*
All that I have done today has gone amiss. What is to be done now?
In movement and speed he was capable of blessed forgetfulness.
Their path, little more than trampled grasses and displaced pebbles, lifted and fell through forest and field, a straight, brutal line toward the Tower of Orthanc. Keeping to the path, alert for the smallest deviation, maintaining his stamina on little food and less rest, hearkening to the well-being of his companions - all this consumed Aragorn's mind and body, and there had been no time to dwell upon his battered heart.
But now they sat near a small lake, against rocks still warm from the day's watery sunshine, sharing their evening meal, and memory filtered through Aragorn's carefully constructed barricade of stony practicality. He looked out at the lake, clear and still, and thought of the waters of the Anduin, and of Boromir.
True accord had been denied them until the very end, until it was too late to take comfort in it or indeed act upon it. There had been moments, fleeting and few, in which Boromir had gazed at him with eyes that seemed to beckon as much as they challenged, moments in which time itself held its breath, waiting for Aragorn to make the right decision.
Time had grown impatient, though, and Aragorn's choice had proven to be the wrong one. And now fortune had turned its face from the company.
"Aragorn." That was Gimli's voice. "Eat something."
A night breeze blew past, creating lacelike wavelets upon the glassy surface. The Anduin was cold, colder even than the touch of Boromir's skin as they had set him into the boat. Aragorn had kissed him again and pressed his hands to the long fingers that clasped his sword.
"Let him sleep."
He looked at his friends, blinking as though in the grip of a dream whose memory proved stronger than waking. They watched him anxiously, perhaps with a touch of suspicion that Men had far less endurance than Dwarves or Elves. He took a bite of lembas, tucked the remainder into his pouch, and rose to his feet, ignoring the protests of his body. It was time to cease his lamentations. Boromir was gone. He would save the Hobbits and honor his memory.
"Come, we have had sufficient rest," he said. "Let's not waste the advantage we've gained."
*
I tarried there in the ageless time of that land where days bring healing not decay.
He emerged from the darkness to agony. It washed over him in great waves, bearing him upon crests and plunging him into trenches, battering his body so that he writhed and shrieked with pain. A warm hand was laid upon his brow, and he opened his eyes to dazzling whiteness. A gentle, familiar voice spoke to him; he reached out in desperation, and the suffering took him again, driving him back into the dark.
When he surfaced once more, he heard a carillon of birdsong, wonderfully soothing and so pleasant he kept his eyes closed, listening. His body was cradled in comfort, and while he still hurt, it was greatly diminished, and if he kept motionless, he felt only a bare twinge. He was naked, but covered with something soft and warm.
"Boromir. Open your eyes."
The voice was the same familiar one that had spoken to him from the depths of his anguish. He opened his eyes and beheld Gandalf, all in white. A brief silvery nimbus shimmered around him and vanished.
"Gandalf," Boromir whispered, shocked at the weakness in his own voice, "have you come to escort me to the halls of the dead?"
"The dead? I like that! Indeed I have not."
"But I...." Boromir tried to sit up and sank back with a gasp.
"There," Gandalf said with some satisfaction. "Do the dead suffer pain?"
Boromir furrowed his brow. "How would I know a thing like that?"
A soft laugh set Gandalf's shoulders quaking. He sat beside Boromir and pulled the blanket up. "You never lose sight of the practical, Boromir. No, your spirit had not fled your body altogether, though cold you were, and pale, so Aragorn must be forgiven for believing you dead. You're alive, young man - as alive as I am."
"But you fell."
"So I did," Gandalf said quietly. "So I did. And thereby hangs a tale. But that is for another day. For now, you must sleep, and I must leave you to it."
Boromir clutched at Gandalf's sleeve. The fine cloth slipped between his weakened fingers, silken, heavy with intricate embroidery. "Wait. Wait. Where am I?"
"Rest, Boromir of Gondor, and all will be told in its own time."
Boromir shrank from the approaching face and voice. Now all returned to him, from the battle with the Orcs and the capture of the Hobbits, to Aragorn's tears falling upon his face, to the memory of blinding pain. Gandalf had found him - near Parth Galen? Or on the banks of the river? - and he was back in Lothlórien. His weakness and failure flooded his heart, and he quailed as he watched the approach of the Lady Galadriel. Yet when she sat upon his bed and took his hand, the fear enshrouding him melted away, and she was gentle as she rested her fingertips upon his cheek. There was affection in her touch, and understanding.
But even as the fear dissolved, misery and shame remained, a core of ice that paralyzed him. "Where is Aragorn?"
"Too far for you to reach, even were you whole and well," Gandalf said, a measure of sternness in his voice. "Be still now. I know what is in your heart, Boromir. You are nothing if not single-minded. You may yet save your city, but you can do little if you lack the necessary strength. Rest, as the Lady says, and renew yourself."
Boromir struggled up again. "The little ones."
"Yes." Gandalf laid a restraining hand upon Boromir's undamaged shoulder. "Yes, I know. Rest, Boromir. Rest."
"The Ring?"
"Out of our hands. And be glad for it."
Boromir sighed and sank back into the pillows, his head a whirling tumult of questions. The Halflings, the quest, his father's certain rage, Faramir, Minas Tirith...Aragorn. He opened his mouth, but was too weary to voice a word. He stared up at the vast canopy of trees, at the soft winking lights that glimmered here and there, and was comforted as he drifted into a long, healing sleep.
*
No few had fallen, renowned or nameless, captain or soldier; for it was a great battle and the full count of it no tale has told.
Aragorn's body ached, his eyes burned with fatigue, and he admitted with reluctance that he needed sleep. A short distance away, Elladan and Elrohir labored with tireless diligence, tending to the wounded. The cost of the battle was high, and there were far too many beyond their help.
He pressed his hands to his eyes and swayed slightly. Only one more look around, he promised himself, to make certain there was adequate water and bedding for those who suffered. He moved silently past rows of wounded soldiers. Most slept; some tossed and turned in the grip of fever. He bathed their brows, quieted them with gentle touches. A young man with long red hair and a scruff of beard gripped his hand feebly as he passed. "A fine victory, my lord." He spoke in the accents of Minas Tirith.
"Indeed it was," Aragorn said, pressing the young man's hand warmly. "I thank you for your part in it. Sleep now and gather your strength. We may yet have need of it."
"Your wish is my will, lord."
Aragorn turned away, acutely conscious of the dragging sound his feet made against the stone floor. He glanced toward the curtained alcove where Faramir lay, still in the depths of a healing sleep. The curtains had been drawn back, and a dark figure, cloaked and hooded, knelt beside the bed.
In an instant Aragorn's hand moved for Anduril, but he stopped himself. The figure - a man, he saw; the shoulders were far too broad for even the tallest of women - knelt in an attitude of sorrow, not menace. As Aragorn watched, the man took Faramir's still, white hand in his own and brought it close to his face. It was a soldier, Aragorn realized. The cloak was stained with dirt and Orc blood, and the long, powerful hand that clasped Faramir's was lacerated and bruised. One of Faramir's faithful company, then, grieved at the frail state of his captain. Compassion filled Aragorn's heart. He moved closer, to reassure the soldier that his commander would live. He saw the soldier rise and gently place Faramir's hand upon the counterpane, and felt a glow at the tenderness and love in that gesture.
He halted in his tracks. That battered hand was familiar to him. He squinted against the dim candlelight, his eyes aching, and scrutinized the shoulders, the confident grace of the man's movements.
Impossible. Impossible.
"Wait," he said, his voice emerging as a harsh rasp.
The figure quickly extinguished the candles beside Faramir's bed and stepped into the shadows.
"Stop," Aragorn pleaded, unwilling to shout and waken those who slept. And what would the others think were he to call out the name of a dead man? He seized a rushlight from a stone table and threaded his way through the maze of sleeping bodies. The cloaked figure moved with astonishing swiftness, nimbly skirting the pallets and disappearing down a darkened corridor.
By the time Aragorn reached the corridor, the man was gone. Not an echoing footstep or errant breath betrayed his presence. Nevertheless, Aragorn pressed on, moving down the length of the hall, peering into open chambers. Finally he stopped at the end of the empty passageway and laid his hand against unyielding stone.
"Boromir?"
There was no reply, and he chided himself as he trudged back to the great hall. Naturally there was no reply. Whoever the man was, he was probably afraid of chastisement for interfering with Lord Faramir's rest and healing. That, or Aragorn's weariness was profound enough to precipitate illusions. No matter how valiantly he had led men in battle, there would be shocked murmuring if it were known that the future king of Gondor chased ghosts.
Faramir still slept deeply. Aragorn bent and examined his face, then knelt and held the rushlight close to the lax hand the soldier had caressed. He saw a shining streak and touched his fingertip to it, feeling a faint grittiness. Salt, from tears. It had been no ghost.
But neither had it been Boromir. Carefully, Aragorn set the rushlight on the table beside Faramir's bed and sat, propping his back against the bed. He rubbed his burning eyes and struggled with his own sorrow and disappointment. His grieving had been too long delayed.
We have saved your city, Boromir. I kept my promise. I--
Aragorn drew his knees to his chest, bowed his head against his arms, and wept. After a time, exhaustion overcame him, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was still dark. He had slept but a few hours; still, he felt curiously refreshed. He saw a pillow had been slipped behind his head, his boots had been removed, and a blanket of soft wool covered him from neck to foot. He stretched with a groan.
"Lord Aragorn," said a soft voice, "you're awake."
Aragorn blinked, and a smile tugged at his mouth. "Faramir." He clasped the young man's outstretched hand. "Well met, my young friend." He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took note of Faramir's pallor. His health was still precarious, but he would live, Aragorn vowed silently. He would live.
"It's good to see you, my lord."
"And you." He wondered if Faramir knew about his father's death, that the last of his immediate family had perished.
"I dreamt I saw Boromir again." Faramir settled back on his pillow. "He wept upon seeing me, but he smiled also."
Aragorn was afraid to speak. He glanced at Faramir's right hand. Impossible. "It is a propitious thing to see the dead smiling in a dream, I think," he managed at last. "I believe it means their souls are at peace."
"At peace," Faramir murmured. "I like that." His eyes drifted closed.
A dream. Illusion. Aragorn touched the salt track on Faramir's hand. "So do I," he whispered.
*
In his time the City was made more fair than it had ever been, even in the days of its first glory....
Two short months after Aragorn's coronation, a sparkle of festivity still lingered in Minas Tirith. Garlands of summer flowers hung from buildings and balustrades, the streets and structures shone with cleanliness, and conviviality radiated from even the lowliest tradesmen and first-level dweller. Boromir took his evening meal in a square outside his lodgings, watching with mingled pride and pain as the people of his city went about their business with an air of peace and prosperity.
He pulled his cowl forward as the innkeeper approached to refill his ale. "A fine meal," he said politely.
"The food's improving," the innkeeper replied with a genial nod. "We've a better quality of meat since Aragorn King re-opened the trade routes. Harad meat - there's none that can best it. I don't know what they feed the beasts, but it makes for grand meals indeed."
"Aragorn has done that," Boromir murmured.
"Aye, and much more besides, in only a short time. But then you must know that. You're a city man, no? Your voice marks you as such."
Boromir stared down at his trencher. "I have been many years absent, and have only just returned."
"Welcome home then, friend," the innkeeper said. "Pity you missed the coronation and all the celebration surrounding it. It was a sight to see, I tell you. I've never seen the like myself, living under mad Denethor. The king called it a new age, and so it is."
"Denethor was not mad," Boromir said, and laid his hand on the short sword at his belt. "He was troubled and sick at heart from many sorrows, the likes of which you could not possibly fathom. Have a care before you speak so lightly of his memory." He rose to his feet and looked the man in the eye - an impressive feat, as the innkeeper stood half a head taller than Boromir and was built like an ox.
The innkeeper, doubtless accustomed to surly customers bearing dangerous weapons, backed down at once. "I meant no harm," he replied hastily. He poured more ale into Boromir's cup. "I only meant that we are enjoying great happiness in Minas Tirith now. All blessings and peace be upon Lord Denethor's soul. Pray sit, sir, and finish your meal with my apologies." He paused and tilted his head to one side, examining Boromir's face with a disconcerting intensity. "Have we met, sir? You have a familiar look."
Boromir turned away, reaching into his purse for coins and dropping them on the table. "My family is an old one, and no doubt I bear their general likeness. I accept your apology." He drained his cup and moved away from the square.
"Your room is in readiness, sir."
"I shall re-acquaint myself with the city before I retire," Boromir said. He managed a stiff nod, still bristling from the insult to his father, and stalked off.
Clouds gathered in the darkening sky, threatening rain, and a sudden sharp gust of wind sent a woven wreath of green leaves tumbling across the street. In a marketplace, people made haste to bring the last of their wares into their shops before the first fat drops fell. A flash of lightning illuminated the faces of those around him, and the rain began to pelt him, but Boromir kept walking. As a boy, he had loved the rain in Minas Tirith, watching it sweep the roadways and buildings clean, painting the world in silver. Many a time he and Faramir had scampered through the alleyways in the midst of thunder and lightning, hooting with laughter - even past the time when dignity demanded that Boromir cease childish cavorting.
Faramir.
Of course he had come to the coronation. He had seen his brother in the flower of health and the pale beauty at his side; he had seen the Fellowship and rejoiced that the little ones were whole and well. Legolas and Gimli stood proud and contented, indeed greatly affectionate toward each other. Gandalf dazzled in his robes of white; once he looked into the crowd, where Boromir lurked beneath his cowl, and stared keenly as if in recognition, and Boromir had turned from that kindly but fierce gaze. And Aragorn...how he had transformed into a kingly figure, tall and regal. And how eagerly he had embraced the elf maiden, his intended.
In that moment Boromir had known it was a mistake to come back. He had stumbled away from the merrymaking and returned to his hovel on the outskirts of a wood-village. But the call of his old life still beckoned insistently despite his attempts to ignore it. He hired himself out to an elderly couple with poor sight, doing their heavy work in exchange for meals, and told himself he was at peace. Still the yearning pricked him, and at last he had succumbed to it and made the journey to the city, where all were joyful and happy with their new king and the new era that had settled upon them.
He knew he should leave, but instead he wandered through the rain, ignoring the puzzled looks from the few still remaining on the streets, huddled in their cloaks, darting quickly toward shelter. He stopped before a narrow corridor that was most familiar to him. There was a passage secreted behind the statue of a tanner, only thirty or so steps down in its rounded niche, the carved panels behind it giving no sign of possible ingress.
When Boromir pressed against the lever, there was a scraping noise and one of the panels showed a crevice. Another push against the stone, and the door swung open.
Stop, he commanded himself, but slipped into the open doorway - with some difficulty, for the space behind the statue was tight and he was no longer a slender child - and found himself in the dark stairway he and Faramir had traversed so often as children.
Go back, you fool.
He felt for the inner handle of the door and pulled it closed, then stood still, breathing in the air, kept cool and fresh by some method of ventilation he had never troubled to learn. Faramir had tried to explain it to him once and he had fallen asleep. It was as black as a starless night, but there was nothing to fear.
There were two hundred and twenty-four steps to the door on the sixth level and the Houses of Healing. He remembered the number well, from childhood and from a few months before, when he had come to weep at his brother's bedside. He had fled the same way, when Aragorn had pursued him. His cowardice had been shameful, yet he had not changed much. He only wished to catch a glimpse of -
Your old life? an inner voice demanded scornfully.
Disregarding the voice with utmost difficulty, he began the ascent.
*
A day draws near that I have looked for in all the years of my manhood, and when it comes I would have my friends beside me.
"The fever is broken, Majesty. His color is good, and he sleeps peacefully at last." The woman's voice was scarcely audible through her choked sobs. She sank to her knees, seized Aragorn's hands, and kissed them with reverence, her tears wetting his palms.
Aragorn accepted her obeisance for a few seconds before lifting her to her feet. "Up, my lady." He guided her to a cot beside her son's bed and gently pressed her onto it. "You need rest as well. Your son's recovery will be long, and he needs your strength to help restore his." He unlaced her shoes and set them under the cot, then drew the blanket up. Her eyes were already fluttering closed. She reached out, and he clasped her hand briefly before setting it down again.
He made noiselessly for the doorway and paused, turning to gaze upon those who lay in the vast room. Happily, the hall was only one-quarter full, far less than the aftermath of their penultimate battle. Aragorn allowed his shoulders to droop with weariness. He longed for a cup of iced wine and bed, to be soothed to sleep by the touch of Arwen's hand and the comforting noise of the summer storm. He nodded to one of the nursing women and stepped into the corridor.
At once a chill shimmered down his spine and stopped him in his tracks. There was a dark figure in the corridor, armed with a short blade. The figure stood with his back to Aragorn, examining a tapestry by the feeble light of a wall sconce. Aragorn's thoughts traveled swiftly. There were no sufferers of political import in the Houses of Healing now; the notion of an assassin was unlikely - unless the blade was meant for Aragorn himself.
He drew his dagger and stole into the corridor, his footsteps masked by the deep rumbling of thunder from an open window. Rain blew inside in gusts and spattered against the floor. Astounded, Aragorn watched the stranger pull the chain to close the window, as casually as if he had done it a thousand times. There was no time to gape stupidly, he chided himself; he sprang forward, grasped the man about the shoulders, and lifted the knife to the stranger's neck.
The man reacted with speed and strength, lifting his own blade against Aragorn's hand, but Aragorn pressed the tip of his dagger to the man's throat, felt the flesh yield, and heard a gasp of pain. "Drop the blade," he whispered. He heard a metallic clatter, but did not relax his grip or the dagger's pressure. He dragged the man backward into a sleeping alcove. "Who are you to enter this place with a drawn weapon? Speak, and speak quietly if you value your life."
The answer came in a sharp hiss. "What business is that of yours?"
"A healer's business. You've violated the peace of this place. Whom do you seek?" He felt the man's body stiffen in his grasp, and one hand grope against his restraining arm and clutch it - not in a struggle for freedom, but as if his prisoner was verifying his strength.
"A healer, is it?" The man's voice had softened, but a note of sardonic amusement tinged its edges. "I doubt you could tell a living man from a dead one."
Shock coursed through Aragorn's body, as bright and potent as the lightning that crackled outside the window. He stayed motionless, still restraining his prisoner, and recognized the familiar music and cadence of the deep, silken voice. "It cannot be."
"Aragorn," came the soft voice, "let me go."
Aragorn lifted nerveless fingers and allowed the man to step away. He scarcely breathed as the stranger turned and pulled back his cowl, revealing that noble face he had thought lost to him forever. "Boromir."
Boromir gave a single nod.
Hesitating, as if the apparition would disappear, Aragorn reached out and touched Boromir's arm. "But you...I saw you die." He shook his head in bewilderment. "You went over the falls. How....?"
"That's a tale far too long to tell now."
"But you are healed?" Boromir nodded again, and Aragorn felt his eyes fill with tears. "Boromir, if only you knew how keenly I felt your loss. What joy to have you return -" He reached out to draw Boromir into an embrace, but Boromir stepped away. "Why have you stayed away so long? Why did you not -" Realization struck him like a blow. "It was you that night, with Faramir. You fled from me."
"I could not face you."
"You had been fighting. I saw the blood, the cuts on your hands."
"I joined Theoden's host. It was a mighty battle, as well you know."
"And yet you chose to stay away." A sharp pain pierced Aragorn's heart.
"I should not have come," Boromir murmured. "I did not think to see you." He took another step down the corridor, but his face burned with emotion.
"Don't leave now," Aragorn pleaded. He sheathed his blade. "Come and take your rightful place in the city."
Boromir turned toward the window. A flash of lightning illumined his profile. "Faramir is well?"
"He thrives, with his new bride."
"It gives me joy to know he is happy." Boromir smiled, and Aragorn again felt a knife in his heart. "And the rest of the Company? The little ones?"
"Frodo is frail, alas, but perhaps time and the peace of the Shire will restore him. The rest are in excellent health and spirits."
"Gimli? Legolas?"
"Devoted," Aragorn said with a smile. "You would hardly recognize them."
"And you? You are well, it seems, and much beloved. I hear wondrous reports of your just dealings with friends and enemies alike."
"I am happier than any man deserves to be now," Aragorn replied quietly.
"With your own new bride, yes - I am certain you are. I wish you joy also, Aragorn." Boromir's voice was a melancholy counterpoint to the rolling thunder outside. He moved from the window. "I will trouble you no further. Forgive me." Crouching close to the floor, he retrieved his knife, bowed with that familiar grace, pivoted on his heel, and moved down the corridor.
"I love her." Aragorn drew a deep breath and spoke the words he should have uttered long ago. "As I love you." Boromir froze in his tracks, and Aragorn wasted no time in coming to his side. Timidly, afraid that Boromir would repudiate him, he rested his hand on Boromir's arm, marveling at the strength in it, the vitality that miraculously would not succumb to death. "The knowledge was there long before now. Say you will not leave me. I could not bear it again."
Boromir bowed his head. "You are happy, my king, with your bride and your place on the throne. Faramir is contented as Steward - that is good and right. It suits him. If I returned, he might in his selflessness insist I become Steward in his stead. I will not intrude upon his life." He swallowed. "Nor yours."
Though Boromir did not move, Aragorn felt him slipping away, as if he were insubstantial, the ghost he'd mourned. He grasped Boromir's shoulders and held him. "You would be welcome, I vow it. To come and go like a shade - you lie if you say there is no yearning in your heart to come back to your city."
"There is no longer a place for me here." Fear trembled in Boromir's voice. "You thought me dead. My only desire was to redeem myself, and I have, in some small part. My business is finished, and now - now I beg you to let me fade once more."
"No."
Boromir's eyes widened, and he tried to pull out of Aragorn's grasp, but Aragorn held him fast.
"No," Aragorn said again. "You remember your parting words to me?"
Reluctantly, Boromir nodded.
A mingled stab of elation and pain seared Aragorn's chest. "As your king, I command you to stay. As your captain, I require your wisdom and strength. As your brother -" Slowly, he drew Boromir into a kiss. Boromir resisted, struggling against Aragorn's hands, but Aragorn held him tightly, slid a hand behind Boromir's head, and deepened the kiss. Boromir yielded at last, clinging to Aragorn with all his might. At length Aragorn broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Boromir's. "I desire more than brotherhood from you," he whispered.
In answer, Boromir seized Aragorn and kissed him. "You hold my own words against me," he murmured against Aragorn's mouth.
"It is purest extortion," Aragorn agreed.
"But your lady?"
"She lived many lives before we came together, and she knew the depth of my grief for your loss. She will understand as no one else will."
"And Faramir?"
"Will be overcome with gladness."
Boromir slid his hand over Aragorn's hip and down his thigh. "Perhaps there is some truth to those rumors of great wisdom after all."
"Even if I am a poor healer?"
"Even if that is so." A soft laugh broke from Boromir's lips, and he reached up to stroke Aragorn's hair and push it back from his face.
Aragorn's heart was gladdened at that sound. He pulled the heavy sleeping curtain closed and gazed at the beloved face so near his once more. What a grace he had been granted - a second chance to restore all things to rightness. "Shall we begin again?"
"I am yours to command, my king," Boromir replied demurely, and began to unfasten the buttons of Aragorn's tunic.
Summary: Boromir is not dead..
Rated: PG
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 4869 Read: 636
Published: 21 Oct 2011 Updated: 21 Oct 2011