*
An icy wind struck Boromir’s face, rousing him from a wistful daydream of a roaring fire and a tankard of hot spiced ale. Huddling deeper into his cloak, he patted one of the small, sturdily gloved hands clutching his waist. “Still awake?”
The warmth and weight of a fur-hooded head disappeared from the middle of Boromir’s back. “Oh, yes – I’m awake. Do you want me to lead for a while?” Faramir’s voice scratched upward, subject to weariness and the indignities of manhood’s arrival.
“No. I just don’t want you to fall asleep and fall off. It would be a hard landing.” Boromir squinted at the rocky landscape, the dark and barren hills streaked with snow like reaching skeletal fingers.
“I won’t,” Faramir assured him. “I can go on for hours yet.”
“Well, we’re not going to go on for hours. We’ll make camp in the woods just over that rise and start again in the morning.” He felt rather than heard Faramir’s heavy sigh. “Don’t worry. The first feast doesn’t start for another day. You won’t miss anything.”
“That’s not it!” Faramir protested, thumping Boromir on the arm.
Boromir grinned. He knew very well how disappointed Faramir would be to miss even a single moment of the Mettarė revelries. In truth, Boromir would be disappointed to miss it himself – not only the banquets, the long, now seldom-used tables groaning with succulent food and drink, but the merriment and laughter of their household down to the tiniest kitchen maid, the happy clamor of pipes, bells, drums, and voices raised in song, the halls blazing with lights and festive decorations of evergreens, winter blooms, and gilt-edged ribbons, and the quieter late-night celebrations in the confines of his chambers, bidding the old year farewell with a willing lad or lass. Gondor celebrated Mettarė in defiance of the darkness and cold of the dying year, and built memories to sustain itself until spring once more embraced Middle-earth with greenness and warmth.
Faramir spoke again, his voice muffled in the heavy folds of Boromir’s cloak. “Father’s going to boil when he hears about Anįriel.” Faramir’s mare had stumbled in a ditch and come up lame. They had been obliged to leave her at a blacksmith’s the day before, paying the smith handsomely for her keep until they could return for her.
“No, he isn’t.” Boromir paused. “Well, if he does, don’t…let me do the talking, brother. You mustn’t volunteer anything. Imagine it as an exercise in prudence and diplomacy.” If Faramir started talking, not only would he incriminate himself, but he’d be apt to blurt out that they’d left without an escort, and then Denethor would boil with rage.
“It’ll spoil the holiday,” Faramir said gloomily.
“It certainly won’t. Hold on, it’s treacherous ground here.” Boromir negotiated his own horse, Dunbar, a hardy, gentle fellow, over a steep grade and urged him toward a thicket of evergreens. “Now listen to me. There’s no reason at all that Father needs to know about your horse. We can send someone for her in a few weeks. I’ll take care of everything. All I ask in return is that you do me the kindness of not digging yourself a hole with your tongue. Agreed?” Boromir felt Faramir’s arms tighten around him and nodded in satisfaction. “And as for Mettarė, well – I promise you that –“
“Brother!” Faramir hissed, and shook his arm. “Look!” He pointed east.
Boromir reined Dunbar in sharply and drew his sword as he caught sight of the prone body of an Orc. Black blood stained the snow around it, and the creature’s crude weapon lay nearby. A hard wariness surged through Boromir’s veins, and his fatigue vanished instantly. “Hold on,” he ordered Faramir in a harsh whisper, and wheeled the horse in a circle, his gaze swiftly searching the surrounding terrain.
Closer to the evergreen forest, the snow clung to the ground, and the air was still and cold. Only one set of footsteps had emerged from the thicket of trees, but it was the rare Orc that traveled alone; his companion or companions might still be waiting in the wood. Boromir stared down at the dead Orc. “Not long since dead, I think,” he said softly.
He heard Faramir’s sword hissing out of its sheath. “There will be more.”
“My very thoughts.”
“Odd that Dunbar didn’t smell them.”
“We’re upwind.” Boromir urged his horse closer to the dead Orc, glad that Dunbar wasn’t the sort who pranced and shied at the sight or smell of death. “Sword cuts,” he mused. “Who was he fighting, I wonder?”
“I see no other tracks. May I get down?”
“No, you may not.” Boromir frowned, peering into the darkness of the thicket. He started as he heard a faint cry.
Faramir’s arms tightened round Boromir’s waist. “That was a man’s voice.”
“So it seemed.” Boromir hesitated. If it had been a genuine cry for help, he was duty-bound to aid whoever was in danger. If it was a trap, though….
”Please….” The voice sounded again, fainter still, labored, as if every last drop of strength had been mustered in its raising.
Boromir scowled. “Stay alert,” he instructed Faramir. “We’re going to look for whoever that is.” He nudged the horse toward the thicket, peering round cautiously. It was only a matter of a moment before they came upon another Orc, lying on its back and staring blindly upward. The creature had a mortal wound, a sword cut from belly to armpit. Boromir gripped his sword tightly, but breathed easier. Orcs were slow and clumsy, and Dunbar would have sensed the presence of a live Orc. Presently they saw still another corpse, and then a horror: five more dead Orcs lying hither and yon, black blood splattered over the snow, and almost in their midst, a figure of a man lying curled up on his side, a black-stained sword still in one hand.
“There he is!” Faramir cried, and slid off the horse before Boromir could stop him. He knelt at the man’s side. “Brother, he’s still alive. Sir? Sir?” Timidly, Faramir shook the man’s shoulder, but the stranger only groaned and curled up more tightly.
“Don’t touch him,” Boromir said, dismounting. He strode toward the figure, glancing at the dead Orcs in amazement. Had one man slain eight on his own? It seemed difficult to believe. He dropped to one knee and examined the man, noting the red blood that flowered against the white snow. Boromir pulled off his glove to rest his fingertips against the stranger’s pulse. It was slow, but steady. He scrutinized the man’s pallor, his closed eyes, the blood that rendered his features difficult to see. “I think he’ll live,” he said, as a gleam of metal near the man’s feet caught his eye. He looked more closely and uttered a small cry of dismay.
“What is it?” Faramir asked, and then saw the cause of Boromir’s distress. The man’s ankle was caught in the jaws of an animal trap. The teeth had sunk deep, even through the stranger’s heavy hide boots; blood had reddened the snow in all directions. “Boromir…could he have fought them all with that thing on his leg?”
“It doesn’t appear that he had much of a choice,” Boromir muttered. “Damnable things.”
“Did the Orcs set it, do you think?”
“No. Men did.” Boromir drew his knife. “I’ve got to get this off before we lose the light. Stand aside.” He tried to dislodge the hinge-pin on the device, but it refused to budge. With a mumbled curse, he set the knife down. The man groaned again. His eyes fluttered open and met Boromir’s. They were bright with pain, and sweat trickled down his face, blurring the black splotches on his cheeks. “Don’t worry,” Boromir reassured him. “We’ll get you out of this.” Privately, he wondered how. He was strong, but even his and Faramir’s combined strength couldn’t pry the teeth apart to dislodge the man’s foot. If he didn’t, though, the man would surely lose the foot.
The stranger tried to speak, but only a groan emerged from his lips.
“Boromir,” Faramir whispered, “he has other wounds. There’s blood here –“ He indicated the ground beneath the man’s torso. “And there, under his thigh.”
“Then we’ve no time to lose,” Boromir said with crisp authority – far more than he felt. He drew his sword and ran his hand over the flat of the blade. “If I use this as a lever, perhaps we could slide a log or branch inside the trap to prop it open. Help me find something.” In short order they found a thick, sturdy branch that Boromir thought would serve. “I hope the blade doesn’t break,” he said as he wedged it between the teeth of the trap and deeply into the half-frozen ground. “On my word, slide the branch in.” He rested one foot on the lower jaw of the trap, prayed it wouldn’t snap shut on him if the blade broke, and heaved upward with all his might. The trap creaked open a finger’s-width more, then a handspan. “Go!”
Faramir pushed the branch into the trap next to the man’s ankle. Boromir nodded. Icy sweat stung his eyes. “Good. I’m going to lower it, slowly.” In a moment, he had secured the teeth against the branch, and with infinite care, he and Faramir pulled the man free.
The stranger had been there a good while, judging from the quantity of blood in the snow, and was half-frozen. Occasionally he moaned in pain and his eyes opened now and then, but seemed unable to focus on them. He seemed to realize he was not in enemy hands, though, and put up no resistance when they examined his wounds.
“He’s lost much blood,” Boromir observed, tearing his spare shirt into strips to bind the deep cuts.
Faramir appeared not to hear him. “I think he’s a Ranger,” he said, a note of admiration in his voice. “He has the look of one, doesn’t he?”
“I suppose he does at that,” Boromir replied a bit sourly. “Went looking for trouble and found it, it seems.”
“Or perhaps trouble found him. They’re not all rogues, brother.”
A frown knotted Boromir’s brow as he stared down at the man, who had fainted from shock or pain or blood loss or all three. Grudgingly, he admired the man’s determination and strength. He could scarcely credit it – eight Orcs cut down while he was caught in a trap that must have been purest agony. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “He’s brave, whoever he is.”
“How will we get him home?”
“Home?” Boromir glanced at the darkening sky and shook his head. “It’s nearly a full day’s ride home, Faramir. We’re going to take him to the closest village and leave him for their healer. I’m not taking him home.” If Denethor would be upset about the loss of Faramir’s horse, he would be even more upset that his sons had brought home a wounded and unwashed ranger, a breed for which the Steward had no use at all.
“We can’t do that.”
“We certainly can. I shall pay for his care, don’t worry.” Boromir tied off the bandage around the man’s thigh and took a handful of snow to clean the dried, clotted Orc blood from the man’s face. Using the edge of his cloak, he wiped the stranger’s face gently and brushed the tangled hair from his brow. The man was sharp-featured with a scruff of beard and looked as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. Boromir wondered how he’d found the strength to fend off eight Orcs. “We’ll rest for a while, then put him over the horse and walk. Get the blankets. We must wrap him warmly.”
Together, they moved the stranger to a clearing some distance from the foul corpses and the ruthless metal trap. They managed to swaddle the man in their blankets and built a makeshift bed of evergreen branches to keep the blankets dry. While Faramir curried and fed Dunbar, Boromir built a smoky fire, the best he could do with nothing but damp wood, and the brothers ate dried meat and hard bread and gave the stranger bits of bread soaked in wine between fitful bouts of slumber. Eventually they huddled together for warmth on their own bed of branches and slept.
*
Boromir dreamt of Orcs pursuing him in a great forest. He fought them off one by one, but they swarmed through the trees, howling and screaming in triumph as they surrounded him. He stared into the face of one, taller than any Orc he had ever seen before, his face smeared with white marks like the imprint of a ghostly hand. His sword seemed as heavy as an anvil; he could lift it no higher than his knee. In mute terror he watched as the Orc raised a massive bow, fitted an arrow close, and aimed at his heart.
*
“Boromir!”
He came to himself with a gasp. Faramir’s face was above his, white and strained with anxiety. “What is it?”
“It’s the ranger. I think he’s ill. His skin is hot, but he’s shivering. I….” Faramir looked lost and uncertain, no more than the thirteen-year-old lad he was.
Boromir clasped his brother’s hand briefly and sat up with a groan. Branches were no substitute for a warm bed. He longed for the comforts of home; even a hut with a bare pallet would have been sheer luxury. He made his way to the stranger’s side and rested his hand on the man’s forehead. It was hot. The man’s eyes were open and glazed with pain, and his teeth chattered violently. “Sir,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”
To Boromir’s surprise, the man nodded. “Cold,” he whispered between shudders.
“You have a fever.” Stripping off his cloak, Boromir laid it atop the man’s body. “I don’t know if this will help.”
The man shook his head. “No…yours.”
“I’m perfectly warm,” Boromir insisted stoutly. “I’ve a grand fire behind me.” He looked over his shoulder at the pathetic, guttering flickers of flame.
“Boromir.” Faramir’s hand fell on his shoulder. “We can’t delay now. What if he perishes of the fever?”
Boromir looked down at the shivering man, then stood up and drew Faramir away. “Brother, we cannot move him. If we had a cart…but we cannot simply sling him over the horse and hope for the best. The jolting and his wounds might kill him.”
“Let me ride to the closest village.”
“No! Are you touched?” He shivered and rubbed his arms. “At night, with who knows how many roving Orcs afoot? No, I won’t have it.”
“But if we can’t help him, he’ll die.”
Better he dies than you, brother. The harsh words rose to Boromir’s lips, but he checked them. He sighed. “He’s made of stern stuff, Faramir. I’m sure he’ll live the night.” Reluctantly, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the man curled up beneath the blankets and Boromir’s own cloak, clearly trying to contain his shuddering and failing miserably. Pain drew his mouth down into a trembling bow.
Boromir sighed again. “Very well.” He turned back to his brother. “I only pray I won’t regret this. You ride. You’re smaller than I –“ Even in the smoky firelight, he saw Faramir’s eyes cloud over. “And thus you’re lighter, and you’re a faster rider than I am in any circumstance. Keep your sword at the ready. Stop for no one, but don’t exhaust my horse.” Lightly, he cuffed Faramir on the shoulder. “And stay on the marked paths – no ditches, do you hear me?”
Faramir grinned. “I won’t. I mean, I will.”
They saddled the horse and Faramir mounted, eager to be on his way. His face, still rounded with the softness of youth, shone with importance and anticipation. As Boromir adjusted the stirrups, he shook his head, feeling much the elder. Fervently, he prayed that he was not sending the child into danger. But he could not go for help himself and leave Faramir with the burden of a half-dead ranger, and Faramir’s compassion would goad Boromir until he acted. He looked up and grasped Faramir’s hand. “Be careful, little brother.”
“Don’t worry.” Faramir squeezed Boromir’s hand tightly. “Take care of him. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Farewell.”
“Farewell.” Boromir relinquished Faramir’s hand and slapped Dunbar’s rump. “Off you go.” He watched until Faramir was out of sight, then returned to the dying fire to attempt to coax it back to life, sparing a single irritated glance at the wounded man. The stranger’s eyes were closed and he no longer shuddered within his pile of cloak and blankets. Again Boromir felt a tug of admiration for the man’s courage, but courage or not, the man had introduced more than a note of chaos into matters already complicated by the loss of Faramir’s horse and the fast-approaching feast. Were Boromir and Faramir not home by first feasting-night, Denethor would send out search parties, a certainty both reassuring and upsetting. His father’s moods seemed blacker than ever lately, and longer-lasting, and when his ire was stirred, it fell first upon Faramir, who deserved it not at all.
Boromir cursed softly as the fire sputtered. Carefully, he fed it, waving the smoke away and finally smiling when it caught alight again.
“He is your brother?”
Startled, Boromir turned toward the stranger. The febrile glitter had left the man’s eyes, but he still looked sick and pale. “Yes,” Boromir replied shortly. “And far too young to ride unaccompanied in the wilderness.”
“I am sorry,” the man whispered.
Boromir rubbed his eyes. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be discourteous. I’m worried for him, you see. He’s only thirteen, a child still. He fancies himself a man, though.” A wistful smile lifted the corners of Boromir’s mouth. “I suppose I fancied myself the same at that age.”
“It grieves you to be parted from him.”
Boromir nodded and poked at the fire with a branch. “It does.” He glanced again at the man, whose eyes were closed. Boromir’s cloak had slipped down to his waist. Gently, Boromir replaced the cloak, cradling the fur-lined hood round the man’s head. He stood up, staring down at the sleeping ranger in consternation, then shook his head and stalked off toward the place of battle. He would burn the bodies and churn up the snow and hope for the best.
*
The night crawled by at an agonizing pace. Several times the man came awake, shuddering and crying out in the depths of pain and some unknown terror. Afraid the ranger’s cries would bring a roving enemy close by, Boromir hastened to the man’s side, soothing him with soft words. Carefully, he cut the man’s boot open and unrolled his stocking, laying the wound clear. He bathed it with snow and the remains of his spare shirt and bound it, thankful that the boot had been an exceeding tough hide and had spared the man a great deal of damage. As he was performing this task, the man awoke again and struggled to rise. “Don’t move, please,” Boromir said. “I’m no healer.”
“My pack,” the man rasped.
“It’s over there,” Boromir replied, throwing a nod toward the man’s meager possessions. “Don’t worry, we don’t intend to steal it from you.”
A soft, unexpected laugh hitched from the man’s lips. “That was furthest from my thoughts, young man. Please bring it to me. I have medicines.”
Young man? Boromir looked askance at the stranger, who didn’t appear more than ten years his elder. “Very well.” He retrieved the battered pack and thumped it down beside the man, who tried to dig through it with trembling hands. “Here – allow me.” Boromir brought it close to the fire. “What am I looking for?” At the man’s whispered instructions, he withdrew a small metal bowl and some pouches containing dried herbs. With melted snow-water and the crushed herbs, he made a poultice and applied it to the man’s wounds beneath the bandages. He re-bandaged the wound, looking critically at the man’s ribs. “You look hungry,” he commented. “Don’t they feed you, your fellow rangers?”
The stranger gave him a faint smile. “They do, when they can. I have been on my own for some weeks, and game can be scarce at this time of year. Thank you for your assistance – and the meal.”
“It’s only hard bread and cheap wine.”
“I had not eaten in almost two days,” the man said. “When you found me, I had been caught in that trap for nearly a whole day. You saved my life, you and your brother. I thank you.”
Boromir blushed, ashamed of his earlier uncharitable thoughts. “Well, we couldn’t leave you to die,” he said gruffly.
“Others might have. We rangers are not so well-loved in certain regions of Gondor.” The man was beginning to shiver again.
“Never mind. We’ll be in the White City for the first Mettarė feast. I’ll have the kitchens bring you some wonderful food – delicate stews and the softest breads and sweetest wines.” Boromir drew the cloak over the stranger’s trembling shoulders. “Have you ever been in Minas Tirith for Mettarė feasting?”
The man’s teeth clacked together. “Yes. Many years ago, when you were just a baby.” He shivered uncontrollably. “Your mother’s dress was darkest green, with silver lace. Like snowflakes. Stars.”
Boromir frowned. The man was talking nonsense. “Hush now.” He stroked the tangled hair. The man needed more than food and medicines; he needed a true healer’s care, a thorough scrubbing, and a few nights’ uninterrupted sleep. The man clutched at Boromir’s hand and muttered something, then groaned in pain. “Hush. Shhh.” Hesitantly, Boromir patted the man’s bearded cheek with his free hand, and then rested it upon the stranger’s hot forehead. He began to hum an air, something soft and melancholy his mother had sung when the snows blanketed the fields and the nights grew long. He had no voice for singing, but the man seemed soothed, though still he clung to Boromir’s hand.
*
The night crept on. The man tossed and turned in his sleep, and sometimes muttered unintelligible words. Boromir lay beside him and quieted him as best he could, frightened that the stranger would die. As a young captain, he had already experienced death, and of friends far more intimate than this dirty, scrawny ranger. The man was nothing to him. But he had been brave, and Faramir had thought his life was worth saving. For Faramir’s sake, he would not let the man die.
Trembling himself, he fetched the wineskin from his pack and held it to the stranger’s lips. “Will you not drink just a little, sir? Please –“ He tipped some into the man’s mouth, but most of it spilled into the scrub of beard. With some difficulty, he propped the man up against his chest and tried again. “There. Just a little. When we get to Minas Tirith, we’ll have a fine goose and vegetable pies the size of a cart wheel.”
The stranger shook uncontrollably and cried out.
“Please,” Boromir whispered. He began to hum again, upset when the man’s soft cries did not abate. “I’m sorry, I have an ill voice. The music at our Mettarė feast is splendid – much better than my singing. I can drive away crows when I’ve a mind. Even Father laughs. He’s still mourning Mother, you see, even though it’s been eight years, and he has many cares.” Tears formed in Boromir’s eyes; he tried to blink them away. “He grieves, and sometimes he is cruel, though I know he doesn’t mean to be. He shuts himself up for too long, and state affairs are neglected. And I am no diplomat, only a soldier. Perhaps Faramir –“ Boromir stopped, realizing he was revealing the most appalling secrets to a stranger. And worse, the man had awakened again and was watching him from the cradle of Boromir’s arms. Mortified, Boromir simply stared into the man’s eyes.
The man reached up and brushed the tears from Boromir’s cheek with the back of his hand. “You have many cares also for one so young.”
Boromir shook his head. “No, I….” He wanted to say that he only did his duty, and willingly and with good cheer, but the man’s touch was too gentle, and all at once Boromir found himself weeping – selfishly, for himself, but also for his father, the loss of his mother, his sweet little brother, and the encroaching weight of responsibility for the White City, for Gondor itself, that kept him ever watchful, ever worrying. He bowed his head and wept, and now it was the stranger who soothed, who comforted, and Boromir, oddly feeling himself much the stranger’s junior now, gave himself up to the man’s murmured reassurances and soft caresses.
When the storm had passed, Boromir drew the tattered shreds of his dignity around himself. “Please forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “I…I do not know what came over me. Perhaps I’m simply tired.”
The man merely nodded. “I regret that I am a further burden to you.”
“No.” Shyly, he smiled into the man’s eyes. “No, you’re no burden at all.”
“Boromir…if I should die here –“
“Hush,” Boromir replied with a ferocity that startled even himself. “You shall not die, not while I have breath in my body.” He did not allow the man to speak again, but held his head cradled in his lap, gently chafing warmth into the man’s cold hands until the stranger lapsed into sleep or unconsciousness again.
He inspected the stranger’s still, white face. He was not, Boromir decided, unpleasant to behold.
*
At the breaking of night, as the cloud-cloaked moon slipped lower and lower in the sky, Boromir looked up and perceived a strange vast shadow gliding overhead like a great bird, circling endlessly, blotting out the cloudy sky. A chill seized his heart. The presence was purest malice, and it searched; he felt a sharp prying sensation like a needle probing his mind, seeking information, seeking a name.
Shaking with fear, he detached himself from the sleeping man’s side and rose to his feet. “Begone,” he whispered. “There is nothing for you here.”
Still the shadow circled, its black presence hovering on the edges of his consciousness.
Boromir drew his sword. “Go now.”
The shadow glided away, and Boromir crept back to the man’s side. He fed the dying fire and curled close to the stranger, seeing for the first time a ring on the man’s hand – quite a handsome one, too, with a sizeable green gem. He had only to sell it to have food and shelter for many months. Were rangers accustomed to wearing jewels? He had no idea.
He gazed thoughtfully at the man once more before lying next to him. Sleep would not come. A questioning tickled at him, but he could not form it to his satisfaction.
*
As the black skies lightened to grey and morning settled upon the cold landscape, snow began to fall. The fire went out, and Boromir despaired as the stranger began to tremble once more, but after some hours had passed, he heard the familiar hoof beats of Dunbar, Faramir’s glad shout, and the blessed sound of a cart. He embraced Faramir tightly. “Well done, little brother. Well done indeed.”
*
Boromir reluctantly stepped out of his hot bath, wrung out his hair and dried himself briskly in front of the fire. Tonight was the eve of Mettarė, and the celebrations in Minas Tirith were at their pitch. Every household would have its special feast; songs would be sung, games played, a dozen libations to the past year poured and drunk. At midnight every bell in the city would ring to signify the coming of the final day of the year, and feasting would continue long into the night.
Every year, Boromir looked forward to these celebrations. But as he dressed, he found his thoughts straying to the stranger they’d rescued from the wood. The man had suffered greatly on the ride to Minas Tirith, but by the time they had reached the gates of the city, the poultices Boromir had applied had seemed to take effect. Still, they’d hastened him to the Houses of Healing, and given him into the expert hands of the healers there. Preoccupied with other matters, Boromir had not seen him again, but a young healer had come to report favorably upon the stranger’s condition. The man was eating, sitting up. He’d had a good bath and was sleeping well. The news had pleased Boromir strangely; he found himself smiling at odd hours of the day for no reason.
Boromir laced his black woolen breeches tightly at the waist and pulled a warm, soft, dark-red tunic over his head. He buttoned his black surcoat, its breast embroidered with the White Tree intricately worked in silver thread, and tugged on high black boots. Buckling on his sword belt, Boromir left his rooms and made his way to the main halls, where the feasting had already begun.
He paused at the top of the stone staircase that led down to the public chambers, surveying the crowd below – beautifully dressed men and women, musicians, servants with trays of food and drink. Laughter and song floated to the rafters, carried along on the fragrances of wine and roasted meats and the spice of evergreen. Another, more fragile scent reached his nose – a bouquet of snow-blossoms, purest white, nestled in a bowl of glossy leaves. Boromir bent to inhale their delicate fragrance, and plucked one blossom from the arrangement.
A strange and sudden impulse seized him. He turned and moved swiftly down the corridor, to a little-used door that led to a steep, dank stairway.
*
“My lord!” One of the healer-women gaped, her arms wrapped round a basket laden with clean bandages. “What brings you here this night? And with no cloak besides – you’ll catch your death in the snow.”
Boromir brushed snow from his surcoat. “Good evening to you, my lady. Where is the ranger, please – the man who was brought in two nights ago?”
She pointed. “Through there, my lord. He’s just had his evening meal. He’s healing quite nicely, I can tell you.”
“Thank you.” Boromir grasped her shoulder, gave her a warm smile, and made his way toward the room the woman had indicated.
The stranger was the room’s only occupant, though there were three beds besides his. He lay quietly, his eyes closed, his head pillowed on one hand. He had been bathed and his beard trimmed, and already he seemed to have gained flesh; in any event, he no longer looked like the suffering man they’d found lying helpless in the snow.
A simple wooden chair sat beside the bed, holding the man’s clothing, now clean if very worn, and his boots, which had been patched after Boromir’s hasty cutting. Boromir straddled the chair and examined the man’s face. Young, yes, but not quite as young as he’d first thought. Lines of care had etched themselves here and there, and a few threads of silver touched the dark hair. Still, it was a handsome face, strong and even noble in repose and somehow oddly familiar. He resisted the urge to touch the man’s cheek.
The stranger’s eyes opened, and he smiled gently at Boromir. “My lord.”
“I’m sorry,” Boromir stammered, ashamed to have been caught staring. “I – I only came to see how you fared. I didn’t want to waken you.”
The man smiled again. “Mending.” He sat up carefully.
“Oh, no, please don’t –“
“I’m grateful that you saw fit to visit me, Lord Boromir.”
A frown touched Boromir’s brow. “Sir – how do you know my name? I cannot recall telling it to you.”
“Your brother called you such. Would you prefer I not address you so familiar, lord?”
“No – that is, I don’t mind.” Boromir smiled. “But you have me at a disadvantage. May I know your name?”
The man hesitated for an instant. “I’m called Strider, my lord, but others are pleased to call me Estel.”
“Estel.” Boromir tried the unfamiliar name. “An Elvish address?”
The stranger nodded. “Strider will do. I have not thanked you adequately for saving my life.”
“No thanks are necessary.” Boromir scrutinized the man closely, and for the first time felt a warm flush spreading from his belly into his loins. “I was much concerned.”
“Surely I am keeping you from your revelries.” Strider gazed frankly at Boromir. “You look splendid indeed, Lord Boromir.”
“Boromir will do,” Boromir replied, flushing at the compliment. “And you do not detain me. Though I should make the most of this feasting. This year I reach my majority and gain my own command, and I fear many Mettarė celebrations henceforth will be spent in the field.”
Strider offered Boromir a tender smile. “Then you must make the most of it, and not sit with a half-invalid ranger.”
“No. I….” Boromir looked down at his hands, twined together about the single snow-blossom stem. “You are a ranger, then.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were all…rough men. Wild, uncivilized. You don’t seem so.”
“We are men,” Strider said. “Some are gentler than others. Not unlike the people of Minas Tirith, I suspect.”
Chastened, Boromir blushed. “Yes. I am sorry. My brother admires the rangers, but my father –“ He broke off, surprised at his own candor. He remembered the tearful confession he had made in the cold night and blushed harder. “Sir, some nights ago I said some things I should not have. I thought you were…that is, I was indiscreet, and I beg you….” He wet his lips, too ashamed to go on.
Strider reached out and placed a gentle hand atop Boromir’s. “Do not worry, Boromir. I will repeat nothing. You have my word on it.”
Boromir nodded and managed a smile. “I should like to bring my father to visit you.” He noticed a sudden odd light in Strider’s eyes. “I should like him to meet a ranger and perhaps his…his notions will change.”
Strider leaned back against the pillows. “Yes,” he replied quietly. “Perhaps they will.”
“May I bring him tomorrow evening?”
Strider sighed. “I am your guest, my lord. Bring him when you will.”
“We shall come tomorrow. When you are fully healed, I hope you will stay for a time – just until your strength recovers fully.”
A smile creased Strider’s cheeks and lent a twinkle to his grey eyes. “You are kind to offer your hospitality.”
“Not at all.” Boromir saw the weariness in the man’s eyes and rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you now. I can see you need rest. Sleep well – I shall see you tomorrow.”
The man nodded and closed his eyes. “Farewell, Boromir.”
Boromir paused. Had Faramir called him by name while the man had been conscious? He supposed so.
Before he left, he deposited the snow-blossom on the little table beside the stranger’s bed, and extinguished the candle.
*
“Come, Father.” Faramir in tow, Boromir beckoned Denethor to Strider’s room, stopping just outside the door. He held a finger to his lips. “He may be sleeping.”
Denethor scowled. “You take a great deal of care over a ranger, my son. Trust me when I say they are scarcely worth the effort.”
“But he was so brave, Father,” Faramir ventured softly. “He slew eight Orcs on his own!”
“You saw him do this?”
Faramir’s smile faltered. “Well…no, but –“
Denethor waved an impatient hand. “Come, let us hurry. I have other guests.”
Boromir turned to the door to hide the angry flush in his cheeks. Guests you all but ignore, who ask me where my father has been keeping himself. He ruffled Faramir’s hair and winked at him, then opened the door, careful not to make overmuch noise. “Strider?”
Strider’s bed was neatly made up. The sleeping tunic he had worn was folded at its foot.
Boromir stopped a servant passing by. “The man in this room – where is he?”
The servant blinked. “He’s gone, my lord. Slipped away sometime last night.”
“Last night!” Boromir and Faramir exchanged a glance. “But he’s still healing. He couldn’t have gone. How could you let him simply leave?”
“I’m sorry, my lord. We searched for him, we did, but he was nowhere to be found.” The man shook his head. “Pity. He was a nice fellow, too.”
Denethor sighed. “I hope that will teach you something of the gratitude of a ranger, Boromir. Come, let’s go back.” He paused and put his hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “You showed him kindness, child. You both did well, no matter the result. Come.”
Startled, Faramir looked up at his father, then timidly nestled close. Together, Denethor and Faramir departed, leaving Boromir to the empty room.
Boromir dragged himself back to his rooms and shut himself inside. He trudged to the fire and warmed himself, puzzled at the feeling of emptiness that had overcome him. How could the man have simply left? He was healing, to be sure, but he was some distance from full health. Perhaps Denethor was right; perhaps the ranger’s stealthy flight did reflect ingratitude.
He caught sight of himself in the glass. His hair was shining clean and brushed onto his shoulders, pure gold in the firelight. He wore another fine tunic, this one the color of deep lake-water and a deeper blue embroidered surcoat, ostensibly for the Mettarė feasting but in truth –
Boromir thought of the man in his poor tattered clothing and patched boots, alone on this cold night. No man, not even a half-rogue ranger, should be alone for Mettarė. He turned away from his image and moved to the bed, parting the curtains. He paused, then leaned forward.
Carefully, he lifted a single snow-blossom from his pillow. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled the delicate fragrance, his heart pierced by a sudden barb of bittersweet wonder.
Farewell, ranger. I should have liked to know you better.
*
The agony was a vast sheet of fire burning his body; his limbs were heavy and numb. He felt the hot trickle of blood over icy skin and moaned as Aragorn moved to pull the arrow out. “Leave it.”
Aragorn’s hand, bleeding and much battered, closed over his. “I will not leave it, Steward’s son. I will not let you die. You shall not die, not while I have breath in my body.”
Through the red haze of suffering, Boromir focused his waning gaze upon Aragorn. “You.” He struggled to breathe. “But…years….” He could no longer summon speech, but his heart remembered, a memory long since buried.
A cold Mettarė, more than twenty years ago.
“You do remember.” Aragorn smiled down at him through tears. “Lie still, son of Gondor. Allow me to help you, as you once helped me.”
Faintly, Boromir nodded. He felt warmth on his chest, a soft spreading warmth, and let himself fall; he let himself hope.
*
Boromir closed the door upon faint, far-off laughter and singing, and leaned against it, arching his neck as Aragorn kissed his throat and nibbled upward to his earlobe. “Most wicked, my liege, stealing away from the celebrations.” He stayed upright through sheer will, for Aragorn could be very determined when he chose.
“Faramir and Eowyn are managing quite well,” Aragorn whispered. “As is Arwen. Her beauty dazzles all who see her. I think the guests will hardly miss us, enchanted as they are.” Aragorn took Boromir by the hand and led him to the thick rug before the fire. He sat and drew Boromir down beside him, nimble fingers working on the buckles of his sword belt. The ring of Barahir flashed in the firelight. “You are entirely too clad for my tastes, Lord Steward.”
“Doubtless my king would prefer that I went about naked.”
“It would be impractical, I admit,” Aragorn said. He pulled off Boromir’s surcoat and tunic and dived in to lap greedily at Boromir’s nipple. “Particularly at this time of year. Perhaps in summer.” His hand moved between Boromir’s legs and stroked.
Boromir sighed in pleasure. “My liege is too kind.”
“And merciful.” Aragorn stroked harder.
“Ah!” Boromir ground himself against Aragorn’s hand. “Yes. When the occasion demands it.” He took Aragorn’s face in his hands and kissed him. “Aragorn.”
Aragorn’s caresses slackened as they kissed again and again. They lay together beside the fire, aroused, but content for the moment to be quiet and still. Aragorn stroked Boromir’s hair. “Can you divine my thoughts, Lord Steward?”
Boromir smiled. “Mettarė,” he said. “Lo these many years past.”
“Are you remorseful now that you hesitated to help a dirty, ragged ranger?” Aragorn teased.
“Yes,” Boromir said seriously. “And glad of Faramir’s compassion.”
“You, too, are compassionate,” Aragorn whispered against Boromir’s mouth. “But for you, I would not be here now.” He pushed down Boromir’s breeches and fondled his bare hip. “My brave Steward. My dearest love.” As he kissed Boromir again, the bells of Minas Tirith began to peal, welcoming the last day of the year. “A blessed Mettarė to you, my beloved.”
Boromir gathered Aragorn in his arms. Mettarė was sweet once more, as it should be, with feasting, music, discreet debauches, and abundant love. “And many, many more.”
Summary: Boromir and Faramir save a ranger's life
Rated: R
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir/Faramir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 7141 Read: 592
Published: 19 Jan 2012 Updated: 19 Jan 2012