the sounds of the night and
the fire to any without elvish hearing. Worried that one or the other man might
have taken ill, Legolas had crept around the fire and witnessed the sinuous
rhythmic movements beneath Boromir's cloak.
It had surprised the elf that Aragorn would indulge in private intimacies on a
quest such as theirs...particularly with Boromir, who wore his lust for the Ring
as nakedly as his attraction to his rightful king. Yet their closeness seemed to
calm the younger man. Boromir no longer chafed when the Ranger gave orders, nor
tried to upstage the others with his sword. Perhaps Aragorn had known it would
be for the best. Legolas did not know what promises Aragorn and Arwen had
exchanged. He knew it was difficult for the prince to be caught between the
worlds of elves and men; it was not the place of an elf to judge him.
Frodo, who was also trapped between worlds, slept as fitfully as Boromir,
thrashing and clutching at the Ring near his throat. Beside the hobbit, Gandalf
sat deep in meditation, though occasionally he seemed to come to himself and
gaze uneasily around their small chamber. It had once been a vault for treasures
mined by the dwarves. Aragorn had chosen it as a sleeping hollow so that they
could lock out the orcs if necessary, not needing to mention the ease with which
the orcs could trap them inside until they rotted. Gimli—who had scarcely
spoken since he discovered the mass slaughter of his kin—sat grim watch in
the doorway.
"If you wish to rest, I will guard the door," Legolas said softly as he
approached the dwarf.
"I cannot sleep in my cousins' tomb," Gimli snapped, though his animosity toward
elves in general and Legolas in particular had lessened over the course of their
journey. "You should rest with the others." He jerked his head in the direction
of the two men.
"I believe they would prefer to be alone."
The statement was made without guile, yet brought a quiet guffaw from Gimli.
Hearing the dwarf express amusement in these circumstances eased Legolas'
concerns about him, so the elf did not try to remedy the double meaning of his
words. "I am certain they would prefer to be alone, but our circumstances have
not permitted them much privacy. Perhaps when this miserable journey has ended,
they shall find peace together in Gondor."
Again Legolas felt glad to hear hopefulness from Gimli. He started to agree when
his sensitive ears registered changes in the breathing of those behind them.
Boromir had jolted from sleep, waking Aragorn. The two exchanged sighs and
repositioned themselves under the cloak they now shared, for security more than
body heat; the temperature in the caves held constant in the great hall and rose
as they neared the mines, some now filled with molten lava from the depths.
Boromir spoke in a growl. "Even the Ring longs to leave this desolate place."
"Can you hear the call of the Ring even here?"
The hushed whispers carried to Legolas through the dank air. He perceived the
rustle as one man brushed the hair from the other's face. It seemed that Gimli,
lacking elvish hearing, could not hear them.
"Can you not sense it? In places like this, where evil seeps into the very
walls, the Ring grows stronger. It speaks to me now as I speak to you!"
"Then surely you recognize the danger. I know you long to take the Ring to
Gondor, to wield it to protect the city. I saw what it cost you to return the
Ring to Frodo on the mountain. You know what is at stake, my friend."
"Friend? The hiss of Boromir's whisper grew louder as he sat up. "Do you not
mean your rival? You follow the will of the council to impress Elrond and his
daughter. But I march for Gondor! I know what is at stake!"
"Boromir, this anger is not your own. Come back to bed."
"Bed." The warrior snorted the word. "I was more at ease sleeping in the snow.
Never have I seen so foul a place as this. Yet Mordor is said to be far worse.
How will I defend the Tower of Ecthelion when I am crawling through that
wasteland? What will the Ring say to us when we are so close to its home?"
"I will be by your side," Aragorn whispered intently. "We will fight it
together..."
"Together! And will that save our quest or damn it? The ring calls to me now,
but you—you are Isildur's kin!"
Legolas twisted his head sharply in Aragorn's direction, but forced himself to
turn back to the doorway despite his curiosity. Though Aragorn's response was
whispered, it carried across the chamber.
"Do you believe that does not weigh on my heart every hour? I am Isildur's kin,
which shaped me long before the Ring came to Rivendell. Do you think I wish only
to escape responsibilities, that I do not fear the same weakness flowing through
my veins? I too know what is at stake!"
A long silence followed, during which Legolas could hear the two men gulping
shallow breaths. As he glanced over at Gimli, he realized the dwarf had fallen
asleep, leaning against the pillar by the door. Then Boromir said, "This foul
air has addled our minds. You are right. We should try to sleep. My friend."
From the corner of his eye, the elf saw Aragorn hold out his hand to Boromir,
who took it. The two men lay back and pulled the heavy cloak up to their heads.
Legolas could not diminish his hearing as he could his sense of smell—nor did
he dare, in this underground tomb surrounded by orcs and demons. So he heard the
rustle of cloth, the scrape of beard against skin, the sticky wetness of kisses,
a long sigh of pleasure and frustration.
"I am sorry," he heard Boromir whisper.
"You owe me no apology."
"I am the son of the Steward of Gondor. It falls to me to carry the burdens of
the throne." Legolas heard Boromir sigh painfully. "You may be heir to Isildur's
blood, but not, I think, to his failings."
Quiet descended like a shroud as Legolas wondered: would Boromir give up his
birthright, the Stewardship of Gondor, to follow Aragorn as his king? Or could
he not forgive the man for the long years away, while the warriors of Minas
Tirith defended their land and that of the Elves?
At last Aragorn murmured, "Arwen said much the same thing to me."
"Then she is wise. You chose well in choosing her."
"In choosing you also. But I hope your faith is not misplaced."
"Aragorn, I am frightened as well."
"You, who fear neither trolls nor orcs?"
"I fear for the White City."
"That is why we defend Gondor from Mordor by destroying Sauron's Ring."
After a lull of silence, Legolas glanced behind him. Aragorn and Boromir seemed
to have fallen asleep, for their breathing had evened. But a pair of gleaming
eyes met the elf's as he looked around. Gandalf was alert, gazing around the
circle of sleepers with a sorrowful expression.
"Perhaps Lord Elrond underestimates the strength of men," he murmured.
"Or perhaps merely the strength of Aragorn," replied Legolas.
3 Shelter
The woods of Lothlórien were thick and fragrant, a canopy of greenery providing
respite from the growing dark beyond. Yet Strider felt no peace. Even in silence
he could hear the voice of the Lady of the Wood in his head, questioning,
warning. "Yet hope remains as long as the company is true," she had said, but
she had also said that if any strayed, their quest would fail.
Strider did not need the ability to read minds to know how close Boromir had
come to straying. Worse, when Galadriel had touched their thoughts and
discovered Gandalf's fate, he could feel her hunger for the Ring. If even the
Elf-Queen could be tempted, what hope could a man of Gondor summon against such
darkness, even a man as strong and noble in intention as the Captain of the
White Tower?
Legolas wore an expression frozen in grief, but Boromir had not truly seemed to
mourn for Gandalf, even though he raged at Aragorn for pushing the hobbits to
carry on when they were desolate. In the hours after they left Moria, Boromir
kept his distance and seemed resentful that the Ranger had assumed the wizard's
position of leadership. It marked a sad change from their travels through the
forest on the way to Moria. The evening after their first night together, as
they hunted game, Boromir had pressed Strider against a tree, panted, "I can
wait no longer to taste you," and besieged him with pleasure on the spot.
Most of their subsequent encounters had been similarly rushed yet gloriously
intense, away from camp while seeking firewood and food. They continued to share
blankets, yet rarely touched one another in the presence of the others. Legolas
and Gimli seemed to take if for granted that the men would go together to gather
supplies, though Merry and Pippin were hurt that Boromir absented himself from
training them. He assured them that they had become brilliant swordsmen in their
own right and claimed he needed to work with someone his own size to stay in
shape.
After Moria, however, Boromir evaded Strider's concerned outreach, walking with
the little ones. Merry and Pippin seemed glad for his company, but he stayed too
near to Frodo, too aware of the hobbit and the deadly treasure he carried. Even
in Lothlórien, Boromir could not seem to relax. Since they encountered
Galadriel, who stared until he flinched from her gaze, the fire in his eyes had
flared dangerously.
Though Strider supposed that he could pervade his lover's attentions for a time,
his heart ached with conflicting desires. Was he willing to be merely a
diversion for Boromir? If it served the greater good of the Fellowship, was he
obligated to do so? Or was it Boromir who might feel used, if he suspected that
his would-be prince offered his affections not only because of a personal bond
but a sense of responsibility?
He would have desired the warrior under any circumstances. He was drawn to
Boromir's unflagging energy, his reverence for the line of kings, his loyalty to
Gondor, and the ardent smile—too seldom seen—that transformed him from
earnest soldier to the passionate youth he should have been had the cares of his
life not been so burdensome. Though Boromir had not known the Ranger's true
identity when first they met, Strider had always recognized the Steward's son.
There had never been a moment for him to evaluate the man as just that, a man,
free from the glamour of his name and reputation.
So Strider had begun to fall in love, not just with a handsome companion or a
fellow warrior, but with a man who symbolized Gondor to the outside world. A man
who represented lost home and hearth to its exiled heir.
That Boromir was in pain was evident to everyone, even Frodo, who tried to keep
his distance and protect his burden. Strider knew he needed to reach out to his
companion, to try to channel the repressed grief and bitterness before it
exploded into anger, though his own strongly engaged feelings made him
uncharacteristically hesitant. "Take some rest, Boromir," he advised neutrally.
"These borders are well protected."
Bleak eyes rose and fell, lost in their own world of suffering. "I shall find no
rest here. I heard a voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall
of Gondor. She said to me, 'Even now, there is hope left,' but I cannot see it."
As the warrior's anger faded to despair, Strider feared for Boromir even more.
Those who lacked hope were most susceptible to the false promises of the Ring.
Why would Galadriel say such things to Boromir, when surely she could sense his
precarious state? That Boromir would now confide his fears—that his father
was failing as Steward, that the people were losing faith—gave Strider little
comfort. He might have broken through Boromir's shell of bitterness, perhaps
even touched his heart, but he could make no promises of salvation for the man
or the world he loved.
From the shards of resentment, Boromir seemed to have come to accept Isildur's
heir as his peer if not his ruler. He talked of Minas Tirith as a joint legacy,
though took responsibility for its protection as his task alone. "Have you seen
it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and
silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze?"
A wave of homesickness washed over Strider, who had never realized he carried
such feelings for a city he feared to call his own, the city he and Boromir
shared—suddenly not as competitors but companions. Boromir had spent many
years staring at Mount Doom in the distance, accepting along with the
presumption of stewardship the responsibility for keeping Middle Earth safe from
the forces of Mordor. Did Strider dare to share the other's dream of returning
in triumph with him, to stand side by side as the Tower Guard took up the call,
"The lords of Gondor have returned!"?
"Come walk with me," he begged. Boromir stared at him, startled away from
visions of Ecthelion. He glanced back where Frodo and the others were preparing
to sleep, at Legolas who meditated on the elves' sad music, and nodded
acquiescence.
Though they had not had time to wash their clothes, they had bathed in the river
and eaten a robust meal, so that physically Strider felt more comfortable than
he had in weeks. As they walked in silence, he admired his companion's broad
shoulders and powerful stride, his chiseled features and shining hair. This man
would cut a striking figure as a ruling Steward, or as a councillor at the side
of a king.
For a split second he humored the fantasy: himself on the throne of Gondor and
Boromir at his side, his Captain of the Guard. Would it be unfair of him to add
Arwen to the picture, a beneficent and understanding Queen? Arwen had never
begrudged her fiancé the need to seek out other mortals, nor did he resent all
the long years of her life before his arrival. To live in Gondor, in peace,
among those he loved best, to become the wise and strong savior of whom Denethor
and his son dreamed, to protect all his people from the threat of Sauron...was
this dream as dangerous as Boromir's hunger for the Ring?
Strider knew he must have sighed aloud, for Boromir turned to him, putting hands
on his shoulders. They had walked almost to the river, far from the light of the
village in the trees. In the dimness, the warrior's eyes glistened with what
might have been the heat of passion or the sheen of tears. They had both been
careful to keep their emotions in check during their rushed encounters,
channeling whatever passions they felt into their quest, but now he could see
that Boromir could no longer hold back; he pulled Strider forward and kissed him
without aggressiveness or hesitation, all trace of embarrassment gone. The
embrace was hungry yet tender, familiar though altogether too rare, promising
not only fulfillment but a lasting bond.
Helplessly Strider responded, wondering how he had let down his guard so far and
what place in his life he could carve for this devoted steward who deserved so
much more of a lover than these clandestine meetings. Boromir would not be the
man he was if he put personal desires ahead of his commitments, and
Strider...what right had he, who had banished himself, to dream of a triumphant
homecoming among those he loved?
"What is wrong?" Boromir asked, his voice a rush of thick velvet and churning
water. "Do you...is it that you no longer desire me, now that you know what is
in my heart?"
Fiercely Strider clasped Boromir to him, not just in desire but also in shame.
"You have a noble heart, Boromir, perhaps more noble than my own," he avowed
throatily. "You have never sought to free yourself from the bonds that chain you
to Gondor, while I...I have chosen exile, telling myself that I feared to repeat
the failings of my kin. I thought to protect my kingdom but perhaps I have
merely abandoned it, and abandoned your father and you. I would not abandon you
now, not in battle, nor in this Fellowship...and certainly not tonight,
Melindo."
Boromir stood so close in his embrace that Strider could not see his face, yet
he could feel the tremor that went through him at the endearment. "Beloved," he
whispered, a slight mistranslation of the elvish term, but apparently the
meaning had conveyed. Soft, freshly trimmed beard brushed Strider's cheek as
Boromir turned to press his lips to Strider's temple. Then, as he stepped back,
he caught the Ranger's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles.
Before Strider could respond, Boromir turned both his head and their joined
hands to the side in a fluid gesture that allowed his mouth to slide from the
wrist to the palm and over the tips of Strider's fingers.
"My liege."
With a shudder of want, Strider closed the space between them and would have
flung his arms around Boromir, but the other's eyes, burning with such intense
hunger one moment, suddenly clouded and shifted. The change was barely
perceptible yet Strider knew its meaning at once. His chest clutched with
private grief even as he forced himself to remain open to Boromir, to keep their
connection.
"You hear the Ring again."
With a start, Boromir turned his focus back to the man whose hand he still held.
"I hear the Ring. And the voice of the Elf-Queen, singing of coming darkness.
Aragorn, help me."
Fear stabbed at Strider, keen and icy as that which had struck him when he
realized Frodo had been wounded by the Nazgšl and when Boromir found the Ring
high on the mountain. "Listen to my voice," he said urgently. "Look into my
eyes. The Ring is evil, Boromir. Though you would use it out of a noble desire
to save Gondor, you must know that it would use you as it used Isildur. The Ring
serves only Sauron; it is his voice you hear when you heed the Ring. He feeds on
your anger and your fear."
Yanking his hand free and disengaging his gaze, Boromir took several steps back,
swinging his arm above his head in a sweeping arc. "But what if it speaks truly?
What if the race of men were spared? How many of us have given our lives for the
elves and the dwarves, for..."
"Boromir! Listen to me." Strider would have slapped him to return him to his
senses, but for the fact that he knew all his grief and rage would propel his
hand. He no longer knew whether it was the will of the Ring or his own
desperation that fueled his feelings. "The Ring feeds on our desires as well. It
tells us of the good it could do were we to wield it, not the devastation that
would surely follow."
"No! She told me..."
"I do not know what Galadriel has shown you of the fate of Gondor, but I know
that the Ring can only bring about its doom. If Frodo cannot put an end to its
power, the Ring will destroy your home and you as well. See how it holds us now!
What will it do to the armies, the councillors?"
"And what of us, Ranger?" Boromir's voice had gone very soft, with an edge of
menace, yet Strider could hear the pain with which the warrior addressed him.
"Do you truly come to me with affection, or some perverted lust born of the
Ring? Is this an alliance, or a ploy to ensure my submission so that when you
claim your throne, my men may fall to your weakness? How can I know—how can
you know?"
There they were, the words said aloud, the deadly dream before him. Strider
squared his shoulders and faced them. "Galadriel said that hope remained as long
as we held true," he affirmed, to reinforce the words for himself as well as
Boromir. "My elvish name is Estel, which means 'hope' in our language. I would
not betray you, nor the Fellowship, nor Gondor."
As he said the final words, he understood that they were true: he was Aragorn,
son of Arathorn, heir not only to Isildur but to Elendil and the line of kings
before him. It was time for him to claim that name. As long as he held true to
himself and his pledges, the forces of darkness could not defeat him. And he
understood as well his ardor for the man before him not as private passion but a
vital element of their destiny. "The Ring creates only hatred, Boromir. What I
feel for you is love. The Ring has no dominion here."
For a moment Boromir's visage blazed so brightly that Aragorn was unsure whether
he would win his battle with the voice of evil inside him. Then the other man
fell to his knees, clenching his eyes shut. Aragorn followed him to the ground,
reaching to clutch his hands.
"I can no longer trust myself, nor my honor," Boromir said in a choked voice.
"Then trust me," Aragorn begged, moving his hands to Boromir's face to force the
warrior to look at him. Their gazes locked, and he shook to see the struggle in
Boromir's eyes, alternating between love and despair. Finally Boromir clenched
his eyes shut and kissed him as he had the first time, an embrace that was both
conquest and surrender.
No more words were said. Each man gave as he took, clumsily, for their desires
outpaced their finesse, but their relief and pleasure were consummate. When it
was over, Aragorn lay on the ground with his face pressed into Boromir's chest
and wondered that in the midst of such sorrow, he could feel such joy.
But he did not know whether it would be enough to save his beloved in the end.
4 Passage
Though the ways of men were strange to him, Gimli understood the pain that drove
Aragorn through heat and darkness, seeking the halflings whom Boromir had
trained and adopted as his charges. The dwarf had known the same suffering in
Moria, surrounded by his dead kin—slain not only by the filth of orcs and
trolls, but an evil older than the world they knew.
Gimli had been the last to arrive at Boromir's side after the Horn of Gondor
cried out during the battle with the orcs and the Uruk-Hai. The warrior was
already near death when he reached the men, so the dwarf learned only later of
the confession that explained why the Fellowship had ended. Gimli and Legolas
agreed vehemently with Aragorn that Boromir had kept his honor—the Ring, and
none of them, had broken the Fellowship. But Aragorn still marched like a man
possessed, and as he hacked away brush, flinging himself over the rocky ground,
there were tears on his cheeks.
Legolas followed Aragorn closely, letting the man lead but insisting on using
his own senses to scout. From his initial deep distrust, Gimli had come to see
the elf as an invaluable member of their band. The sprite had heard the coming
of crebain and the curses of Saruman before even Gandalf; he had known something
more terrible than Orcs awaited them in Amon Hen. Now he walked barely two steps
behind Aragorn, close enough to sense every shift in the man's breathing, to
catch him if he stumbled or to fling himself in his path should danger arise.
It was Legolas who had told Gimli in hushed tones of Boromir's final moments,
for the elf had heard the voices of the men even before he reached the pierced
form of the warrior of Gondor and the prince who clung to him. As darkness
clouded the fallen man's eyes, Boromir prophesied the fall of his city, and the
world of men, and all of the kingdoms of Middle Earth. But Aragorn had held fast
to him and sworn that he would not let the White City fall, nor their people
fail.
Gimli wondered whether "our people" referred to the Fellowship or the men of
Minas Tirith. When Aragorn declined to follow Frodo, letting the Ring pass
beyond their reach, the dwarf expected him to turn toward Gondor. Sorrowfully he
had mourned their failed quest, for with Frodo past their reach, the Fellowship
would seem to have been in vain. Yet Aragorn insisted that they must remain
together to rescue Merry and Pippin, heeding the words of the glorious
Elf-Queen, who had told them that hope remained while the company held true.
Though perhaps his reasons were more selfish; perhaps Aragorn needed to kill
more orcs in vengeance for Boromir before he could turn toward his home.
"I would have followed you, my brother...my captain...my king." Gimli weighed
Boromir's last words. The man wanted to be remembered as Aragorn's first devoted
subject, his next of kin. Strange that there had been no word of love in his
farewell, though perhaps for Aragorn this vow meant more. The dwarf knew the
warriors had shared a bed when circumstances permitted, but he was unsure among
men how much significance that might hold. He had heard other men brag of their
conquests with women and murmur in hushed tones of pleasurable battlefield
encounters that meant nothing. Dwarves and elves bound themselves throughout the
years unless great evil intervened, but it was said of men that their affairs
were whimsies, free of responsibility and true passion.
Gimli did not think that it had been so between Aragorn and Boromir, whose
commitment to one another grew even as the Ring gnawed at their alliance. They
spent much of their time together during the days the Fellowship rested in
Lothlórien. Perhaps Aragorn had sensed the need to limit Boromir's proximity to
Frodo and the Ring, but the others knew full well that was not the only reason
for their closeness. Yet Gimli also knew that Aragorn was promised to the elf
who had given him the enchanted necklace he wore, and that if Boromir had become
Steward, he would have been expected to take a wife. Did men call such a bond as
they shared by the name of love? The dwarf hoped for both their sakes that they
had allowed themselves that happiness, even if men were very different indeed.
Aragorn had changed since they passed through Lothlórien, even before he lost
his dearest companion and buckled on the bracers bearing the white tree of
Gondor. Isildur's descendant had gazed with awe upon the giant statues of his
kin, and had taken command at Amon Hen with an assurance that had none of the
coarseness of his orders when they collapsed on the rocks outside the mines.
When Gimli had warned the others of the dangers that awaited them in Mordor,
Aragorn had goaded him, suggesting that he rest and recover his strength, yet
the dwarf knew that the teasing was not meant as a challenge. The Ranger seemed
to be growing into the idea that he was no longer a wandering hero but the
rightful king of Gondor.
An issue that could no longer create strife between the onetime Ranger and the
presumptive Steward. Though they had not truly become close, Gimli had felt more
at ease with the latter, for he understood Boromir's quick temper and the
formality of his training. Boromir would have made a fine dwarf. The other man,
the son of a king, raised among elves, remained more mysterious, his goals more
elusive. Though none could doubt his survival skills, his relish for the wild
set him apart from the others. He had lived most of his life disconnected from
his own society. How ironic that he should now suffer so from the loss of a
companion.
Aragorn stopped, fist on a tree, closing his eyes and tilting his head as if he
were scenting something in the air. Gimli started to reach for his axe, but
Legolas' attention was focused only on the man. "You could not have stopped
him," the elf said. "The call of the Ring was too strong."
"Stronger than love, it would seem." Aragorn's reply was almost a whisper, not
really directed at Legolas. Then he turned to the others. "I felt it too, you
know—the call of the Ring. It was why I had to let Frodo go."
Gimli had felt the power in the Ring, but he did not think it overwhelmed his
judgment the way it did for men. He had wanted to slaughter the orcs of the
mines, to commit bloody mayhem, yet the hundreds of bodies of his kin might have
driven him to such fervor—even now, in the absence of the Ring, he felt the
same killing fury. It had not stopped him from holding fast to the Fellowship.
Perhaps because dwarves were quicker to anger, they also had more strategies for
containing their rage.
"You were right to let him go," he told Aragorn, though as usual no one had
asked for his opinion.
"Thank you, sir dwarf." A ghost of a smile played across the Ranger's features.
It had been Gimli's suggestion that they send Boromir down the Anduin, despite
his own aversion to water. He half-feared that Aragorn would insist on carrying
his companion's body to Minas Tirith for burial otherwise. Legolas had chanted
funeral songs in elvish that Gimli could not understand, but he realized that
their purpose was to keep Aragorn distracted while they cleaned up Boromir's
body as best they could and placed it in one of the boats.
Gimli had thought the man might want to keep the other's cloak, beneath which
they had lain together those cold nights in the mountains, but Aragorn had sent
Boromir to the river clad as a noble warrior with all but his bracers. As the
boat disappeared from view, he wept again, and said something in elvish that
Gimli did not understand but caused Legolas' head to turn sharply.
"He has reached his peace," the elf murmured. An immortal, Legolas must have
become used to losing the men he called friends, for he closed his eyes briefly
yet did not weep. Then he pushed the last boat into the water, but Aragorn had
made up his mind not to follow Frodo, and led them into the trees to pursue
Merry and Pippin. Gimli remembered the young hobbits wrestling Boromir to the
ground after a fencing lesson, the group falling into laughter that had made
even the weary Ranger smile. He was right to lead them after the small ones, no
matter what might be happening elsewhere in their kingdoms.
Gimli knew what lay ahead for them: if they took the road to Mordor, they faced
rocks sharp as blades and marshlands full of fire, and if they turned toward
Minas Tirith, the crumbling empire might summon them all to war. If he went home
now, Aragorn would bind himself to Gondor—in the name of his father and of
Boromir, who had forfeited his life for their land. The heir of Isildur was ever
more ready to become a king, now he knew what it meant to lose men under his
command.
And if they survived, if the Fellowship succeeded, if the Ring was destroyed and
the war won, Moria would have to be retaken and restored. There would be urgent
need for the mines, for mithril and weapons, and the hall would need a dwarf
lord. Gimli had trained as a warrior, using his heightened senses to defend his
people rather than laboring as a craftsman or an overseer in the mines. But
perhaps it would fall to him to rebuild Balin's great chambers, to close off the
demolished holes in the earth and open new channels through the rock, to carve
new chimneys, create new feasts, brew fresh beer.
Though he came from one of the noble houses of Erebor, it had been long since
Gimli imagined himself marrying, settling down and working within the Lonely
Mountain, though were he to meet a woman like Galadriel...a outrageous thought,
yet perhaps that destiny yet awaited him. His father had been one of the
companions of Thorin Oakenshield, and was now an important and rich dwarf
well-loved by the King under the Mountain. As the son of Glóin, he had
represented his family on many journeys within the mountains, and his wanderlust
had grown far beyond that of most dwarves, who were content to live for years at
a time in the great caverns.
It would be strange to return to the halls of the dwarves now, after spending so
much time among elves and men. Glóin and his son had been chosen for the
delegation in Rivendell because they were considered among the strongest
advocates for their people, but now Gimli knew that elves and men had their own
gifts. Elrond had told them that this great age of elves and dwarves might soon
approach its end. How could any hold fast to old injustices now that darkness
covered the land and all the peoples of Middle Earth might share the same fate?
Gimli's ties to his kin had not lessened. The loss of Balin and his family
burned like a fresh wound. He blinked, shook his head to clear it, and found
himself face to face with Aragorn, who had stopped and retraced his steps to
check on his companion's progress.
"Are you well, sir?" the Ranger inquired.
Gimli harrumphed to signify the preposterousness of the question. But he saw
understanding flash across the man's face, and realized that although Aragorn
faced much the same uncertain future as himself, the other would have to move
forward mourning not only long-lost family, but the beloved friend who had until
so recently marched at their sides. He reached out to this unlikely brother.
"I have heard it sung in an old ballad that the dead we love never really leave
us," Gimli said. He felt awkward in the role of comforter but felt keenly the
man's need. "Our companions go to the Halls of Mandos, the Undying Lands, yet
their spirits remain with us still. I know my cousin was with us in the mines.
And Boromir still aids our quest. He would defend Merry and Pippin, and he would
stand at your side, Aragorn."
"I will never stop regretting that I cannot see him there."
The rightful king of Gondor closed his eyes and bowed his head. Legolas stepped
close to his right hand, Gimli to his left, and their hands linked together in a
chain of fellowship. Aragorn swallowed before continuing. "But I am glad to have
you both as my companions on this quest. The Ring is the enemy of all trust, all
friendship, all truth. Would that Boromir could have understood before it was
too late. If we hold to each other, we cannot fail."
"We will not fail," Legolas agreed quietly.
"We shall not fail," Gimli declared.
The three bowed heads over their clasped hands. Then they raised them and turned
back to their trail.
"May it be," said Aragorn, and their little number strode forth into the future.
END
Em Wycedee
1 Rising
wo days after encountering Saruman's crebain, the Fellowship had strayed from
their route around the Misty Mountains to head into the Pass of Caradhras, and
Boromir had strayed from his vow to keep his distance from Isildur's heir.
Aragorn cleared brush with him, built fires with him, strung bridges of vine
with him, hid with him in dank ruins, and defended them all from beasts of the
land that only an elf's sensitive ears could hear as they approached. While
their trials went on, Boromir was forced to admit that he enjoyed the Ranger's
company. It was a particularly thorny confession because he did not want to like
Aragorn—not only for what he represented to Gondor, but for the alluring
power of the man himself.
