Promises and Pledges
1) Joust
The query sounded innocent enough. Though elves lived tens of dozens of human
lifetimes, they usually married relatively young, so most of the kin of Legolas
had wives and families. Whenever the hobbits could not persuade Boromir to train
them in the use of weapons, they clamored for stories from Legolas and Gandalf
about other races and ages long gone. Such tales existed only as legends in the
Shire.
"Good question, Merry. Aren't you ever going to marry?" Pippin demanded. Though
Boromir sat with Aragorn on the periphery of the discussion, he tensed to hear
the banter. His father, the Steward of Gondor, had asked him the same question
repeatedly in the past few years, becoming increasingly impatient with any
excuses his son offered. Boromir did not know whether the elf's reasons for
shunning wedlock were the same as his own, but he hoped that Legolas was not
called upon to make apologies so often as himself.
The Prince of Mirkwood was immortal; he did not need to worry about providing an
heir for his kingdom. The elf tilted his head toward Pippin and for a moment
Boromir thought Legolas would smile before his usual sobriety won out. "I have
not yet met the one to whom I wish to bind myself for all the ages," he said
gravely. "You do not have a wife, either."
"I'm much too young!" Pippin objected with a squeak as Frodo, Merry and Sam
burst into laughter and jokes about the likelihood of any woman ever being
foolish enough to marry Peregrine Took. Desperate to divert attention away from
himself, the smallest hobbit looked around. "What about you, Boromir? Why aren't
you married?"
Boromir waved a hand in dismissal, but everyone had glanced in his direction;
even Gandalf was listening. Beside him, Aragorn's head lifted expectantly. "I
have no time for women," the man of Gondor scoffed, then instantly knew the
choice of words had been in error; he should have said that he had no time for a
wife.
Sure enough, Merry demanded, "No women at all then?" and the small band laughed
about Boromir's virtue. He attempted to smile with them, plotting to turn the
question onto Sam if they kept at him. Yet he could not repress the unease that
always rose in him when the talk turned to marriage—the sense that his true
desires must be evident to anyone who questioned him on the subject.
"Perhaps he has been too engaged with manly pursuits," said a quiet voice by his
side. Boromir whirled to see Aragorn gazing speculatively at him, half a grin
twisting the side of his mouth that was not occupied by his pipe. The words and
the look on the Ranger's face made Boromir feel as if Aragorn had punched him,
all while pretending to be joking. Challenge loomed beneath the surface of the
calm blue eyes, telling Denethor's son that Isildur's heir knew the secret he
would not speak...
"While you gossip like court ladies, it falls to a man to fetch your dinner!"
Boromir snarled, surprising himself with the vehemence of his voice as the
laughter of the others fell away. At once he felt shamed, but he knew that if he
spoke again, he would only reveal himself further. He had meant to hold his
bitterness in check, but on this journey rage sometimes welled in him without
reason, particularly when the Ringbearer was present. Turning, he stalked away
from the rest of the Fellowship, climbing up the side of the hill toward the
trees.
"Boromir." Knowing that he would look more the fool by striding away than
standing to hear what Aragorn had to say, he planted his feet and turned,
waiting for the other man to reach his side. "I meant only to jest with you. You
have been so somber of late." The gentle smile encouraged response, but Boromir
did not return it. "I would not mock a man for..." It was rare for Aragorn to
falter, yet he paused, shrugging awkwardly. "...not wishing to marry."
"A ruling Steward's eldest son must marry if he wishes to follow his father,"
Boromir retorted. "As must a king, to produce an heir. That is duty, son of
Arathorn."
The other man held his eyes, refusing to accept the implied challenge. "Perhaps
we would do well to learn from the elves, who bind themselves for love above
duty."
"The fates of the kingdoms of immortals are not bound to the beds of their
rulers," replied Boromir. "Nor do the laws of Gondor place duty over love.
Though it is uncommon, a lord may wed a tavern maid."
"Yet he could be held in chains for bearing too much love for a soldier."
The frankness of the statement sent ice shooting through Boromir's veins. Was
Aragorn going to dispute his right to serve as Steward? "As the captain of
Gondor's armies, I have more pressing concerns than love between soldiers," he
said angrily. "In the camps of war, we fight terror and despair. I do not waste
strength hounding men for taking comfort where they will."
To his surprise, Aragorn dropped his eyes. "Nor would I. A man's love is his
concern alone. He may yet be a great warrior or a great king." The son of kings
looked up at Boromir once more, and his expression held no ridicule, only
understanding.
Now Boromir hesitated. Aragorn did not seem to be speaking of him at all, for he
had not said steward but king. In Minas Tirith, Boromir had heard many rumors
about the failings of the line of Numenor—mostly from his father, who had
little respect for Isildur's blood. Perhaps Aragorn had heard similar stories
about his family history. With a toss of his arm suggesting that it was no great
matter, Boromir asked, "You do not believe that some pairings are unnatural?"
"Men sometimes commit great evils and call them love," said Aragorn. "It is
unnatural to force a woman or befoul a child, to use sorcery to turn a lover's
affections or to destroy a rival."
Those were statements with which no man of honor would disagree, yet they
avoided the previous argument. Carefully Boromir added, "Not for a man to bear
too much love for a soldier?"
"That is no more unnatural than for an elf to love a man."
Boromir raised his eyes past Aragorn's head, studying the hills beyond their
camp, for he did not want to reveal the relief cresting in him. "You should be
careful of your speech," he muttered. "In Gondor, even rumors may destroy a
warrior. It is well for you that you are promised to Lord Elrond's daughter, for
I think none would question your love for an elvish princess."
"Lord Elrond will not permit us to marry until—unless I become King of
Gondor," Aragorn replied. "I have fallen in love with a woman I can rarely see.
Even among the elves, there are those who wonder why I have chosen such a
grueling fate." The Ranger sounded as though he expected Boromir to ask him that
question. Boromir very nearly did so, but the voices of the others carried up to
them, and Aragorn turned.
"It grows late. Let me get my bow, I will hunt with you."
The proud warrior of Gondor stared uneasily at the retreating form. He knew
Aragorn had guessed his most dangerous secret, yet did not seem repulsed, nor
pleased to have discovered a flaw in his rival. Perhaps he was plotting to use
the secret to turn Denethor against his son. But then why claim that the loves
of men were the concern of no one else, not even their king?
Perhaps, like many of the elves, Aragorn believed that all men were weak. Their
loins could awaken at the slightest provocation—the sight of a joust or the
smell of clean linen. Lord Elrond might have his own reasons for wishing Arwen
separated from Isildur's heir, but that did not explain Aragorn's unexpected
sympathy.
By the time Boromir reached the others, Aragorn had collected his bow and quiver
and was strapping a knife to his belt. "Stay and mind the little ones, we will
go in search of food," the Ranger told Legolas. And indeed, as they hunted and
skinned the meat, they spoke of routes around the lake and the need to replenish
their arrows, and Boromir very nearly forgot to keep his guard up.
"It has been long since I had a companion on my travels," Aragorn said softly,
pressing a hand to the shoulder of Boromir, who glanced at him.
"Now you have eight."
"It is not the same. I have escorted many through the wilds, but most of my time
is spent alone, outside the company of my own kind." Boromir stared in
amazement, unsure of the warmth in the other's flickering gaze. "I know you do
not trust me," added Aragorn. "You think I would stand in your place in Gondor.
In truth, Boromir, I covet nothing that is yours save your esteem."
"You have that already," the warrior replied brusquely. And realized as he spoke
the words that they were true.
2) Kindling
After several days, the companions forgot their teasing of Boromir, and Aragorn
persisted in asking his opinions of the routes and their provisions. With that
change, the others became easier around Boromir as well, particularly Frodo who
had not seemed to trust him from the beginning. Gandalf had accepted his promise
to see the Ring destroyed in Mordor, yet the little one gazed upon him uneasily
and always made certain others were present when the man spoke to him.
At first Boromir suspected that Aragorn had warned them to treat him with pity,
and he seethed quietly. Was it not enough humiliation that the fate of his lands
had been entrusted to a halfling who let the fears of a wizard lead him? But the
Fellowship banded together as the long days passed, and Boromir came to enjoy
the friendly banter among the companions, with stories to fill the long days and
laughter against the dark nights.
Aragorn walked with him often to scout ahead or to guard the rear, asking about
the captain's triumphs in battle and describing his own life defending the wilds
of Eriador. Though the Ranger could slay and skin an animal with the deftness of
a hawk, he could also admire the beauty of birds in flight and the fierceness of
a badger with pups. Aragorn quoted poetry as well as Legolas and loved to
describe the untamed beauty of the land, pointing out features of the fertile
valleys and colorful stones of the hills as they passed. Sometimes he seemed
more a bard than a guide.
Boromir, who had always ignored poetry in favor of military history and tactics,
found himself listening intently. Most of the stories he knew were bawdy tales
told by men in battle camps which could reduce Gimli to guffaws and make the
hobbits blush. Aragorn would bite his lip, struggling to keep his dignity, but
on a few occasions he bent double with laughter and leaned on Boromir for
support. Once Boromir had to haul him to his feet, their hands on each other's
elbows, and though the laughter had faded, they did not immediately draw apart
but stood together in giddy distraction until one of the others spoke.
Slowly the warrior came to acknowledge his pleasure when Aragorn sought him out
for opinions, conversation or quiet company. On the cold evening when the Ranger
drew his cape around them both, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder, Boromir
delighted in the freely offered warmth. On the damp morning when he woke from a
dream with his heart pounding and Aragorn's name on his lips, he silently
conceded the longing that his flesh already proclaimed.
This, then, would be his doom, this desire that brought joy and pain together.
Much as he wished to become Steward of Gondor like his father before him, he
wanted just as fiercely to remain at the side of the heir of Isildur. Aragorn
was a man of integrity and mercy, fearless in battle and willing to lay down his
life for the safety of his people. As the bond of kinship between them grew
stronger, Boromir knew that his own ambitions might have to take their place
behind those of the only man worthy to wear the crown of his land.
But beneath the surface ran another feeling, darker than love and more bitter
than loyalty. Boromir felt it most strongly when he was in the presence of the
Ringbearer, but even when he walked alone, it whispered to him, making promises
for Gondor and the strength of the Stewards. It fed him dark images of Aragorn,
filled with lust and violence. When he strode away from the others to hunt or
scout, sometimes his head would clear, and he feared the source of his visions.
Then anger would well in him, and he would see the path to triumph all too
clearly.
The Ring promised the safety of Gondor and his role as its protector, with
Aragorn always in his debt.
After their encounter with the crebain, when Gandalf insisted instead upon
taking the Pass of Caradhras, the Ranger decided that one of them must risk
visiting the tiny village nestled in the foothills for provisions. There would
be no food to be found high on the mountain and they had no smoked meats nor
grains, nor did they carry enough blankets and rope to make the journey safely.
"You'll come with me, Boromir," he stated. Both Gandalf and Legolas looked
askance, but neither voiced an objection, although Boromir suspected that
Gandalf would rather have gone with Aragorn and left a warrior to guard the
little ones.
For more than a day the two men descended the rocky hillside toward the hamlet,
carrying the small treasure they had brought from Rivendell. It was a pleasant
journey and they kept a rapid pace, eating as they walked, sleeping for only a
few hours. As they approached the little village, Boromir took note of how
filthy they had become on their travels and wondered briefly whether they might
be refused accommodations. The fine cloth of Gondor that he wore had frayed,
stained and become crusted with dirt. Although he could not see his own hair,
Aragorn's hung like an animal's matted fur.
For a man who had always borne the standard of his home with pride, it was a
shameful state to meet with strangers, though he had often found himself so when
fighting on the borders, and this small cluster of houses could scarcely be
called a town. "I think we need not worry about unwanted guests coming close to
try to learn our business," he said. "We smell like horses."
Aragorn grinned. "If we can find lodgings, we can clean ourselves and our
clothing. Then we can do our trading in the morning and set off."
The old stable that had been furnished to serve as an inn was filled with stale
smoke and cobwebs, but the proprietor made no comment about their appearance and
asked no questions about their business. They ate cheese and pudding for the
first time in more than a month while Boromir drank weak ale and Aragorn smoked
his pipe. A mountain stream ran behind the town, and they washed their cloaks
and tunics in the icy water.
When they went inside, they asked the innkeeper to build a fire and to bring
basins of water so that they could take turns scrubbing the soot from their
faces and bodies. Aragorn borrowed a needle from the innkeeper's wife to mend
the holes in his breeches. Boromir found himself watching as if entranced as the
Ranger's scarred hands carefully stitched the fabric together. He had been
taught to think of mending as menial work, left to scullery maids in Gondor and
to young soldiers in the camps of war, yet his friend appeared to be skilled at
the craft.
"I can fix yours as well," Aragorn offered.
"It is my shirt that has ripped."
"Then give it to me."
Boromir felt heat flood his face as the other man glanced up. He tugged the
shirt over his head, scrubbed at it in the basin and tossed it into Aragorn's
hands without meeting his eyes. Then he turned back to the basin, hoping to
quench the fire that had turned his cheeks red. Most of the dirt had been
scrubbed from beneath his fingernails, turning the water a muddy brown. Though
Aragorn's fingers were similarly tanned and scabbed, he came from a world of
white elven hands, delicate and fine as no man's would never be.
Turning, Boromir caught his own bright hair reflected in the metal blade of his
newly polished sword. Though it was unstained for the first time in weeks, his
darkened complexion and uneven beard still marked him a man of dirt and sweat—
a man who unlike the fair elves would one day become dust. As he gazed into the
mirror of the blade, Aragorn came into view behind him, dressed only in a smock
left open at the neck. The younger man felt goosebumps rise over his still-damp
throat; he spun around, though he knew that he should look away.
Framed by the high white collar, Aragorn's face looked like a portrait of the
kings of old, otherworldly as the huge sculptures of the Argonath, too
astonishing to belong to any living man. His hair, which had been matted and
filthy when they reached the inn, fell in a shining curtain at the sides of his
face, reflecting hints of bronze from the fire. And to Boromir's shock, the
bright blue eyes, no longer surrounded by the grime and haunted dark circles,
were filled with the same wistful hunger that he had seen in his own reflection.
He stepped forward with rare hesitation, longing to touch the loose hair that
draped the other man's cheek yet knowing that he must hold himself in check. He
felt heady as when he had first seen the Ring at Elrond's council, with light
gleaming on its surface the way it now played over Aragorn's features. This
temptation, equally intoxicating, might prove just as lethal or just as
rewarding. Boromir would not willingly have endangered their quest, nor his
future king's bond with the elvish princess, yet he ached to surrender to his
desires, if only for a moment.
Gruffly he said, "I have never seen you so clean."
"Nor I you." Amusement flared and faded. Aragorn's eyes flickered briefly to
Boromir's bare chest. The glance made him burn like some potent drink swallowed
down too quickly, and he felt his breathing grow harsh. Defying the turmoil in
his body, he gave in to the small, permissible urge to stroke his fingers
through the lock of hair softly brushing the Ranger's cheekbone.
Aragorn closed his eyes and hissed out a shivering sigh, turning to the side as
if he would kiss Boromir's fingers, but he stopped and bowed his head. "You must
know that my heart is not free."
Boromir felt a chill dampen the flames inside him, but he was not surprised. He
had doubted that Aragorn would betray Arwen, and in truth would have been sorry
to learn of any faithlessness that might stain his friend's nobility. "I know
that you are betrothed," he nodded.
Aragorn's eyes opened as he lifted his chin. "You misunderstand me. She would
not be troubled by any passing pleasure shared between us. The elves do not hold
such things in the same shameful regard as men do."
"Then...you have been with..."
"For many years now I have known no other. I do not have the span of many
lifetimes to unravel the mysteries of love, and I have seen the pain it can
cause. Arwen would not ask me to deny myself what relief I might find on this
journey, but I fear it is not only relief that we seek from each other."
Breaking away from the piercing gaze, Boromir clenched his fists to stop himself
from clutching his friend to him. He would have offered relief, comfort, and
whatever measure of passion the man would allow, but this was no soldier eager
to share solace before the havoc of battle. This was Aragorn, his sworn
companion in the Fellowship of the Ring. Aragorn, last Chieftain of the
Dúnedain. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor.
And this was Aragorn who had not loathed Boromir upon learning his most
dishonorable secret, but who had shared blankets, tactics, trust. Aragorn who
had asked for his company on this journey, a journey he might easily have made
with another. Aragorn who stood before him with fire lighting his features,
confessing that his yearning for Boromir might be more than passing pleasure.
Aragorn who cared for him, it seemed, with some measure of the love Boromir bore
for him.
Filled with wonder such as he had not known since he first dreamed of the broken
sword, Boromir felt his lips curve upward. He could see Aragorn's confusion at
his happiness, for Aragorn believed he had voided his friend's hopes. Boromir
stroked his hair again, cupped his face, whispered his Elvish name. "Hope. That
is all I seek, and what I find in you."
His companion's voice was urgent. "There are many roads that we must walk before
this quest ends. My destiny may bring me into conflict with yours, for my will
alone cannot dictate my choices. I did not think it would be kind to you—"
Falling silent, Aragorn placed his hand against Boromir's face, mirroring the
warrior's gesture. "Boromir. I have never seen you smile so." Wistfully
Aragorn's mouth turned up in response.
It was strange and wondrous that in a semblance so little like a sovereign, so
open and trusting as a child, Isildur's heir could command such devotion.
Boromir pulled Aragorn to him, too swiftly for the other to resist. The kiss he
pressed to the parted lips was chaste, reverent, yet at the same time the most
intimate touch that Boromir had ever shared. "You have treated me like a friend
when other men might have avoided my presence, offended in reputation if not in
principle. I will always love you as a brother for that. And you have let me
know your heart. I would not add to your burdens, but if it is your wish, I will
be yours tonight, even if you cannot be mine."
He expected further argument, for he knew it would not be so simple for either
of them, and feared that pity had stirred Aragorn's consideration. Yet he
received only a long, searching gaze, followed by another smile and a head bowed
in acceptance. "I fear that I am too much yours already, though I cannot give
you all that you deserve," Aragorn whispered. Boromir had not dared dream that
their desires would converge in such unity. If they could not remain so—if
the burdens of the Ring and of Gondor were destined to separate them—he hoped
he would always draw strength from the memory of this night, this moment.
He lowered his arm to Aragorn's waist while Aragorn's muscular arms went around
his neck, fingers gripping the curve of his shoulder. The Ranger smelled of soap
and the herbs burning in the fireplace, of solid oak and sharp pine, of home. "I
wish that we could have known one another in a simpler time," Aragorn whispered.
"I wish that I met you before the Ring came into our lives..."
As Boromir regarded the face he already knew by heart, he saw too that he had
never known it free from the grip of darkness. He meant to inquire further, but
Aragorn pressed closer, and kissed him, and Boromir's thoughts flew away like
sparks from the fire. The other man was as strong as himself, and as eager, now
that he had put aside his restraint. They grasped for what they wanted,
grappling together, crying out in triumph and surrender, in joy.
Boromir felt no regret over a future he could not foresee. In the unkempt room
of the rundown little inn, he knew only the bliss of fulfilled longings, the
blessing of requited love.
3) Silence
Just before dawn, when the sky to the east had turned violet outside the small
window, Boromir watched Aragorn wake once more. He no longer had the vigor to
rouse him as he had twice during the night, laughing that his bedmate must be
getting old before Aragorn proved him wrong. But Boromir could not get his fill
of looking.
Now the blue eyes squinted sleepily at him. "Have you been awake all night?"
"I could not waste a moment for sleep." The darker man's grin refuted the
disapproving shake of his head. "Do not concern yourself; I will still be able
to march."
"I will never worry about your stamina." Aragorn pushed hair from his eyes as he
rolled onto his back, still smiling. Boromir flung himself over the relaxed body
before a loud growl from his stomach startled them both to laughter. "Nor your
appetite. We should eat and finish our business here so that we make good time
before nightfall."
They rose, washed and dressed in comfortable silence, pleased to find that their
newly clean clothes had dried in the night before the fire. The inn had only
stale bread and watery stew to offer for breakfast, but the broth was hot and
softened the seeded crust. It did not take long to find traders, and in the tiny
village, no one asked how two men of the wild came by rare treasures to barter.
They had taken their supplies and headed out of the valley before the sun
cleared the highest peak.
"What are you humming?" Aragorn asked as they traversed a bubbling stream,
climbing with ease in the cool morning air.
Boromir gave a start; he had not realized that he was giving voice to the cheery
martial music playing in his head. It had been a very long time since he felt
such carefree joy. He flung an arm around his companion's shoulders. "It is a
song of Gondor. We sang it as we marched."
"You will have to teach me the songs of Gondor. It has been many long years
since I served your grandfather, and I do not remember them all."
"I will teach you anything I know."
They both paused in their steps, and Aragorn turned. "Boromir, you seem like a
different man since we set out from the Fellowship, and I do not think it is
only my company."
The warrior had started to smile, but at the earnest look on the other's face,
he paused, dropping his arm. "What do you mean?"
"Tell me truly, do you still think of taking the Ring to Minas Tirith?"
In the clear air, staring into concerned eyes, Boromir answered with words that
were true at that moment. "No. No longer. I serve the Fellowship with you."
Aragorn smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Sometimes you have
worried me, Boromir. I had thought...but no matter. I would never wish to fight
you."
"Because you know you could not win," the younger man grinned, breaking the
somber mood, and they began to boast of their most daring feats. To Boromir,
Aragorn seemed less humble, more at ease with his birthright. He wondered
suddenly whether Isildur's heir heard the call of the Ring as well.
But he did not ask. Instead he listened as his friend told the stories of his
youth at Rivendell, how he had met Arwen, their reunion at Lothlórien, her
father's efforts to keep them apart, and of the many quests upon which he had
embarked to serve his legacy without trying to claim it.
"Aragorn, they say that the age of the elves is ending. Perhaps you may earn
your birthright only by accepting it."
"I had not thought to hear such words from you. You said that Gondor had no need
of a king."
"The throne still stands in the great castle. For all of my life, it has been
empty. I could fill the Steward's chair like my father before me, and I would
give my life for my city. But my men fight and die to defend the borders of
these lands, and if indeed men will rule the next Age, Gondor must have more
than a Steward. She needs a champion of her past and future."
Aragorn stood very still, staring at Boromir gravely, and the younger man knew
that the Ranger had craved the acceptance of the son of the Steward even more
than his love. "You have conquered your doubts about me with greater ease than
I," he said quietly.
"I know now what manner of man you are, Aragorn. I know you to be a great
warrior and a great leader. You do not claim to be fearless but you face your
doubts. This makes you stronger than a man who does not know enough to be
afraid. You know I want what is best for Gondor, and Gondor needs you."
Aragorn blinked and turned to the horizon, but his lowered lashes failed to hide
how much Boromir's words had moved him. "Be it so or not, I could not rule
without a Steward," he said. "If it should come to pass that I ascend that high
seat, I will always have you beside me." The son of Arathorn extended his right
hand in a formal gesture; the son of Denethor clasped it with his own. "Let us
march together, my brother."
Though this bond of family offered more lasting hope than any endearment,
Boromir wondered whether it signaled an ending as well as a beginning, for he
knew their affections could not continue once they resumed their journey with
the Fellowship. Yet at dusk, when they stopped to rest at the entrance to a
mountain cave, Aragorn lay beside Boromir under his worn cape and reached out an
arm in welcome.
When they caught up with their companions the next day, in cold gray weather
without any sun, their moods had shifted. The Ranger had fallen silent,
answering questions politely but curtly, while Boromir felt agitated and
quarreled over trivial matters like the best way to clear brambles. His
enjoyment of the cheerful greetings he received from Merry and Pippin was
tempered by the knowledge that he and Aragorn might never again share the
familiarity of the past day. Gandalf seemed pleased with the provisions they had
brought, but as they spoke their concerns about blistered feet and windburn, it
became clear that the journey high into the snows would be difficult for all of
them.
Though exhausted from the long climb, Boromir found rest elusive. Long after the
others slept, a hand closed on his shoulder. He turned to find Aragorn slipping
silently behind him. The depth of his gratitude made Boromir weak with shame. He
rolled over, hid his face in the other man's tunic, and fell quickly into a
deep, dreamless sleep.
So it went as they climbed the mountains. Aragorn continued to share blankets
with Boromir, and under cover of darkness they sometimes shared furtive pleasure
as well. But by morning the Ranger had always moved away. And they quarreled,
about the route, the need for fire, the rate at which they consumed food, and
the dangers of the mountain to the others. Boromir itched to make for the Gap of
Rohan, while Aragorn seemed inclined to go through the Mines of Moria, though
Gandalf ruled against both proposals and insisted on climbing Caradhras.
Then came the day when Frodo, sliding down a snowbank, lost his treasure in the
snow. Boromir picked it up. The Ring held him entranced. He did not notice that
Aragorn's knuckles had whitened on his sword until after he had handed the band
of gold over to the Ringbearer, when he reached awkwardly to unsettle the snow
from Frodo's hair. He saw only the eyes of his beloved king, darkened with
unexpected ferocity.
Though they barely spoke for the rest of the day, Aragorn came to him in the
night, his breathing harsh and his muscles knotted with tension. The initial,
brutal contact that left bruises on Boromir's wrists and blood on his lips gave
way to shocking tenderness, with Aragorn's hands and lips soothing the injuries
they had caused.
While the sky remained dark, Boromir woke alone. A swollen moon had risen and
lit the landscape with ghostly fog and shadows. Rising, he put a hand on the
slick, icy wall and followed footsteps in the snow until he found Aragorn behind
the rocks that guarded the entrance of the cave where they sheltered. The Ranger
sat grimly sharpening his sword.
"You are still angry with me?" Boromir asked.
Aragorn turned his head slowly, his face unreadable in the eerie light. "Why
should I be angry?"
"You thought I would take the Ring from Frodo."
The older man looked away again. "I was not angry. You were not yourself,
Boromir. I was frightened for you."
"And you blame me for that." His voice sounded as bleak as he felt in spirit.
"Or perhaps you are just ashamed of me."
Aragorn glanced back at him. "I am not ashamed."
"Then why do you leave?"
"I could not sleep. I did not want to wake you with my troubles."
"Every night before first light you pull further away from me. I understand that
you do not want the others to know, but you barely give me your friendship in
the day. You are more intimate with Frodo!" Boromir heard the jealousy in his
own voice, and Aragorn glanced around as if afraid that he would wake the
others. "You want silence even here, where there is no one to hear us."
"We must all be as brothers. Not all the others would understand. If they
thought that I cherished you above the rest..."
"You need not fear that anyone suspects that! As soon as we come face to face,
you treat me not as a brother but your rival for Gondor."
In the dimness, Aragorn's eyes were as dark as they had been earlier when he
stood gripping the hilt of his sword. Stepping forward, he put his hands on
Boromir's shoulders. "I am sorry. I thought that you did not want the others to
know. I know many of the men of Minas Tirith would not accept such a thing. I
did not wish to make you dwell on it if you found it shameful."
"I feel shame only when you turn from me." Though he had drawn strength from his
anger a moment before, the Steward's son felt his control slipping with his
rage. "I know you think I am weak. I hear the call of the Ring. I struggle with
the will of my father. I had hoped I had proved my worth as a soldier, but
perhaps my eagerness to be with you has made you doubt my manhood as well."
Aragorn slid his hands from Boromir's shoulders around his back, pulling the
younger man against him. "I do not think you are weak," he whispered. "You have
given your life to defending Gondor, and you are the finest soldier I know."
Boromir tasted blood on his lip where the Ranger had bitten it earlier. "Forgive
me. This morning when you held the Ring, or rather when the Ring held you in its
power, I was afraid that I might have to attack you. I do not doubt my strength,
but I was not certain that I was strong enough to do that, not to you."
"You would have done what you felt was needed," Boromir assured him.
"If the others had not been there, I would have tried to reach you with words
from my heart. But I did not know whether you might scorn me if I spoke them
aloud."
For an instant Boromir saw Aragorn not as others saw him, but as he saw
himself—an exile and wanderer, not a king. He returned the embrace, fierce
with relief. "Aragorn, I love you. Have I not told you so, in every way I could
find to reveal it?"
Aragorn pulled back, weary lines circling his eyes. "Yet your heart is divided
as mine. I have sworn my life to protect the Ringbearer, but I would also keep
you safe. If it is my destiny to reach Gondor, I would have you at my side. I
can resist the power of the Ring for that, but can you, Boromir? What if you had
to choose?"
Boromir heard an echo of the voice that had spoken to him when he picked up the
Ring, and found that he could not answer even when Aragorn took him back into
his arms.
4) Breaking
He raced through the trees, the cries of orcs crashing in his ears, yet not loud
enough to silence the horror screaming in his own mind. He had tried to take the
Ring from the Ringbearer whom he had sworn to protect. He had attacked Frodo.
Worse, he had accused the little one of working for Sauron and called down
curses upon him and the other halflings. And now, it seemed, his foolish
utterings were being answered.
Even if he found Merry and Pippin in time, he had doomed their quest and damned
himself. Galadriel had said that hope remained as long as the company held true,
but Boromir had betrayed them. He had been unable to return to the others after
Frodo had fled; he could not face the Fellowship.
He could not face Aragorn.
Boromir could no longer feel the presence of the Ring, but he could still hear
the words it had murmured to him, growing ever louder since they had left
Lothlórien. It had called his name and promised power, safety, strength. It had
offered him the means to protect Minas Tirith, the protection of the land, the
pride of the people, the Stewardship of Gondor. All this he might have resisted.
Then it made another promise.
Frodo had tried to warn Boromir that he was not himself, just as Aragorn had
tried, that day on the mountain when the Ring placed itself in his path. He knew
now that Frodo's stumble had been no accident; the Ring had sought him out,
inflaming the suffering of his icy feet and stiff muscles even as it whispered
of triumph, protection, salvation. Such a small thing. Yet in the end it
destroyed him with a vision of something even less substantial. The dawn of a
new age, the end of all the suffering Boromir had known, all that he had
witnessed in his father and had seen throughout his land, arising from a single,
shining source.
Gondor's King. At his side. Forever.
It had been the furthest thing from his mind when he encountered Frodo in the
woods. But seeing the little one's suffering brought back his own pain from the
day before, when he and Aragorn had argued bitterly about whether to bring the
Ring to Minas Tirith. Before Gandalf's fall, Boromir had been certain that he
could convince the man to turn west with him, to defend Gondor at his side in
the coming battle. He had as much as told him so, in Lothlórien, but Aragorn had
said nothing, and Boromir realized that the Ranger might intend to accompany
Frodo into the fires of Mount Doom, rather than to fight for his birthright.
Then he tried to persuade Aragorn to convince the others to rest in the White
City before going to Mordor, but Aragorn would not hear of it.
Boromir thought only of his home. When they passed the Argonath, Aragorn had sat
straight in his boat, the semblance of the kings of old overlaid on his
features. He should have been Gondor's king, yet he followed a halfling on a
fool's mission planned by an elf. Boromir would have served him gladly in Minas
Tirith, would have commanded armies and won victories in Aragorn's name, but the
man held stubbornly to the charge placed on him by Elrond and Gandalf, serving
other people, other lands.
Among the trees, Frodo shrank away from Boromir, looking around for Aragorn as
if the man were his guardian. It angered Boromir, as did the hobbit's wide eyes
and pinched mouth, the sorrow, the fear. Frodo had no right to expect Aragorn to
escort him to Mordor, no more than he had the right to bear the Ring save by
chance. Boromir, a voice whispered to him as he spoke to Frodo, at first
calmly, then with growing anger. The same visions replayed themselves in his
mind. The White City shrouded in darkness. His father mad. His brother dying.
Then a surge of brightness, eyes like blue glass, a mighty sword. The hand of
deliverance. The prophecy fulfilled. Gondor's king at his side. Forever.
Now that dream brought a surge of bitter despair. Boromir had been raised to
place duty and pride before his personal desires; thus he had always served
Gondor with an undivided heart. He did not expect to find happiness beyond what
victories he might win, in the gratitude of his people, and most of all in his
own honor.
Then he met the only man who had ever inspired in him a will to serve. Isildur's
heir had won not only the loyalty of the Steward's son, but his passionate
devotion. Boromir could no longer divide his feelings for his home and its
rightful liege. The evil had seen his weakness and preyed upon it. Aragorn had
tried to warn him, but foolishly, he had not not wanted to understand the
danger. So he betrayed the oath of fellowship and the kingdom he was sworn to
serve.
Perhaps he had guessed before that it must end like this. Perhaps he had even
begun to hate Aragorn at the moment when he first began to love him.
He could see Merry and Pippin now, surrounded by orcs and even more loathsome
creatures. Raising his weapon, he charged, but he did not have his shield—he
had left it on the ground near the boats when he had followed Frodo into the
woods. The first of the vile foes fell in a bloody heap. In the heat of battle,
Boromir could not hear the voices in his head, but he was badly outnumbered. And
something was wrong—these orcs were not fighting the weaker enemy. In fact
they hardly seemed interested. They were circling the little ones.
Aragorn! He wanted to cry out, but knew he had no right to summon that name.
Instead he blew the Horn of Gondor, unsure whether his profane lips could call
the armies, now that he had forsaken his quest. "Gondor will see it done," he
had promised Frodo, but Gondor had failed. He had failed. He could not protect
the hobbits now.
Where were the others? He had not come far since they came ashore. Merry and
Pippin could not have run great distances on their small, brave legs. A sea of
orcs rose before Boromir, threatening to drown him. He swung his arm. One orc
was stabbed in the belly, another downed by the backthrust of his blade.
Screaming, falling all around him, there were too many of them, too much
blackness. Blackness that he had brought inside himself, and hence among them
all. But he could not think of that, not now. The Horn again. They would come.
They must.
Another orc down. The Hobbits swung their smaller blades. Boromir grasped at
hope, at the dream to which he had no right. Gondor's King, at his side,
forever. He would have tried to spare Aragorn this battle, but he was afraid,
not for himself but for the little ones who stared in terror as they watched him
spin and duck under the filthy metal of the enemy. He jabbed one orc in the eye
with his elbow but had no time to kill it, caught one more on his sword and
tossed it aside. Too slowly. Something slammed into his shoulder. He thought at
first that it must be another orc and moved to shake it off. He choked in agony.
An arrow. When he did not try to inhale, it was like a fierce kiss...the taste
of blood in his mouth and painful pressure against his chest. Boromir could not
stop to think about it, could not even take the time to nod assurance at
Pippin's stricken face. He took up his sword again, kept swimming through the
sea of orc though he could no longer breathe. Another dart knocked him to his
knees. He gasped, and his chest caught fire. It was like the pain that had
assaulted him in the inn when Aragorn first gazed at him.
Gondor's King. At his side, forever.
Aragorn had not stopped then and he would not stop now. Boromir could do no
less. With a roar he swung his sword again, clashing against metal, slicing into
orcs. When the final arrow dropped him, he thought at first that one of the
jagged edges of the enemy weapons had cleft him in two. From his knees, he could
only watch as orcs swarmed by him, siezing the valiant hobbits who tried to
raise their swords in vengeance.
Boromir knew that he would never rise again. He looked up into the eyes of a
vast dark creature—a beast of earth and rot, aiming at his head. Now he would
die, rotting among the orcs on the soil of the land he had failed.
A crash, a cry. Like an eagle, the shape of a man flew into the beast. Gondor's
King, at his side, though the foul creature nearly took Aragorn's head off
before he could regain his footing. Boromir's vision clouded while he sank back
against the hillside, unable to stay upright though he was frantic to shout
warnings. It was already too late for himself, he knew; the thought of the other
man dying needlessly in battle for him hurt him more than his wounds. Each
breath was torture, more difficult even than resisting the Ring. He forced his
eyes to stay open, focused on the shapes swinging past the blurred tips of the
arrows protruding from his torso.
A cry, a crash, and the beloved face came into sharp focus above him. Blood
leaked from Aragorn's lip and from a gash in his forehead; sweat shone on his
face, his eyes glittered with tears. Gondor's King. At his side. But Boromir had
a duty, the last thing he could ever do for the Fellowship, and though he wanted
only to plead for forgiveness with his last breaths, he forced out the necessary
words: "They took the little ones!"
"Be still." The faint pressure of the well-loved hands, barely perceptible above
the force crushing his chest, moved from his shoulder to his face. He felt more
pain from that gentle touch than from the sharpness buried deep in his lung, for
it reminded him that he would never again feel the welcome weight of Aragorn's
arms pinning him down, embracing him as they had in Lothlórien, offering solace
and joy. He had given up any claim on Aragorn some hours earlier, when he
attacked the Ringbearer.
"Frodo...where is Frodo?"
Though time had expanded for Boromir, with each breath a new trial, it seemed
that Aragorn hesitated, choosing his words with care. "I let Frodo go."
"Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the ring from him." The
confession did not surprise the other man, who like the Elf-Queen seemed to read
Boromir's thoughts. "Forgive me," he implored, knowing that it would change
nothing. "I did not see it. I have failed you all."
"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." They were words he
might have hoped to hear, but he did not believe them.
Gondor's king moved a hand to remove one of the arrows buried deep in Boromir's
body, but the warrior stopped him with a gesture and a groan. "Leave it!" The
wounds draining his life offered the only peace left to him, the dark
nothingness where knowledge of his guilt and shame would die along with him. "It
is over." He would not live to see the destruction he had wrought, the suffering
that would be Aragorn's inheritance. "The world of men will fall, and all will
come to darkness, and my city to ruin."
Aragorn gripped Boromir's fingers tightly between his own, refusing to allow him
to slip away. "I do not know what strength is in my blood," he admitted. "But I
swear to you, I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail." The
pledge pierced Boromir as deeply as the arrows. It stunned him that the other
man would offer such an oath, after Boromir had broken his vows, betrayed his
Companions, shattered the Fellowship and brought the shadows to his beloved
land. His eyes swam with tears that blurred Aragorn's features, the last image
he wished to see as a living man.
"Our people." Every word brought sharp new anguish deep in his body, blood in
his throat, numbness in his legs. Yet he repeated, "Our people." A promise for
the Fellowship, for Gondor, and for all the race of men.
With the very last of his strength, Boromir reached for his sword, and Gondor's
King placed it in his hand. It no longer mattered whether he died a soldier, but
he would not pass without swearing loyalty to the man who had come so close to
his own darkness yet had not yielded. He drew the hilt of the weapon to his
heart, unable to feel his own fingers, scarcely able to sense Aragorn's breath
on his face and the warmth of his palm against his skin. The world contracted
until it held no pain—only steadfast eyes that held an undying promise.
"I would have followed you, my brother." That for the many small acts of
kindness, the quiet talks and shared concerns, the hand extended in friendship
and the heart shared in love. "My captain." For Aragorn had become their leader,
the hope of the Fellowship and the race of men, the head of Gondor's armies and
of the White Tower now lost to Boromir. He had but one prize remaining, not a
gift, but something earned and given freely, with no trace of the darkness that
had gripped him for so long as he had known Aragorn. With it he gave his world
into the other man's keeping, in dawning trust and faith that his devotion had
not been misplaced.
"My king."
He would have offered a vow of love as well, but his battered lungs refused to
draw another breath, and the veil of peace fell over him. Boromir surrendered to
it with Aragorn's majesty filling his vision and arms holding him fast.
Gondor's King. At his side. Forever.
END
by Your Cruise Director
hy aren't you married, Legolas?"
