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Chapter Text

North of Minas Tirith there are a series of interconnected ponds, fearsomely ringed in fog, Boromir was taken to them as a child. They were foriegn to him, at the time, only eight years old and uncertain. He gripped the pommel of childish sword as his father led him away from men and horses into mist. 

It’s a lesson , he explained to Boromir. An important one. You will learn it here, from me, and when you have your own son you will teach it him. Though, may your days be not so dark as these and may the lesson be allowed to be delayed to an older age.  

And Faramir?

He will learn it from you, Denethor decreed. 

The pond edges cloaked in thick grasses silver, green and faded brown. But in mist, everything was drowning and dreamlike. 

Egrets dipped elegant bodies into water. And loons and herons and waders moved through the stillness. Wondrous creatures. Denethor named them in Westron then repeated them in Sindarin, bidding Boromir to do the same. 

Bones cluttered along the edge of a desiccated log. Boromir worryingly peered at them asking, Who are they? 

The dead. 

The dead of who? 

Denethor motioned to the birds. More chicks are born than take flight. That is the way of nature, that is the way of the world. The dead here were taken by carnivorous turtles whose mouths could bite off a finger, so mind you don’t put hand or foot in water. They lie in wait then, when fleshy foot of baby bird plunges in —

Denethor clapped his hands, fingers lace. There goes the chick that was never intended to fly. 

That day the fog did not burn away. It followed them along low fields back to white, marble city. It clung with hunger to muted land. 

Boromir lies in the grasses of Rohan’s plains, a healthier green than those by bone filled ponds of childhood. He had attempted to find them again, when he was older, but could not. Therefore, a part of him always wonders: was it a dream? It feels as one would, the way childhood memories become gauze, obscuring all those sharp edges. 

He had not passed the lesson on to Faramir, mostly because he was never sure what it was his father was attempting to tell him. Something about wyrd, fate, about laene, transitory things, about strength and honour and cunning and death. Maybe Denethor didn’t know what he was trying to teach. This occurs to Boromir as wind rustles grasses so they sway above his head. They seemingly brush stars and moon and inky sky. But that isn’t like Denethor, he is a man who knows himself and what he wants to say.

Rolling over Boromir attempts to make himself comfortable, curses the dirty great rock that seems to follow him wherever he has the misfortune of sleeping rough. Since he is going to Imladris for wisdom perhaps he could ask the elves about his father’s attempted lesson. The thought amuses: ‘My Lord Elrond, you who have fought the Dark Lord, seen many Ages of Man, known the likes of Isildur and Gil-Galad, wise and noble, can you please explain the cryptic messages passed down from father to son? My father gave them me without explanation and somehow expects me to intuit them, as if I can read his mind.’

Faramir would know. Or would be able to hazard a guess at interpretation. 

But he isn’t going to take his brother to some filthy pond to point out bird bones — as if his brother doesn’t know what death is. 

Let us think happier things. He ponders the list he has been making of sights to tell Faramir about. All the little things his brother would have liked had he made this journey north to mythical elvendom. So far, the list could be summed up with: ruins Faramir would wish to write a poem about. 

His brother, being far greater a wordsmith, would make much more meaning from this trip than he. If their lives were different, if the world were less black, if time was less pressing, if the sun did not rise red each morning speaking of Gondor’s spilt blood, it would be both of them on this journey. 

Then again, if that were so, if the times their lives existed in were calmer, a milk blue horizon striped purple, there would not have been the Dreams and therefore no need to quest for aid so far to the north. 

Baby birds appear in his mind before slipping beneath oily surface of calm lake. Maybe the lesson is about how grief and rage consume the mind. If grief were a country, Denethor would be lost in it and unwilling to ask for directions home. 

Boromir considers it a failure on his side, that he has not been able to coax his father back to how he was before death graced the family. He, who knows how to read his father’s moods, who knows how to best please him, best soothe him, keep him even keeled as a fine boat. He is the one who ought to be able to guide the man back to their world. 

His father’s happiness, as much as Gondor’s, is a labour he willingly undertakes. He does not allow Faramir to point out: Father thrust it on you. He gave you no choice but to manage him and his emotions. 

I am the eldest, Boromir always replies when the circular argument begins, this is my duty. 

The grasses hush and sigh. The land seems to breathe. It rocks him to sleep. 

New days bring new wonders, but such is the way of traveling. There is order in it, and disorder. He packs his bags a certain way but cannot know what is about to come in the next minute or hour. He wears his cloak about his shoulders at a certain angle, adjusts sword in just the right manner, but cannot know what is behind a tree or rock. He makes predictions based on shadows, stars, moon and sun for something to do but they are rarely right. 

Today is a day to stare at the crumbling decay of a Numenorian king. When Boromir awoke with frosty joints from cold ground he did not guess it to be a Numenorian king sort of day. But here he is. 

Boromir adds the statue to the list of ruins Faramir would write a poem about. Brushing ivy back from weathered face, he traces nose and chin. The faded features make identifying the aged ruler an impossibility. But looking at the lonesome figure friended only by rain, vines, earth, Boromir feels a stirring. 

This is what the stories mean when they speak of the fall and disgrace of Man. 

Boromir has seen dissolute land and buildings crumbling before eyes. He knows ruins. What is his life but an endless attempt to clutch the remnants of Gondor together so she may yet survive for another generation? Boromir will ensure survival so someone else can build. 

Which is to say, he knows active, ongoing falls. 

But this statue’s isolation. Without compatriots or caretakers. Delivered up to the wilderness to become part of it. Reduction from art to mere stone beneath foot. This sort of fall haunts him. The falls that result in forgetting and unraveling and the ending of knowledge of names and deeds. Who was this king? How did he sit? How did he breath? What did he call himself? What did others name him? Did he have preferences for what he broke his morning fast with? 

Faramir would laugh at that moment. What a way to ruin a grave scene, brother-mine. 

'Well', Boromir says to calm forest, 'it’s worth knowing. I would argue breakfast, and how one takes it, says something about a man.' 

He continues the tenderness that is removing vines from noble visage. Thunder rolling calls him back to the present. There still remains a long journey before him. He takes up his bag, adjusts it on his shoulders, and walks on. Rain washes his face the same as it washes the unknown king left alone amongst trees. 

Time takes on a different meaning as he travels through forest and dale, cliff and valley, field and fen. What does time matter when you have passed the millionth tree? The millionth scattering of tumbled boulders? The millionth view of the shifting sameness of the Misty Mountains? The sky is the sky, the sun the sun. He is no poet.

It is all beautiful. It is all sweeping his heart away. But it is all the same, after a while. He never knew a person could become oversaturated with beauty. 

Walking becomes meditation. The longer he is on foot, the further north he goes, the more he feels that his breath, and the breath of the trees, echo one another. In turns he is restless for company yet desperate for this calm solitude to never end. 

Did he pity that lonesome king whose statue is dissolving into earth? Now, part of him wishes for that life. The other part says: this is why you should never go without company for more than a fortnight. It has you becoming one with dicky-birds.  

The only time keeping for Boromir is the moon and her cycles. Also the stars, their positioning that changes with the weeks. He can, if he must, count the days it has been since he set out from Gondor. 

[It was a Tuesday when he set out from Minas Tirith with early, grey slits of clouds lining the trail northward. He set out with a thought to get an answer to a riddle. Which is a small thing to ride out for. To leave brother, father, city for. But small things are accumulating to build the future and he isn’t sure he knows how to turn off the trail now that he is on it. Even if an avalanche of small things comes down upon him. 

He said to Faramir, I’ll be safe. Don’t worry. Take care of yourself and our people. I’ll be back before you know it.

He left city gates with their intrepid, bold whiteness. Their stalwart starkness, sheer breathtaking size. He left and a silver trumpet called out the departure of a son of Gondor. He remembers that sound as he looks down into the depths of a granite valley peppered with gnarled chestnut trees. The memory of the trumpet sings to him. He wishes desperately to be home.]

When he sleeps it’s uneasy - because of the dirty great rock that follows him and always seems to hit the lower part of his back - but also because he dreams of walking. He dreams of forests and fields and mountains. White Mountains, Misty Mountains, Blue Mountains - so many mountains! And the endless river he criss-crosses over. He’s been in Eriador for several days now and is beginning to believe Imladris made up and the Dream he and Faramir had a nothingness. This errand is fool’s work. 

He could count time by dreams. Dreaming is intimate in the way counting time is intimate. Each person has their own way of being and doing.   

To Boromir’s luck, there’s been little activity aside from himself and the expected animals. Tracks of deer, boar, goat and wild cattle. Occasional print of fox and wildcat. He knows there to be foul things afoot in the north but hasn’t seen anything to warrant concern. All signs of Orcs are weeks old. All signs of human activity, he’s seen markings of a small contingent of horses, no more than a dozen, are also weeks old. 

The only thing he marks as strange was the flying shadow that moved in daylight. It was a few days past when Boromir stopped to take rest at the fork in River Greyflood. He was pondering where to ford when a great shadow passed before him. Coming along with the shadow was a sound that hurt his teeth, scraped itself along his skin, down the back of his head. His blood froze, his heart at once silent and very loud. He thought, That thing must be able to hear me breathing I am so loud and the world so silent. 

Everything became ice became blue became grey turning darker and darker then the world blotted out so the only thing that existed before him was a shadow that crawled through air. No rushing river, no howling crash of water on rocks, no creaking trees, birds alighting from branches, the hiss of wind in brush. Only the shadow and the shadow looked at him and through him and it knew him and it laughed and he was more terrified than he had ever felt before. It had no eyes only dark holes and no mouth only smiling darkness and a thought of teeth and no body only dark shapes of cloth. The orcs taking Osgiliath were child’s play to the fear that stripped him bare in this moment. 

Then: gone. As if it had never occurred. Sun returned and Boromir again knew warmth. 

Thinking on the event, which he hasn’t been able to put from his mind, he considers himself lucky that whatever phantom that was had not wished to stop for a chat. How it seemed to turn him inside out makes him squirm. How it knew everything in his mind and was amused by it makes him nauseous. He dislikes that this creature is wandering the world carrying his secrets, such as they are, with it.

And, generally speaking, his secrets are limited. Family related, personal. Certain truths about self he pockets away and ignores because they serve no purpose to inspect let alone speak of. But, as paltry and simple as his secrets and truths might be they remain his and he does not like that they were known and he had no ability to stop it. 

Slowly, Imladris becomes tangible. In that, it’s nearing. He walks through night as long as there is moon to see by in order to speed up arrival. Signs begin to show themselves: kept paths, hunting trails, markings in stones of Elvish design. Each one he gathers up thankful and exhausted. 

It is in early morning light of an October Wednesday in 3018 when he comes upon a half-hidden arch, covered in vines, copper leaves curling inward. He sags against the carved stone, wipes a hand over his face, and says to the bridge before him, ‘Oh thank the fucking stars.’

Chapter Text

So, a question: how long can a kingdom remain a kingdom if it is king-less? 

A long time. Decades, centuries. Boundaries and demarcations of ownership ebb and flow with the natural tides of victory and defeat, interest and disinterest, growth and regression, but the unified body of Kingdom remains. 

Boromir said, one time, So long as everyone agrees that it ought to. He had been fifteen and was promptly rebuked by Mithrandir. 

And Mithrandir was right, the idea of a future hope keeps Gondor trudging onward in a bizarre fusion of movement and stasis. 

There is no time for this. 

Boromir, exhausted, is pulled into a council meeting and thinks, upon entering, Will I never escape meetings? The bane of the Stewards of Gondor: never ending council sessions. 

He left his land thinking he was on a simple quest to answer a riddle dreamt in a dream and now see where he is? what occupies him? The same as he left. No rest for those weary of governmental management. Which is, he supposes, fitting. There shall be councils taken, a line from the dream. He takes the offered seat.

Still in travel clothes, Boromir would care more for the state of himself (sight, smell), if he were less tired, less hungry, less in great need of a wash.  

[Lord Elrond, friendly in an inscrutable sort of fashion, greated him: You’re most welcome, my lord Boromir. I was a few hours off in my estimation. Oh well. Come with me, you’ll find your answer in the council meeting. 

Boromir, attempting positivity despite wanting desperately for a bath and a meal, replied: I am glad to hear it and I’m more than happy to attend. ]

The council is composed of elves, dwarves, hobbits (halfings - ah, another piece), and men. Boromir scans faces to see if there are any he recognizes but no, save Mithrandir, there is no one. And Mithrandir? He does not let Boromir catch his eye. Or, should he let it happen, there’s no recognition across his face. Is it a game or does the wizard truly not remember him? 

Boromir isn’t sure but takes his lead from the old man. He would not wish to embarrass him, regardless the motive for the blank faced expression of unknowing. 

The council begins. And it goes on. And there are updates from the dwarves about movements in the east. The mysterious lives they live beneath ground conjuring up fantastical images in Boromir’s mind. And there is Lord Elrond explaining the forging of the rings of power and coming of Sauron and the last alliance. (Elrond pauses here, withdraws into himself, says to no one and everyone: I remember their banners. Gil-Galad’s most especially. They’re gone, now. ) And there is news from the elves. One in particular brings news from Mirkwood. Dark haired, dark skinned, and wearing greens and browns he unwinds his news as someone would unpick knitwear. Precise and careful. 

Then, Boromir’s turn and he says what he can about Gondor and Osgiliath and the sky, how it is made of clouds, of Mordor, ever advancing, of the ground that’s dying. 

If he is sharpish, The blood of Numenor is not yet spent, nor is its pride and dignity forgotten. It is Gondor’s blood, Gondor’s honour, that keeps the terror of Sauron at bay and your lands kept safe , it is because he is tired. 

If he is, perhaps, churlish, But still we fight, despite the growing darkness, and for it we receive much praise from those behind us. Praise but little help, it is because he’s sat through more councils and committees and meetings than he can count and knows their worth which is to say not much. 

He does relent, ‘We do receive aid from Rohan. They still ride to us when we call.’ 

A pause. Elrond prompts: Riddle? Oh yes, the riddle. 

‘After the taking of Osgiliath my brother and I had a strange dream - he three times, myself only once. I’ll not bore you with the details but at the end of it we were given a riddle to solve: 

Seek for the Sword that was broken;

In Imladris it dwells.

There shall be taken counsels

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand.

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Neither Faramir nor I knew what to make of it. My father, Denethor, believed that the answer would be found here.’ He glances around the circle, shrugs, ‘And so hopefully one of you might be able to parse it for us.’ 

Silence. Not an encouraging sign, to Boromir’s mind. There is some side-eyeing a man who does his best to ignore it. Boromir feels deep sympathy for him. Tries to convey I am so sorry by mostly-stoic expression. Isn’t sure he is successful. Elrond sighs. This seems to prompt something and finally the man stands. 

Tall, somber, grey-eyed, black haired, wearing clothes as weather-stained as Boromir’s own, there’s something imposing in him but also, about the edges, something wild. The man is composed, quiet, but Boromir would bet his shirt there’s a wilderness in the man’s heart. 

‘What Lord Elrond wishes me to say is that I am part of the answer to your riddle.’  

Boromir lifts his brow. Waits. 

The man doesn’t look at Boromir but over his head and sometimes to others around them: Mithrandir, Elrond, the halflings. Taking out a broken sword he lays it on the table between everyone. Only then does he meet Boromir’s eye and his expression is unreadable. Maybe trepidation? Maybe defiance? Maybe exhaustion? 

‘The broken blade,’ Boromir breaths. 

The man nods, ‘The blade that belonged to Elendil and was broken beneath him.’ 

‘And who are you to have it?’ 

A ripple of murmurs amongst the elves. They tilt their heads towards one another, eye Boromir with some disdain. A few of the dwarves smile through beards, amused at the situation. 

The man, who looks as if he walked out of a bush not a minute ago, appears almost pained. Boromir shares the embarrassment. Neck and chest suddenly too warm. Really, someone should put them all out of their misery. Whoever this man is, he seems ill equipped to be in the council. A ranger, maybe. Let him leave the sword and return to his post. Let him have some peace. 

Elrond gives the mystery-man a meaningful look. The mystery-man chooses to ignore it. Elrond sighs. The mystery-man ignores that too. 

Finally, the elf lord explains: ‘He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chief of the Dunedain in the north, and heir to the throne of Gondor.’

Boromir does his best to arrange his face into nothingness. He will not let shock, surprise, disbelief grace his features. Instead, he offers a polite smile, ‘Then I am honoured to meet you.’ 

Aragorn inclines his head, says he is likewise honoured to meet the son of Denethor. He looks to say something more but swallows it down. Everyone stares at them. As Aragorn begins retaking his seat, the younger halfing leans forward with a look that can only be described as anguished. 

‘Then it’s yours! It’s not mine nor Bilbo’s.’ 

Aragorn, solemnly, ‘It belongs to neither of us.’ 

Boromir wants to say, Can we please all speak plainly? Some of us didn’t get the pre-meeting reading. 

He opts for looking mildly perplexed in the direction of Lord Elrond. Lord Elrond catches his eye but only smiles in response. Boromir thinks the elf-lord amused at the situation before him. Which makes for an interesting sense of humour. Though, if one is as old as Elrond, it shouldn’t be too much a shock that the sense of humour is, how shall Boromir say it?, odd . 

At last Mithrandir speaks, and with grave authority reminiscent of the classroom: ‘The time has come. Bring forth the ring, Frodo.’ 

The halfling frowns at Mithrandir. Then looks around, small features becoming troubled. Slowly, he takes an object from his pocket and places it on the table beside the broken sword. 

And what a ring it is. What a sword. What a council meeting. Boromir stares at the gold band and every lesson ever taught comes tumbling back down, a tidal wave of ohohoh . 

Isildur’s bane shall waken, indeed. 

The remainder of the council is a blur. Boromir, partway through, asks: ‘How do we even know this ring is Isildur’s bane? It’s a pretty enough thing, I’ll grant you. But how does one know?’ 

This prompts an hour long exposition from Elrond on the history of the ring, the three ages and as he nears the present day he slows then stops and looks at the other halfing. Older than Frodo, white haired and hunched, the hobbit smiles like the sun. 

'I found it,’ the hobbit says. ‘In a cave. I won it, if one wants to be precise. With a riddle.’ 

Boromir’s interest peaks: What riddle? 

The hobbit’s smile turns mischievous, ‘I don’t recall at the moment. But never mind that, it’s not important. What is important is that the ring came to me and now to poor Frodo.’ 

‘And why can we not use it against the dark lord?’ Boromir asks. 

Which was apparently the wrong thing to ask. Mithrandir erupts, ‘Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond said? This is not to be --’ 

‘I heard,’ Boromir snaps back. ‘I heard that he made it, that he bent it to his will and so on. I remember my childhood lessons, as well. But could no one reverse that? Is there no one strong enough to wield it? If it’s a weapon then it should obey the hand that bears it.’ 

‘It’s no ordinary weapon,’ Elrond says. ‘It has a will of its own which makes mastering it difficult if not outright impossible. It always seeks to return to Sauron.’ 

‘So, we’re forming a company to deliver it to his doorstep?’ 

Aragorn turns his face skyward as if to hide his expression. The sun rests prettily enough against him, despite his wild appearance. Boromir blinks. Snaps his attention back to Elrond who is explaining secrecy over might and how that is their only option at the moment. 

‘--for we’ve no army that can match his. Even if we formed a second alliance it wouldn’t be enough.’ Elrond rubs a hand over his face. ‘It’s time to put an end to the rule of Sauron. Therefore,’ he waves at the glinting gold. ‘It must be destroyed. Destroy the ring, destroy Sauron. There’s no other way to do this.’ 

Boromir sits back in his chair, rests chin on hand. More voices raise up, details about who is to attempt it, who can be trusted, how many should go, what route would be taken. The dwarves and elves seem the most passionate in their views, save Elrond who sits back and watches it unfold. The two halflings appear overwhelmed. No, that isn’t entirely correct: the elderly one is evidently having an absolute time . Frodo is overwhelmed. Aragorn, like Elrond, watches. 

Is this what he expected Elendil’s descendent to be? A dusty, frayed about the edges, tired ranger from the north. An unlikely king. 

The body of the king represents the land he is to rule, is intimately tied to the land. Dusty, frayed, tired. Boromir rubs his eyes, admits that it isn’t too far off to how Gondor stands today. 

Amidst the rabble of voices and low, clear, though uncertain one, takes shape. ‘I will take it.’ 

The council pauses. Boromir returns his attention, Elrond becomes interested, Aragorn unreadable, Mithrandir pained. 

Standing, brow creased in worry, hating the attention now being paid to him, is Frodo. He says again, ‘I will take the ring to Mordor. Though, I confess, I do not know the way.’ 

Taking up the ring Frodo holds it in the palm of his hand, a beat, it disappears into his pocket. When he held it aloft, for that fleeting second, the gold caught in sunlight. A blinding sight.

So. That’s the heir of Isildur. Descendent of Elendil. What a thing. Marvels upon marvels. Boromir wishes to vomit into a finely sculpted bush. He puts this down to the food not agreeing with him. 

His father never spoke of the heirs of Isildur (in a meaningful way) because there was no reason to speak of the heirs of Isildur. If they remained, they were no more and no less than the rest of us who are descended from the Dunedain and Numenor, therefore why should we give special credence to them? Special licence to those who shy away from duty and hide in the north? 

This heir of Isildur, whom the elves and Mithrandir put special import upon, has a sword. It is broken. It is to be reforged before they set out. Boromir doesn’t say, I have more swords broken in the line of duty than fingers on a hand. He can have one, if he wants.  

What is a sword? 

Faramir would put meaning to it, but Boromir can’t haul himself over that ledge just yet. He thinks, Oh yes, fine, the man has a sword and the man is tall with a noble air, when he decides to put one. I know men like him. Indeed, I can be such a man when I want to. But I don’t go around dredging up the past so sand roils in surf making everything unclear. 

Boromir always put himself beyond resentment. And there isn’t any. As future Steward, he knows his role as supporter of crowns and thrones and it is a duty he will shoulder with grace for he has no desire to be anything more than Steward. It is only, he thinks things strangely opportune. La - here be Isildur’s bane. And oh, what is this? Isildur’s heir. Conveniently hiding with the elves for the last long while. Why hasn’t he shown himself before? If heir he be, why wait to reclaim what is rightfully his?

A dwarf called Gloin discusses history. Working slowly, he circles his topic. A hunter and prey. 

More a snake-eating-tale in redundancy , Legolas mutters out the side of his mouth. Boromir does not understand the elf with his unreadable eyes and smile that is a corner of lips twitched upward. 

‘I’m sure there’s a point,’ Boromir replies. 

Legolas lets out a breathless noise of ha. Boromir stares at him. Legolas stares back. Was it is a laugh? Impossible to say so there is an awkward return of attention to the old dwarf. 

Gloin talks about mountains. About rock that knows you. About land that sings for you. About seeing a place and knowing you have come home. They had not known home for a long time and, sometimes, he dreams still about not knowing home. 

‘It’s been over fifty years since we returned to the Lonely Mountain,’ Gloin says. ‘My son, Gimli, was born in the Blue Mountains and I don’t know which land it is his feet call home, which rock his hands like best. 

‘We were cast out, you know, from Erebor. Which is why we wandered. A wyrm, a fiery beast called Smaug, drove us away. Took our work and home as his own. And we wandered and there were forests and fields and dales and fens and moorland that we walked over. And we were homeless and called thieving tinkers and grasping coin makers, coin changers , among other choice terms.

‘But Thorin, our king, remembered our home. He made sure we never forgot it. Sang its name, told its stories, rebuilt its majesty in our hearts. And eventually, he told the story of a people coming home. Of a leader able enough to take us back to our mountain. And so we followed him. We followed him unto the end.’ 

Gloin breaths in, glowing cinders from pipe bowl illuminating his face. His eyes are stars in their brightness. Boromir thinks he must be living a memory. A beautiful and sad one. 

‘What happened to your king?’ Boromir asks when enough silence has been sat in. Even the elf rests quietly. Implacable in expression, ageless and unknowable.

‘He died,’ Gloin says. ‘In battle. Or what was left of him died in battle. I think he came back to us, at the end, but you’d have to ask Master Bilbo about that.’ To Boromir it seems that Gloin is still drifting on the tendrils of those beautiful and sad memories. He takes his leave, gives his thanks for the story, bows to the dwarf, and wanders off into meandering paths that lead through fragrant garden and grove and woodland. 

Legolas follows for a time, pausing every so often to name a plant or a tree. Sometimes, he talks to them, even waits for answers and nods as if they spoke back. Boromir, embarrassed, does his best to lose the elf. It takes a while but eventually, when he looks behind him, there is no one there. Just empty path of soft sandstone and a breeze nudging fallen leaves along ground. 

An evening song of birds brings Aragorn quietly into Boromir’s rooms. He stands at the edge, doesn’t wish to intrude. Boromir says, ‘Please, take a seat, my lord.’ 

Aragorn rocks back on heels, ‘Do you want the heir of Isildur to come to Minas Tirith?’ 

With sword and crown in tow, Aragorn doesn’t add but Boromir thinks it. 

‘I didn’t come here to beg a boon for my people,’ Boromir replies. He knows he is being haughty. He cannot help it. The man makes him bristle. ‘Only to answer a riddle. I’m happy to help the Company in all the ways that I am able, until we reach Gondor.’ 

‘Then you return to your people.’ 

‘It is my place.’ Boromir shifts weight. He is unsure what Aragorn is asking. What he wants to hear. ‘The heir of Isildur may bring some relief, should he wish to come.’ 

‘Would you want him to?’ 

‘It is not a matter of my wanting or not wanting. It is a matter of your wanting or not wanting.’ 

Aragorn regards him. A long, searching look it goes through Boromir and out the other side. A lighter, softer version of inspection than what he experienced at the Ford with the strange wraith-like creature. 

At length Aragorn repeats his question, ‘Would you want it?’ 

Boromir sighs, mirrors Aragorn’s posture, they’re standing opposite one another across the room with its polished wooden floors, its delicately arched windows draped in sheer linen moving slowly in early evening breeze. Dying sun slants through open window, through glass, cascades itself over the floor. Everything is red and purple and pink. For once, the red not making Boromir’s shoulders tense. For once, the sun does not make him think of the dead. 

‘Let me think about it,’ Boromir says. 

Aragorn’s mouth twitches. It could have been a smile. He bows low, bids good evening to the lord of Gondor, disappears into the warm shadows of Imladris. 

Boromir strides about, energy held in chest, tight and close like a secret. But, like a secret, it spills out, pours over a cascade. He paces to the rhythm of Imladris’ river. A watery language of movement. 

There was resolution at the Council. An action. A plan. He likes plans. They are to form a Company. The halflings, the elf, dwarf, two men and Mithrandir. A light to counter the darkness of the nine riders.

Since then there has been much fervour and none at all. Boromir dislikes the stillness that pervades the material of air. He feels it as a blanket, smothering. One can find it peaceful, for a time. But he was not made to be idle. He cannot sit still. He taps out beats. His leg jumps. Old lessons from Denethor do not have the strength to keep Boromir’s restlessness at bay. If Mithrandir raises an eye Boromir does not respond. 

More strangeness there, too. That Mithrandir is here and called by Gandalf, his true name seemingly unknown to all present. Boromir thought to question the wizard about it but he continues to appear disinclined to acknowledge Boromir and so Boromir continues to return the sentiment. 

The peace becomes suspect. If you feel no urgency, nothing but gentleness, how can you think to act swiftly and with sufficient force as to render change? Boromir cannot fathom it. 

An unseasonably balmy night. Boromir spends the twilight hours staring at frescoes. He charts the history of the Elves, much of which he is only familiar with at a high level. Then, that of man, the vanquishing of Sauron, the finding of the Ring. What is not shown: the weakness. The keeping. The clutching. 

Boromir traces Isildur’s outstretched hand as Elrond drifts into the room like a gentle, unexpected breeze. The lord says that the Fellowship will be leaving the next day at sundown. More than enough time has been spent at Imladris and, importantly, the scouts have returned with information. What information? Mostly: now, now, now you need to leave now. Helpful, really.

Elrond watches Boromir and Boromir feels it like a nail pressed between eyes. The elf lord tilts head to side, asks, ‘Do you feel your questions have been answered?’ 

Boromir does not and says so. There is a sword, there are these halflings, there is Isildur’s bane, but he hasn’t made meaning of it. 

‘Is there an answer to it?’ Boromir asks. ‘This dream riddle?’ 

‘Sometimes there are no answers, but I suspect there is to this one,’ Elrond says. He moves as a cat which is to say softly, gently, silk on silk but beneath it such capabilities for violence. Boromir would not like to face Elrond in battle, even if he didn’t know the old stories. ‘But at the moment I can’t see it. It’s a riddle with multiple possibilities, the most frustrating kind.’ Then, Elrond smiles, rotates his head so to look up, as if hiding his expression. There is a joke, Boromir thinks, but it’s an inward one that the elf-lord has with himself. ‘Perhaps Bilbo would be a better person to ask. He’s good at riddles that do not fit the normal scope of what a riddle should be.’ 

Boromir despairs. ‘Riddles aren’t my strength,’ he says. ‘It really ought to have been my brother who came.’ 

‘You are here for a reason. May that be a comfort to you. We all have our part to play in this next great work and while I cannot see clearly what the end will be, I have no doubt your role will be an important one. Perhaps in ways that might not seem readily apparent. It’s going to be one of those joyful life experiences where you will look back and see how it all fits together.’ 

Boromir mouths joyful in confusion but doesn’t respond. Elrond, apparently finished with their conversation, drifts off to other parts of Imladris soft as a meditation. 

It’s been months and he still has not answered Aragorn’s inquiry. Because Boromir knows there is only one answer. He wants to shake the man and say: Don’t ask questions that are not questions. You’ve given me a choice that is no choice. 

Aragorn, when he is in Imladris and not out in the hinterlands hunting orcs, tracking evil doers, doing whatever else it is a ranger does, shadows him. He always seems present when Boromir wishes to be left in peace. 

It’s a tentative attempt at reaching out, he knows. And he ought not be churlish about it. It’s difficult, when the unanswered question of a broken sword and a crown lay between them. 

The morning of the day they are to leave and everyone is industrious. Packs are checked and rechecked. Maps consulted. Mithrandir and Elrond lock themselves up for many hours of conversation and consultation. 

The elderly halfling, Bilbo, finds Boromir as he sits with whetstone and sword.  

‘Always good to keep the blade ready,’ Bilbo declares happily. Taking a seat he rests hands on cane and looks about the small courtyard. Admires its walls covered in flowers, an opening out to the valley, the tree in the centre with its golden leaves. Evidently content with the location, he settles into himself. 

‘Indeed, Master Baggins.’ 

‘Aragorn says he isn’t sure about his route in all of this. Who he is to follow after a certain point.’ The tone is conversational. Boromir gives the hobbit a side-long glance. Bilbo grins a wicked grin. The hobbit is evidently a devilish one. In a good way, though. He has that wicked cunning of men who have seen many winters but still maintain a sense of humour. 

‘He didn’t have to send an emissary if he wanted my reply. I’ve been meaning to give it him, but he had this habit of knocking off into the woods.’ 

‘Yes,’ Bilbo draws out the vowel. ‘He does do that with great regularity.’

‘I’ll find him before we leave,’ Boromir says. 

‘Good,’ Bilbo smiles. ‘But I wasn’t here to talk about that. I am here to beg a favour of you. I heard your brother is a man of words.’ 

Boromir nods, yes, Faramir is that. Words, poems, legends, lore, long philosophical conversations about things like birds and the sun. That’s him. 

‘Could you be so kind and ask him to spare an old hobbit some verse. I want to include examples from all the free peoples in my book. I’ve written out my request.’ Bilbo reaches into waistcoat pocket and takes out a letter. ‘If it isn’t too much to ask.’ 

Boromir smiles, taking the letter, ‘I’m more than happy to pass it on and I know Faramir will be more than happy to answer it.’ 

Bilbo leans back, pleased with himself. He taps the cane top as Boromir returns to his sword, then says, ‘Have I told you about my own little adventure? Nothing like what you’re embarking on, of course. But there was a dragon, so that should count for something.’ 

Boromir raises an eyebrow. Bilbo continues in his smiling way. ‘No, Master Baggins. You haven’t. Please, I’d like to hear it.’ 

Aragorn is discovered after lunch, loitering in one of the many gardens. He holds a pendant in hand but, seeing Boromir approach, quickly tucks it beneath tunic and shift. 

‘Your friend, Master Bilbo, has informed me that you want an answer. I said I had been meaning to speak with you but you were so rarely around.’ 

Being a reasonable man, Aragorn doesn’t point out that he had been around and had made his presence known to Boromir only Boromir chose to ignore it. Boromir appreciates this. 

‘I didn’t ask him to. I assumed, as we are about to embark on the road together, I’d have ample opportunity to inquire.’ 

‘I didn’t think you had.’ Boromir halts by a willow, it’s branches trimmed to allow those standing beneath it to see out. Aragorn lingers by a stream and seems ill inclined to move. ‘I want what is best for Gondor. That is what I want.’ 

Aragorn chews this over for a moment before saying, ‘That isn’t, technically, an answer.’ 

‘If you are what is best for Gondor then I would like you to come with me to Minas Tirith.’ Boromir picks at the bark. He adds, ‘Is that a satisfactory answer?’ 

Aragorn doesn’t reply. He walks over to Boromir, stands so they are terribly close, and says, ‘I understand your doubt. I’d doubt myself were I you.’ 

Boromir stares out to water, watches how it sparkles clear blue in sun, the stones shine up from shallow depths. Boromir cannot meet Aragorn’s eyes for they are of the burning sort. The kind that scorch souls. He’s met men with eyes like that before. 

‘Do you doubt yourself?’ Boromir asks. ‘Do not answer if you were me or anyone else. Do you doubt yourself as yourself?’ 

Aragorn pulls away, Boromir finds he can breath again. The ranger pats Boromir’s shoulder, says he asks a good question. But they should finish preparations. They are about to begin a journey that he cannot see the end of. 

Boromir asks, ‘Do you share foresight with Lord Elrond?’ 

Aragorn shakes his head, ‘No, no. I’m simply saying, I cannot know what we are about to do save that it is either great or foolish or both.’ 

‘Well,’ Boromir sighs, turning about so they both begin a slow walk back into Imladris. ‘I’ve always found greatness and foolishness to go hand in hand. Let us say it will be both.’ 

Finally, the leave taking. The Company stands at the bridge into Imladris bathed in the colours of dying sun. It warms backs and pushes away any initial unease Boromir felt. Lord Elrond is incredibly human in his farewells. The uncanny creature he had been the night before gone with daylight. He bows his head to Boromir, quietly saying, ‘I looked for you in the future.’ 

‘And?’ 

‘There is a hope.’ 

Boromir does not find this uplifting. Elrond smiles a full and public smile. He tells Boromir that there is always hope. Even in people and situations that do not seem to hold any. 

‘I met a few such men in my time. I may tell you of them, the next we speak.’ 

‘So we will speak again?’ 

‘Perhaps. It depends.’ 

Boromir stares. Elrond is all amusement. From behind Boromir, Aragorn’s soft voice drawls Ada and Elrond shrugs. It is the shrug of a father to an annoyed son. Boromir knows it well. Turning away in a state of deep confusion, he joins the others in the Company.

A statue marks their final exit from the safety of Imladris. Boromir lingers, looks at the delicately carved face of an elven warrior. Aragorn, noting his pause, turns back from the Company and stands beside him. Is this a nervous energy, Boromir senses? Yes, he deems it so. But the cause he cannot place. 

The quest before them is immense. The task incomprehensible, when all is said and done. It is the sort of work that you cannot look at in its entirety and so must grasp at the pieces. The day to day. The small things are tangible. The enormity is enough to make anyone concerned. 

Aragorn’s voice, still soft and low, is a voice Boromir did not expect a future king to have. ‘It’s Gil-Galad.’ 

‘Is he one of the ones Lord Elrond spoke of? The kind of person who would not seem to bring hope with them but do, in the end. I only know him from stories.’ 

Aragorn tilts his head, a gesture similar to Elrond’s. ‘No. He was speaking of others he knew when he was young. And experiences where there seemed to be no light but there was, eventually. But he doesn’t linger on his past, especially his deep past, it wasn’t an overly happy place.’ 

Boromir returns attention to the statue. He notes that it is sad. ‘I would have thought a more fierce, or grave, expression would suit a warrior such as Gil-Galad.’ 

‘They made his tears immortal,’ Aragorn replies in a way that suggests to Boromir there is a story or three behind it.

‘T’is a pity his tears weren’t immortal in life. Is it true immortality, if a blade can still kill you?’ 

What is that look on Aragorn’s face? A grief, an unbearable grief. But it is gone as soon as it arrived. Boromir, uncertain about what to say, gives a perfunctory nod and rejoins the main body of the Fellowship. He wants to ask, but cannot: What statues will be made of them? What expressions will they bear for all eternity?

Chapter Text

Light changes depending where you travel and the time of year, the altitude, the foliage. They were covered in the green filtration of forest sunlight until Hollin which is open as a child’s face. 

Despite their traveling at night, Boromir still feels seen. He had not crossed through this land on his way north, having taken a more covered route. Now, they dive for whatever cover is to hand during the day. They make home beneath brush, within crevices and other secret, hidden spaces. 

Yet, yet. He cannot shake the feeling of being watched. 

And the Company! Quiet. It leaves him time to ponder Aragorn, o' future king. Current king, he supposes, though there’s been no ceremony to confirm that dignity. But, he knows kingship does not reside in ritual, crown, or throne but in the person. Regardless, the shadow of Gondor’s kingship looms large. It impacts all it touches. 

Stewards cannot change existing laws, they cannot impose new ones. They merely keep what exists for the future potential of a king. Stewards act with one eye constantly on the dais, as if there sits a ghost of a monarch making note of what they do and do not accomplish. 

And perhaps there is a ghost, but Boromir doesn’t think it a physical phantom so much as an inherited paranoia. 

Once, when he was a boy, Boromir thought there was a ghost whistling through his bedroom. He went and told his father who asked: Is the window open? And Boromir said: Yes, father, it is. And Denethor replied: Close it.  

There, then, is Denethor’s approach to ghosts of kings: Have you thought about closing the window? 

Hollin’s flatness could make a man mad, Boromir is half-convinced. In the distance lies the Misty Mountains, their eventual trajectory, but currently it is plains with minimal grass and low, sad trees with barely any growth in them, and few birds. Sometimes a ruin. A chunk of a column jutting up from ground. A marble bust, only the chest-plate remaining. No head for identification. Steps half-covered with loamy soil and thin vines. 

There is no water. 

Nor much time. In the way flatness of earth relieves you of such a notion because of the sameness of the world. 

Aragorn demonstrates a continued propensity to disappear into bush. When the company was in the forest the disappearing was easy. Here in Hollin it means he wanders off in a direction then lies on the ground, listening. 

‘That only works if what you’re tracking is heavy and nearby,’ Boromir states but in the tone of a question. 

Aragorn nods, oh yes that’s true. He does not elaborate. 

Boromir decides that he cannot wait to see Aragorn in the full fervour of court-life. It’s difficult to run away into a forest if you are needed in council.  

The sameness of the land sinks into their daily rituals. The pattern of waking, breaking fast, decamping. The pattern of Watch conversations. The pattern of walking. Gandalf and Aragorn in the lead, Boromir and Gimli at the rear. Everyone else scattered between save for the elf who, like Aragorn, wanders off then reappears hours later with a mysterious expression. As if he has seen some answer, or some wonder, no one else will know. 

‘It’s rude,’ Gimli remarks upon Legolas’ return. 

‘The smiling or the wandering off?’ Boromir asks. 

‘Both.’ 

‘I could count the stars the sky is so clear,’ Pippin says. It’s past midnight and the moon is small, just a sliver. The night wants to swallow it up and keep it in its belly. 

‘That’d keep you busy,’ Boromir replies. ‘Can we even count that high? Probably. I suppose there are numbers for everything.’ 

‘Must be. We have names for them all, so why shouldn’t we be able to count them?’ 

‘Stands to reason,’ Boromir says with a smile. Pippin huffs, yes! It does, rather. Stand to reason. ‘Your folk are well versed in that school of thought.’ 

‘How do you mean, my lord?’ 

‘The Stands to Reason school of thought. Which my father would deride, and possibly others in our company would too-’ 

‘Oh, Gandalf isn’t that bad.’ 

‘I said no name, Master Hobbit.’ 

Pippin grins. It is a look Boromir would call shit eating if he weren’t feeling Lordly this particular night. Pippin flourishes a bow, says he’d never manage counting all the stars for he’d get bored and there are better ways to spend time than staring up at heavens. He departs back to his companions with a laugh. It is a merry sound. Silver bells, crisp and clear. 

A Watch with Gimli leads, inevitably, to a conversation about the Lonely Mountain. Boromir hesitates to name the place. More, hesitates to ask the question Gimli’s father asked: Does my son consider the land I cannot live without his home? 

Boromir believes he will die for Gondor, and because of Gondor, but he would want it no other way. If flesh becomes earth and earth flesh, he is earth and stone of Gondor and Gondor is the flesh and bone of him. 

Had his life gone a different way, had he married as his father wished him to, had he been a better man, had he been born with the ability to be a husband, born with the ability to love a wife as she deserves to be loved - had he had a son. What would he feel if that child did not think Gondor home? 

He doesn’t know. He supposes he would love the child all the same. Just as Gloin does Gimli. 

Gimli speaks of Erebor’s halls. The craftsmanship. The new advances in mining. The scandals and gossip. Becoming truly alive, the dwarf says, ‘Depending the route we take, you may yet see some Dwarven halls. Great ones that make Erebor and the Blue Mountains look paltry by comparison. Built by my forefathers, I have always wanted to lay eyes on them. We may yet.’ 

Boromir watches Gimli pack his pipe. It is an after-thought of a movement. A languid dipping of bowl into pouch. The leather rustles, the leaf’s scent carries. 

‘I suspect we neither of us have much say on the paths we take,’ Boromir replies. 

‘No, no, but if we’re really trying to keep eyes off of us there’s a way yet that would suffice. I don’t see how we’re going to cross Redhorn Pass and not be seen by the enemy.’ 

‘I don’t know, we have a wizard, maybe he’ll come up with something.’ 

Gimli looks unconvinced. He says that wizards don’t really work like that. ‘Which, speaking of the future, I don’t like the idea of you and Aragorn breaking off for Gondor. We need as much experience as we can get. Once you two leave it’ll be me, Gandalf and the elf.’ Gimli drops his voice, ‘Though I don’t put much faith in that one.’ 

‘The elf?’ 

‘Aye.’ 

‘He’s an odd one. And one with sharp ears.’ 

Gimli coughs, glances over to the sleeping form. Or, the form that appears to rest though eyes be open. Boromir thinks it a mimicry of how the dead sleep. Eyes of the dead do not always stay shut. He knows, he has tried to close many. 

‘If you’re going to blame one of us let it be me,’ Boromir continues. They’re both staring at the uncomfortable form of the sleeping elf. Faramir, in his goodness, would call it merely a different way of being. Boromir can’t bring himself to be so kind and merely labels it creepy. ‘I’m the one with the dream. And you know how it is with dreams, you’re expected to follow them. Therefore, we’re sort of required to go forth to Minas Tirith together.’

‘Don’t sound so excited, you’ll have me thinking you like the man.’ 

Boromir pulls a face. Gimli points at him with his pipe, declares that strange times make for strange bedfellows. Boromir refrains from saying, So you and Legloas are going to become bosom friends? Gimli comes to the same conclusion and adds, ‘Within reason.’ 

‘Uh huh.’ 

‘Aragorn’s all right. A bit weird, a bit queer, but all right. Legolas, on the other hand, not only sleeps with his eyes open, he also sleeps while walking. With his eyes open.’ 

‘I didn’t need to know that.’ 

But! dreams and riddles. They do have a tendency to take on a life of their own. To wrap themselves around your plans and suddenly everything is sideways from what you intended. 

Such as this: You meant to find out about a riddle and now look where you are.

Exactly, Boromir replies glumly to himself. Look where I am. 

The Misty Mountains remain their constant companions. They grow slowly on the horizon and Boromir’s made a home for his eyes amongst their peaks. Tall, shadowed, immense and unknowable, that is their path forward. 

More or less. 

Paths forward remains a contentious subject. The Company has yet to arrive at a significant enough moment where a key decision must be made but the truth of that inevitability hangs over their heads. Aragorn shies from it, Mithrandir ignores it, Gimli shrugs, Legolas and the Hobbits express a neither-here-nor-there approach. 

Boromir knows which route he would choose, were he leading the party. But, he’s quickly found his council disregarded by the wizard and hemmed and hawed over by Aragorn. 

Aragorn’s struggles over making decisions unnerves Boromir. He might go so far as to say it worries him. 

An example, sunset breakfast two days ago: 

Boromir: Do you want this hardtack or that one?  

Aragorn stares as if the fate of the world rests on the decision. Boromir wags them, go on and choose. 

Aragorn: You pick .  

Boromir stares. But he does, because someone must. Aragorn relaxes. Boromir despairs. 

They leave December behind and enter January. Stars shift, the moon ages and is reborn. Denethor once told him about Orthanc, how it was used by the men of Gondor long ago as a place to study the heavens. Boromir squints up to the quilt of night pricked out in silver and wonders how they came to be. 

Dreams are strange. Stranger still when dreamt in daylight. Boromir blames his conversation with Gimli for the sudden amplification of his own. That, and the mountains. 

Mountains can be oppressive as much as they are inspirational. The Misty Mountains swoop heaven-ward, stark and hard against skyline. They are shadowed masses at night, white watchers in day. They show up in dreams. They sit on Boromir’s chest, all of them. The entire mountain range on his chest. The Blue Mountains for a pillow. The dirty great rock remains the dirty great rock and his back remains in deep complaint about it. 

Dreams remind him of Faramir which reminds him of home which reminds him of his father. Though, if he’s honest with himself, most things remind him of Faramir, home, father. In that order. Also, duty, expectations, his role. He grew up in the shadow of the White Mountains and thinks of himself as an extension of them. He will be a barrier to his people and keep them safe from Mordor, he will be a barrier to his brother and keep him safe from their father. 

Sometimes, he worries his father lives too much in dreams. Dark ones with little light. Denthor discusses them with Boromir. At length, he details how he’s seen the end of Gondor. He minutes how it will play out. Where the dead will land, where the land will burn, where buildings will fall. Taking Boromir to a window he points towards Mordor, ‘That’s where our doom comes from.’ 

‘Yes, father, I believe most of us are aware of that.’ Boromir doesn’t add, Mordor is hardly subtle.  

‘No,’ Denethor taps Boromir’s chest. ‘I saw it in a dream. In the dream, we thought we were saving our people and ourselves but instead spelled ruin for us all.’

Chapter Text

Bannokil. If they are in luck they will see him. The mountain man, sun giant, hilltop spectre, krasonna, misty greatness - there are endless names for him who dwells on twilight mountain tops.

Boromir looks for him at the margins of day. Sunrise would be best, for that is when the Misty Mountains are illuminated gold and the light is at the right angle. Whenever he looks his eyes strain for wisps, for the tell-tale shadow shifting. The way the shade elongates to form the figure of a man. 

But there is no luck until a crisp evening deep in Hollin when Mithrandir harasses everyone into liveliness, having become agitated with their pace. (Too slow by half. Peregrin Took come back here this instant. Boromir raises his eyes and meets those of Aragorn whose amusement, clearly written, vanishes.) 

Daybreak washes over them a stream of warmth and Boromir stands scratching his back with a stick as packs are ordered, feet stomped for warmth. Sam, adjusting Bill’s pack, suddenly gasps. He points with marvel and horror, ‘Look there, Mr. Frodo! What is that? I didn’t think we’d be seeing giants hereabouts.’ 

Everyone stops, searches horizon and la! there! against the mountain mist stands a figure haloed in rising sun. Tall, rich brown to black, its long limbs descend to earth and though they are a great distance from the spectre the size remains impressive. 

‘What is it?’ Frodo asks. 

Boromir rocks back on his heels and waits for someone to explain. Mithrandir, ever his way, hums a line in a language Boromir doesn’t catch and does not seem inclined to elaborate. The wizard’s attention is back on the road ahead of them. He ushers the group forward. There is no time for this. They must find a place to rest and where they are is not sufficient. 

‘It’s a mirage,’ Boromir explains. He does not roll his eyes at Mirthrandir. ‘Created by sun and mist. He’ll vanish when the sun is a little more up in the sky.’ 

Aragorn to Legolas, ‘I’ve had the fortune of seeing him twice. Once in the north and then out east, where the stars are strange.’ 

‘Auth,’ Legolas says. 

Gimli blinks in confusion. Boromir whispers, It means spectre. Aragorn says, Sort of. Boromir makes a face, he does not wish for a linguistic lesson. 

Legolas, ignoring them and speaking to the image, ‘I saw you four times. Before we left for Mirkwood, once a glad and happy place, and we lived different lives to the ones we live now. Then Gil-Galad died.’ 

Aragorn blinks, tilts head in confusion. Boromir thinks this is the first time he has seen Aragorn so befuddled. It softens the man’s face. Makes him almost handsome and very nearly approachable. Legolas, turning towards them, catches Aragorn’s face and nods with unreadable smile. Breaking into a gentle song he begins to walk off, ahead of the group. 

Before he is able to go far Boromir calls out, ‘Wait a moment, Master Elf. Are you saying he's a premonition for death?’

‘No. Just that I saw him four times, then Gil-Galad died. Though I suppose many things happened between the sightings themselves and Gil-Galad’s death. It was a long time ago. I had thought I might see him when the incident with the dragon happened but it was not to be.’

Gimli squints, ‘Incident with the dragon? Do you mean the--’

‘This is not the time,’ Mithrandir appears as smoke before them. ‘We must move on. You can battle about that battle when we’re somewhere safe.’ 

Aragorn gives Legolas a significant look before affecting an expression of disinterest and returning to the head of the party. Gimli complains sotto-voce to Boromir, making it clear that he has no intention of walking near the elf. Legolas, seemingly oblivious, launches back into the lilting song he began moments before. The halflings are in turns curious and embarrassed.  

Sam’s curiosity and enthusiasm for the figure remains as day turns to dusk then into silk of evening. Lingering towards the rear of the Company, Sam watches the horizon behind them. Head half-turned and face one of longing. Boromir thinks this an endearing trait - though one that also makes him wonder at the wisdom of allowing such innocent people on a quest of this magnitude. He judges Pippin to be too young by half, Merry has some worldliness in him so Boromir is less concerned about him, Frodo is an enigma. Sam, clearly salt of the earth. But a joyful salt of the earth. There's enough darkness in the world without dimming the light in the likes of Sam and Pippin. 

‘You’ll not see him now,’ Boromir says. ‘It’s too dark. He needs light in order to appear.’ 

‘You’ve seen him before?’ 

‘Yes, the first time when I was a boy. My father rode with my brother and I out west to visit our uncle and we saw him lingering among the hilltops. I've only seen him one other time, though in similar circumstances. Up in the mountains, day break, the light that strange slanting light of morning.’ 

‘It’s a mighty strange thing,’ Sam says, stroking Bill’s mane. ‘We’ve hills plenty in the Shire but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that.’ 

‘Well, he’s rather rare. The conditions have to be right. It’s not like a rainbow or a mirage in summer heat where you only need one or two things in the right order for them to appear. How steep are the Shire’s hills?’ 

‘Oh not very. Not like these. They’re a gentle sort of hill.’ 

‘Ah, then that’s why you haven’t met him before.’ 

‘And is he a real? That is, could you speak with him?’ 

‘No, no. It’s as I said, a mirage. Your eyes made him up. But that doesn’t make him any less wonderful. I was scared of him when I was a boy, though don’t tell anyone,’ a winking smile. Sam solemnly swears secrecy. Boromir thinks the halfling might have a dry wit. ‘I had nightmares that he’d sneak into my room and drag me off to a dungeon. No idea why I thought that, considering my father explained what he was to us.’ A thought occurs, Boromir adds, ‘I think my brother made a poem about the spectre.’ 

Sam becomes all eagerness, asking Boromir if he remembers the words for he’s heard many Elven poems, and he knows Hobbit poems, but poems from Gondor? He hasn’t heard any that he can remember. 

‘Strider, of course, recited many when we were going to Rivendell,’ Sam continues. ‘If he weren't being grim, or going off into the wild ahead of us, he was sharing a poem and marvelous poems they were, but all Elvish.’ 

Boromir wishes to say: I am pleased to announce that my future king has only three modes of operation one is to be grim, the second is to be anxious in a bush, and the third is to recite lyric poetry. But he doesn’t. Because he counts himself a better man than that. 

Or, counts himself a better behaved man than that. Anyway, Sam seems to like Aragorn. More or less. They do get testy with each other about Frodo's safety. Though Boromir would wager Sam would try and punch the Dark Lord himself in the face if he threatened Frodo. He respects that. 

‘Stars,’ Boromir says. ‘I haven’t the faintest what Faramir’s little lymeric was about. I believe there was much attention paid to the noodle-like appendages and possibly something about burnt toast. Not too shabby, considering he was six. Though I’ve never had a head for that sort of thing.’ 

Sam supposes the boy must have been hungry at the time, a state of being he has great sympathy with. ‘It’s almost like a hobbit poem, that. Anyway, maybe I’ll come up with something about our friend and you can bring it back to him.’ 

‘Are you a wordsmith?’ 

‘Not at all, my lord. I make little things here and there. But I’m nothing like Mr. Bilbo. Did you hear any of his in Rivendell? He's a marvelously clever poet. I used to visit him when I was a lad and he'd tell me about the Lonely Mountain, the dragon, all his adventures in the wild.’ A briefly morose look. 'I suppose our adventures are turning out quite different.' 

'He went into the unknown to fight against something of which he had little understanding. I think we're all along a similar trajectory.' 

'But his stories sound like such fun, my lord. Ours merely feels dark.' 

Boromir sighs, pats the halfling's shoulder, 'That's the way of it when you're living the adventure. It's afterwards that you see the humour in a situation.' 

'To be sure,' Sam agrees. 'And old Mr. Bilbo is a natural story-teller. And, as my old Gaffer used to say, you can't trust a story teller to tell you everything. I suppose he must have left things out. I was a child. I suppose he wasn't going to tell me every dreadful thing that occurred.'  

'No, probably not.' 

Sam draws out a long breath. He pets Bill's nose in meditative silence. 'I think Mr. Bilbo wasn't very good with darkness.'

'How do you mean?' 

'Everything had to be a laugh, you know. Oh, he had his serious moments when he dispensed advice and wisdom and I agree with most of what he said. Especially his bit about how darkness is just a passing thing and there's always a light behind it. But still, I think he wasn't very good with darkness. Or sadness.' 

'Few of us are.' 

'That's true,' Sam hums. 'My old Gaffer said that Mr. Bilbo went away one hobbit and came home another. Not entirely changed, of course, but my old Gaffer said that he was sadder than before. Like a fibre of his heart had been plucked out and he couldn't figure out how to fix it.' 

Boromir makes a noise of sympathy. He waits for more but Sam seems to have emptied himself of all he needed to say. The halfling smiles up at him, says that maybe one day there will be songs written about their own quest and they will be full of light. 

'Maybe, when it's over, and all is well, we too will be able to look back and see the good in it all,' Sam continues. Boromir tilts his head to the side, attempts to see this hypothetical future, but cannot grasp it for long. The idea of a bright future with a sun rising that is not red-ringed seems a distant prospect. One growing dimmer every day. But he does not say this aloud. 

'Perhaps, Master Gamgee. I certainly hope that will be the case.' 

'Mr. Bilbo always said that there's some hope, even when you can't see it. He said that when his friend was dying, Thorin the king, he didn't think there'd be hope again. Then he said he was always partial to melodrama, but that's Mr. Bilbo for you. But the important thing, I think, is that he made it home and did find some happiness even though I'm sure at the time he didn't think he'd be happy again.' 

Boromir smiles, pets Bill as well, for something to do. The name Samwise, he understands, means half-wise, simple, only a little bit of wisdom in the mind. This, he decides, is a terrible name for the halfling. 

One evening, as they're crossing a particularly empty tract of Holin, Merry and Pippin explain the Ring and Frodo and the Inn at Bree. They’ve decided Boromir needs a proper account of the entire adventure. They provide it. They give many details about root vegetables and farmers and strange men living in forests who sing to strangling trees and Barrows of the ancient dead. At the Inn, something happened and Frodo put the ring on, or the ring put itself on, and he disappeared. Just like old Bilbo did at his birthday (an aside for twenty minutes on the halfling's One Hundred and Eleventh Birthday which gives Boromir some insight into Mithrandir's relationship with Merry and Pippin. He says to them: I'd probably have done something similar when I was a lad. Pippin: Of course you would have, you're not boring. Boromir doesn't know how to take this). 

Pippin, almost out of breath, ‘-so he disappears and we're dead certain he's done a runner but then Strider shows up. Oh! the Wraiths, Merry, we can't forget the Wraiths. Frodo disappeared around them, too. With the ring.’ 

‘But it didn’t end well,’ Merry points out. 

‘No,’ Pippin agrees, ‘it didn’t end well.’ 

Merry explains, ‘When Frodo had the ring on he was the only thing that was real to the Wraiths. Him, the ring, and Sauron.’ 

[Boromir has seen men disappear. They go into the wilderness and don’t come back. They spend too much time alone in snow, cold places, then return different from who they were before. There are unfathomable things in the wild that will take a man away and replace him. What comes home is a creature wearing his skin. 

Then, there are the unfathomable things that happen within safe city walls, home walls, where men go off to dark, frightening places inside their head and there is no magic trick that will get them back. No bobble or sacred phrase that will return them unto you.

Faramir once said, On water you whistle to bring wind. On land, it’s a sign for ghosts. ]

Chapter Text

Hollin continues. Or, they continue through Hollin. It’s shocking how long it can feel. The way time distends itself, liquid, it drips off table to floor. Much has happened. Nothing has happened. Much time has passed. No time has passed. 

Boromir stops watching the stars turn. If he doesn’t, he will remember the exact amount of time he has been gone from Gondor and he will think about his people, and his brother, and how he is not there for them which is where he belongs. Not here, but in Gondor. He is not moving fast enough homeward and time is moving too fast, escaping through hands. 

He has never worried about this before. The uncertainty perches on his shoulders, makes his neck hurt. 

At nine-years-old, Boromir took scissors to his father’s ceremonial gown. The embroidered one worn on high holidays and to welcome nobility from distant lands. Midnight fabric dropped as shards to the floor littering dark wood with darker colour still. There was some vague reason for why he did it. It had something to do with being told off for something he may or may not have done. It also had something to do with Faramir being told off worse for the same alleged crime. It also had something to do with Denethor no longer reading to him at night. Boromir covered the floor with midnight until a presence made itself known and it was Denethor and he was silent. Silently did Denethor cross the threshold and take up the ruined garment. Silently did Denethor take up the scraps of sky-black damask. Silently did Denethor grip Boromir’s shoulder and steer him to his bedroom. Silently did he make him sew the robe together again. A piecemeal, ragged thing. 

Denethor’s silence was a ghost that said, I am watching and I know when you have done wrong. When you have failed to be a true son of mine. A voice, like a bobkin, sharp and precise. 

Mid-morning, the Company makes camp beside a collection of ruined columns, what looks to be a roof half-buried beneath grass and soft earth. Boromir is on first watch with Aragorn and together they are quiet, attentive to the land which is all faded greens, retired browns. Aragorn hums a song beneath breath and idly turns his pipe over. 

Aragorn appears to return to lyrics and poetry when bored, when content, when mournful, when absent-minded. Which is to say, he’s almost always murmuring something to himself. Mithrandir caught Boromir’s expression one day and said out the side of his mouth, ‘Rangers often travel alone for great lengths of time.’ Boromir replied, ‘I understand. I spoke to Faramir for half my journey north.’ And Mithrandir smiled at this, the first smile he has bestowed upon Boromir since they began. Boromir wanted to then ask: Why are we pretending to not know each other? But was loath to ruin the gay mood so tucked it away for a later time. 

‘Elven?’ Boromir asks with vague gesture to the ruins. 

Aragorn, still singing, nods.

‘I remember learning about the decline of the elven kingdoms but never thought to see remnants of them. It makes it tangible. Everything about elves seems so -’ he gropes for the word. ‘Ephemeral.’ 

‘The elves have been gone from Hollin long enough that the land is beginning to forget them, but not so long as to erase all traces. It does lend a phantom-esque quality to everything, that’s true.’ 

Not just here, Boromir doesn’t add. Even current elven worlds are ephemeral. Instead, he says that he’s never thought about the earth, the ground, knowing whose feet walk on it. It’s an interesting idea. 

Aragorn again nods. ‘The land always knows. It knows when there’s been bloodshed, when roads have been carved, when people build and when they tear things up. It’s memory is long. Longer than ours.’ 

‘What counts as tearing up?’ 

A smile around the pipe, sharp and fleeting. ‘A good question.’ 

And there’s no answer forthcoming so Boromir lets it rest. He wants to add that much building involves tearing up but feels that would be redundant to the implication of the question. He’s attempting to become more accustomed to disjointed speech, the way Aragorn and Mithrandir communicate is part-direct, part-implied, part-mind reading. 

Well, he’s fairly convinced there is mind reading involved. 

This misty manner of speaking is an an elven trait, Boromir decides. Aragorn called Elrond ada so clearly there is some relation. He asks if Aragorn was raised in Imladris and is told for a time which isn’t helpful. 

‘Were you raised by Lord Elrond?’ Boromir tries again. ‘It’s only, you called him ada when we left.’ 

‘I was raised in his house, yes.’ 

Still of minimal help. Boromir sets it aside. He says, ‘Elrond seems different from other elves. Granted, I’ve not met many in my life but, while he has some of their distance and, um, uncanny,’ he winces through the word, ‘mannerisms, he seems present. If that makes sense.’ 

Aragorn raises an eyebrow, blows out a puff of smoke, ‘He’s half-elven.’ 

‘I see,’ Boromir says, not seeing at all. 

Aragorn stares for an elongated moment, his eyes nighttime embers flickering with some inner light that can’t be touched. Then, a slow but earnest smile, ‘He descends from Beren and Luthien and so was given the choice between living a mortal life or immortal.’ 

‘I would think that’s a choice that is no choice.’ 

Aragorn makes an instinctual movement, a hand tugging at a necklace then disappearing it beneath fabric. The same one he saw the man musing over in Imladris. A fine piece of work, the necklace catches the light only briefly but it shines as beautiful as a sunrise. Boromir wonders who the lady is, he wonders if she waits for Aragorn’s return, or if it is a token from someone the ranger will never see again. It would explain the mournful quality of the man. The air of one who is missing someone with a terrible ache. 

‘It is no choice,’ Aragorn says just as Boromir becomes convinced the ranger had retired into himself. ‘But if you are born to it then that is your fate. Some elves choose a mortal life.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Love, usually. That’s how the stories go.’ 

‘I don’t understand,’ Boromir says. ‘How does one simply choose to become mortal? Do they change? They’ve such a timeless quality to them, no age, no wear. I know many have weathered great horrors but you wouldn’t know it from their faces.’ 

‘If they choose a mortal life then yes, they do age. They become like us.’ 

Boromir motions to his ears drawing a sharp laugh from Aragorn. Wholly unexpected, Boromir grins in response. 

‘They still have the ears,’ Aragorn says. 

Boromir shakes his head, still with a smile. ‘Bizarre,’ he says. ‘Utterly bizarre. I couldn’t fathom being immortal. I think I’d want out at some point. But, I also can’t fathom having lived for thousands of years, meeting thousands of people in your lifetime, then deciding this one, singular person before you is worth dying for.’ 

‘You’ve never loved someone enough to die for them?’ 

‘My brother, but family is different. So, no, I don’t think I’ve ever loved someone enough that they would warrant that decision. To leave not only one’s immortality, but also family, land, people. I could never leave my people for the sake of a single person.’ 

‘It is lucky that you will probably never have to make that choice.’ 

Boromir shifts, adds a branch to the fire, and ponders if a response is required. He isn’t sure what to say. He isn’t sure if there is anything to say and so says nothing. Aragorn fishes out a flask from the bottom of his pack and hands it over with a conciliatory look. 

‘Don’t tell Gandalf,’ he whispers with a smirk that could be called cheeky. ‘We’re supposed to use this only in emergencies.’ 

‘He’ll hear not a word from me.’ 

They end their shift in a peaceful enough way. 

How long can a secret quest remain secret? That’s the root of the debate which burns hot and cold as the Company continues southward. It is their greatest strength, to date, but also their greatest hindrance. It means certain paths forward cannot be entertained. It means constraint. Withdrawal. Slinking slowly forward in shadows. Everything must be got at sideways. 

But the consistent point Boromir makes, to the annoyance of Mithrandir, is that they will be seen. They will be known. It is an inevitability and taking more dangerous routes to secure a day or two of not being witnessed is ludicrous. 

Currently, the options are over Caradhras via Redhorn Pass or south through the Gap of Rohan. Boromir suspects there’s a third or fourth option in the wing, for there are such meaningful silences and hints between Aragorn and Mithrandir when the subject is raised. 

Boromir wants to say: Alright everyone, come out with the details. Let us all know what is going on. 

But he knows better than to say that when Mithrandir is in a temper. Brief years as the old man’s pupil taught him to give wide berth when he is in a mood. 

Half a conversation erupts from Mithrandir to Aragorn: ‘--no ability to shield ourselves from unfriendly eyes.’ 

The Company is readying camp as a citrus morning sky blooms over them. Blankets unrolled, a fire started, food taken out for consideration. The fireworks between the ostensible leaders causes everyone to pause. 

Awkwardly, all look over towards Aragorn and Mithrandir. They stop their conversation. Aragorn chews on the end of his pipe, anxious energy at the edge of his person. The slope of a shoulder, the frantic step of his walk as he moves to help prep the campfire. 

‘We should all rest while we can,’ Mithrandir says. ‘We will be reaching Redhorn soon and there won’t be many comfortable places to pause once we’re taking the pass.’ 

‘Not sure I’d call this comfortable,’ Sam mutters. Aragorn gives him a look. Sam shrugs as if to say, it’s true and I shan’t recant it. 

Boromir watches the downturn of Aragorn’s mouth at the mention of Redhorn Pass. It annoys him that the ranger feels the need to bow to Mithrandir’s views. Surely Aragorn has more than enough experience traveling unseen to warrant hearing. Boromir decides to be mildly stupid and says, ‘Look, we’re to be seen no matter the path we take. It’s an inevitability. Therefore, why not take the southerly road through the Gap of Rohan?’ 

Boromir thinks he ought to make a sign that says Why Not Rohan. It would save him his breath. He could hold it up anytime the debate takes hold. He would make one for Aragorn, too, since the man seems prone to limited speech. He could hold it up and point to it.  

The wizard sighs. Boromir waits for yet another repeat of their many previous discussions on the matter. He wonders if Mithrandir is beginning to think him thick. Probably. Probably he always thought that, Faramir being the more gifted one in terms of scholarly achievements. 

But, Boromir remains certain that Rohan is the better option. In the open, sure, but safer for the Rohirric. He points this out, as he has done before, that Rohan will help in whatever way they can. 

‘I’ve answered this point more than once,’ Mithrandir snaps. 

Boromir catches a flash of widened eyes on Aragorn’s face as he becomes very interested in his supplies. Gimli audibly distracts the hobbits by pointing out the names of the mountains and their stories. Legolas watches them argue, as readable as a rock. 

‘Saruman has betrayed us, need I say it again?’ Mithrandir continues.  

‘No, you don’t, and I understand your fears, but Rohan has not betrayed us. I know these men, they would never work for the dark lord or his servants.’ 

‘Things have changed since you were last in Rohan.’ 

‘I was there but five months ago.’ 

Mithrandir opens his mouth only to be interrupted by Aragorn’s display of throat-clearing-and-meaningful-look. The ranger says, loudly, that it’d be wise for everyone to take their rest while they can for there are many long days ahead of them. 

Boromir bows his head, mutters an acquiescence. He does not look at Mithrandir and so cannot know how he responded save for silence. 

Boromir’s sleep disrupts itself. There is a hearth fire and a barn raising. The barn is on fire inside the hearth. The hearth is made of tombs and flowers and there is the white tree of Gondor for a hearth-side chair and the floor by the hearth is made of fish and worms. 

Boromir wakes. He thinks, This is obnoxious. He tries to sleep again but the image of the fish and worms returns and the fire that is everywhere and a rumbling ground. It’s the noon-day sun, he decides. Sleeping beneath it as if we are nighttime creatures is unnatural. And oh does he dislike the fact that they must be shadow-walkers yet, yet - he knows, if he were in charge of the Fellowship, he would have them doing the exact same thing. 

‘Hello there Master Merry, go rest,’ Boromir greets Merry and Aragorn by smothered fire. ‘I can’t sleep, I’ll take this Watch.’ Merry cheerfully decants to his bedroll as Boromir settles. 

Hollin is such a silent land it could drive a man to distraction. Boromir aches for noise. He counts out the rations under breath. He counts the days they’ve traveled and the days they have before them. He stops counting days because of family and country. He spends several minutes fretting about them. A soft pressure on the edges of thought begins to take hold. Only a flicker of a shadow, a barely-heard whisper, a small thing. It seems to bear the same voice as his father. He names it Concerns of Duty and thinks he will tend to it later. 

Aragorn prods the coals. Boromir murmurs that they should put sand over it, if they truly want it extinguished. Aragorn nods but makes no move to do so. He continues prodding. Boromir says, ‘I suppose embers are something to stare at. The horizon gets a bit dull sometimes.’ 

That sliver-smile from the ranger, the one Boromir’s seen before. He’s becoming content with the strange expression, if not a little fond. So much as one can be fond of a man who is as unreachable as his future-king.

Really, it’s the eyes. They could make the unsufferable sufferable. They undermine Boromir’s annoyance at Aragorn, his frustration. The uncertainty of how successful a king he will be? That remains no matter the eyes, no matter the strange smiles and odd habits. 

‘What do you think of our route?’ Boromir asks. ‘Through Redhorn Pass and down the Dimrill Stairs?’ 

‘Gandalf has lived many lives.’. 

Boromir lifts his face skyward so only the heavens witness the expression on it. There is something in the answer that reminds Boromir of his brother.  

Aragorn adds, ‘There are other routes we may take, but they aren’t worth dwelling on at the moment.’ 

‘Oh I don’t know, I think they’re well worth the dwelling since it’s our lives and the lives of our people that are at stake.’ 

‘You may separate and go south before the Pass if you feel it is right.’ 

Boromir rolls his eyes, ‘You’re misrepresenting the entire situation. It’s how my father would reply to my brother--’ He stops. Licks his lips. ‘I’m going for a walk.’ 

‘It’s dangerous,’ Aragorn says quickly. ‘You shouldn’t go far.’ 

Boromir doesn’t reply, instead he brushes himself off and takes to walking a circle around the camp. Upon his third meandering lap Aagorn’s shoulders lower and his attention returns to the fire. Boromir does not wish to pursue the thread of thoughts that erupt unbidden once the comparison with Denethor is made. But he’s never been very good at stopping the onslaught of unwanted musings. 

There is a similarity between the ranger and the steward: a solemn personality, a grim air, a penchant for quoting poetry instead of providing answers to questions, putting the burden of choice and decision back onto the person asking for direction.

It is also, he is loath to say, not unlike Faramir. Except Faramir is a kinder person than Denethor and a warmer, more approachable person than Aragorn. Why must he be surrounded by people who speak in riddles and poems instead of plain speech? What did he do to deserve such foolishness? 

Denethor wants Boromir to bring home an answer to a riddle which he hopes will be a solution to Gondor’s problems. Denethor expects him to. Denethor has not considered that the hope for Gondor’s future is the end of the rule of Stewards. An undoing of family position and power. 

And is Aragorn hope? Boromir thinks that he is a man, like any other. A man unfamiliar with Gondor, who has never ruled a country, has no experience in that world for it is different than being chief of the Dunedain. Aragorn frets over decisions. He retreats into poetry and history when anxious. He is not direct or concise. 

What King would say: You may go home if you feel it is right and think that is an answer to: We could all die.  

Boromir stalls on the far side of the camp watching both Aragorn and the horizon. Aragorn has moved so he is further out from the Company and is pressing his ear to the ground, eyes closed in a meditative expression. After a few minutes he sits back up with sand on face, leaves in hair. 

This man before him with his sword and his bloodline and his ring and his destiny (sneered) - Boromir cannot see hope in him. Attraction, if one may term it that, is not hope. 

Indeed, he cannot see much hope in the future, despite what Elrond said about hope being found in the least expected places. That has never been Boromir’s experience. 

It occurs, that since they are all together in such tight quarters, it might behoove them all to think themselves as one family. This does not require liking one another but it does require knowing when to relent. Boromir returns to the collection of coals. He is soon joined by Aragorn who wears the face of a man who knows he said something wrong and is attempting to work it out. 

‘You’ve uh,’ Boromir gestures to his cheek. Which is a bit farcical, considering they are all in a right filthy state. Aragorn wipes at it achieving nothing. Boromir shrugs, good enough. 

‘So,’ Boromir prompts. ‘What bothers you? You keep staring easterly with a brow more furrowed than usual. I assume it’s not because you find the view pleasing.’ 

Aragorn flicks eyes over, there is amusement on his face, then he reaches for his pack and takes out some bread, passing a piece to Boromir who chews the edge for something to do. 

‘It’s grown quiet,’ Aragorn says. ‘Have you noticed?’ 

‘Not until now.’ 

‘I’ve been through Hollin many times and it’s never quiet. Which is to say, there are always animals and nature and weather to be heard. Right now? Nothing. Not even branches knocking against each other in a breeze.’ 

Boromir listens to the land, to air, and it is the silence of a citadel before an attack. ‘Should we move on?’ he asks. 

‘Maybe.’ 

Boromir stares at Aragorn. Aragorn stares back until he flashes a grin that can only be described as cheeky. Boromir snorts, smiles, turns attention away from the grey eyes that can be ocean and cool fire, allows himself to consider the nature of the earth around them for the noticing of the silence of Hollin prompts Boromir to want to be silent. To embody the absence silence creates. As if a single sound would spell death. 

They walk on in their southerly route and the silence continues to hold them. Yet, every so often, it breaks and when it does there is a wonderous feeling of finally we can breathe. 

A moment of breath: They’re setting up camp and a breeze comes through. Blades of grass rustle, the trees creak, birds take to chirping. In a moment of levity that this sudden noise and sign of life brings, Merry goes up to Boromir holding out his blade. 

‘I’ve never used one of these before,’ Merry says. ‘Well, not properly.’ 

‘I’d be happy to show you a few tricks,’ Boromir says. He explains that it’s been an age since he’s trained new learners, but it used to be how he spent his occasional free moments. ‘Granted, there are better teachers than I in Gondor so, should you come to my city, you ought to seek them out. They’ll tell you I’ve bungled your footwork or something.’ 

Pippin quickly joins, ‘If Merry’s learning I’ve got to as well. Can’t let him be better than me since we all know Tooks are superior to Brandybucks in all things.’ 

‘That’s all lies, Pip, and you know it.’ 

‘It’s not.’ 

Boromir leaves them to their esoteric Hobbit arguments about families, the complexity of which Boromir marvels at, and seeks out Frodo and Sam by the fire. Would they like to join? ‘You’ve a fine sword, Master Baggins. It’s better to learn to use it amongst friends than enemies. One set won’t hurt you.’ 

‘I don’t know about that,’ Sam says. ‘The Sackville-Baggin’s are family to Mr. Frodo and they’d see him done in no mistake.’ 

‘Family is a good deal different than friends. Come, you both should learn.’ 

Frodo shies away, turtling into himself, ‘I’ve just sat down to breakfast. Or is it dinner?’ 

‘Brinner,’ Sam supplies. 

‘That’s a terrible word, Sam.’ 

Sam to Boromir, ‘I wouldn’t mind a lesson, but I’ve got to see to everyone’s breakfast-dinner first.’ 

‘Dreakfast?’ Boromir offers. 

Frodo, horrified, ‘That’s even worse.’ 

Boromir explains to Merry and Pippin they they are to receive what he pleases to call Hatchet Lessons . Quick, dirty things they are meant to provide enough experience so you won’t die at first blow. He doesn’t wish to think about the third or fourth. Hopefully, for their sake, it won’t come to that. He doesn’t want to be the one laying out their bodies. 

Merry and Pippin, as Boromir expected, prove to be overly enthusiastic students. They jab and parry with too much gusto while absolutely not moving their feet fast enough. 

‘We should go faster,’ Boromir says. He’s opposite Merry who declares he’s ready for anything, even an orc. ‘I wouldn’t go that far, yet. But you will be.’ 

‘We’re shirefolk,’ Merry replies breezily. ‘We’re made of more mettle than people think.’ 

‘I don’t doubt it, but it takes more than mettle to survive in battle. But you’ll get there. Move your feet, though.’ 

Pippin, laid out on a rock, protests that sword fighting is hot work and there isn’t an alehouse for miles. Try hundreds of miles, Merry says over his shoulder. Pippin sits up frowning, ‘No ale, no refreshment of pipeweed once we’re out, and now for rain. Life is unfair sometimes.’ 

‘Rain?’ Boromir pauses the mock-battle to squint upwards. ‘There’s no sign of rain.’ 

‘It’s coming,’ Pippin points to a dark mass against the sky. ‘Though it might be a while yet. My point remains about the unfairness of life.’

Legolas joins them, staring at the clouds. Or what could be black whisps. Boromir sees only shifting darkness but does not think it rain clouds. The air doesn’t feel right. He recalls the strange phantom at the river-ford and shivers. He would not want that creature coming upon them. How do you fight something that is made of air? 

‘It’s birds,’ Legolas says. ‘There’s a flock of them flying against the wind.’ 

As he speaks the land becomes silence itself. The only sound is that of the fire. Everyone stares, rooted, at the horizon. Something holds Boromir in place. As if an external force has pressed hands on his shoulders and will not let him move. A mad thought: If he looks away, everything will founder. He must not move. He must look at the birds coming towards them. 

All are motionless. 

The fire crackles, a log splits. 

The sound breaks the trance, causes movement and alarm. Aragorn is cursing in Sindarin then snapping to the group, ‘Get your bags. It’s Crebain, spies. We need to take cover.’ 

The Company quickly moves. Sam kicks sand and rocks over fire. Mithrandir shoves packs beneath bush. Legolas takes off Bill’s reins and saddle, hiding them with the packs. Boromir grabs Merry and Pippin and pushes them beneath a stone outcropping. Ducking under a nearby bush he can see Gimli flat on the ground near him trying not to breath, to his other side he glimpses Aragorn’s boots.

Large and daring, the Crebain swoop low. They circle, loop back and fly through a second time. Loud, their clatter fills the air where silence had been. This is what the land was warning them of, Boromir thinks. When it went silent and ominous. This is what it was trying to tell them. They should have heeded it. 

Faramir always said a man should trust his instinct for the instinct is made up of all the happenstances and events of life so your mind, without you being aware, can see danger. It sends you warnings, it attempts to keep you safe. But you have to listen. 

Boromir’s never been good at it. 

He thinks he should learn this lesson quickly. 

The Crebain make a third pass before flying south. 

Rolling out from shrub and rock the Company is dust on dust. 

Aragorn, ‘We’re moving out at dark. Hollin’s clearly being watched.’ 

‘Do we know for certain that they’re spies?’ asks Gimli. 

‘No, but they’re from Fangorn and Dunland, not Hollin. It’s possible that they’ve moved north due some disturbance in their home, but I doubt it. Their behaviour is more suspect than that. Also, they turned south as soon as they were done flying through here. If they were fleeing from something in their homeland they’d hardly turn back in that direction again.’ 

The Fellowship turns this thought over. The light-hearted mood from earlier is entirely gone as is any desire to rest. They sit silent, half-hidden in the brush, eyeing the sky with distrust. Even Merry and Pippin are still and quiet. 

Aragorn sits himself beside Boromir whispering, ‘You would still make for Rohan despite this?’ 

‘I don’t see any route where we won’t be watched,’ Boromir replies. 

‘Though it’s being watched, Redhorn Pass is not so accessible as the Gap.’ Aragorn glances towards the forbidding mountain’s angry peak scraping sky. He becomes more solemn, a feat Boromir didn’t think possible. Aragorn’s voice drops even lower, ‘There’s also Moria. Gandalf’s raised the possibility, though it’s not his preferred route.’ 

‘And which is your preference?’ 

Aragorn frowns, he can see benefits to all three. And weaknesses. At length he replies that it is not his decision. Boromir, rolling blanket and tying it off, presses him, ‘And if it were?’ 

The ranger stares for a long while. Boromir dislikes the silent investigation. It borrows into his skin, that searching look. Aragorn seems to be looking for something in his face, his posture, and Boromir is mystified as to what it could be. 

Irritable, Boromir prompts, ‘Well? What choice would you make?’ 

‘I would try for Redhorn.’ 

Boromir nods, that is an acceptable answer. Aragorn replies with his twitch of a smile. Neither touch Moria though Boromir wishes to say he has heard dark things about the place and he thinks Aragorn has as well. His face betrayed some fear when he whispered its name. 

Finished with his pack Boromir sits back on his heels, resting arms on knees he wonders what keeps the ranger here for the man obviously prefers the company of Mithrandir, among others. They’re dancing a strange dance. All these searching looks, all these pressing stares, these attempts at companionable silence. Aragorn would speak through silence, Boromir thinks. If that were a language to be spoken. Instead, it’s circular sentences and poetry. Which he is currently humming. 

‘Which is this?’ Boromir asks. 

‘A song about the Noldor.’ 

Boromir says, ‘I assume it’s a sad one. They all seem to be sad.’ And Aragorn replies, ‘I’ll try and find a cheerful one for you. Give me a moment.’ And Boromir does.

The night road beneath full moon towards the steel-faced mountain is smooth. Boromir is towards the rear, prodding a tired Merry and Pippin forward. Keeping them from wandering off the path. They jostle about and complain that he is too hard a task master. They liked Strider better, but he’s in the front leading them all towards mountaindom. 

‘We went slower I’m sure of it,’ Pippin complains. ‘When it was just us hobbits and Strider.’ 

‘Yes, well, we weren’t on a Quest,’ Merry whispers back. 

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’ 

A dry laugh escapes Boromir and the halflings look up at him then grin twin, wicked grins. Boromir ruffles their hair calling them positive rascals. Ahead, Mithrandir makes a hushing sound and Boromir winks at Merry and Pippin, whispers, ‘We’re being noisome. Too noisome for the Wizard.’  

‘It’s Pip,’ Merry says. ‘Gandalf’s always onto him for something or other.’ 

‘You’ve made yourself a fine nemesis,’ Boromir replies. ‘His work is something to be feared.’ 

Pippin shrugs it off. Boromir calls them ridiculous rascals a second time before abiding Mithrandir’s stern look. 

Stars glint cold in the sky which holds the darkness of forests within it. Boromir searches the heavens, tracing constellations, telling himself the stories of each. As he does, he notices that within the darkness of the sky there is a deeper shadow and it passes over the stars covering them for a brief moment.

Then, the shadow pauses and Boromir looks into it and his heart freezes. It is the same freeze, the same horror, he felt upon seeing the strange phantom all those weeks ago along the river to Imladris. 

What could this be? There are spectres and hauntings plenty through these old lands that hold such weight and history in them. A sad phantom he would expect to see. But this thing that fills him with ice and fear? It’s no mere spirit. Perhaps it is a spy of the enemy. Like the Nazgul, wraith-like and horrid. Unlike the first encounter, though, Boromir does not feel as if his entire being is known. The shadow lingers a second longer then departs. If he thinks he hears a whisper on the wind, he ignores it. if it feels like fingers brushed the back of his neck, he puts it out of mind. There is a mountain ahead of them that does not take kindly to intruders. That is of greater import than bodiless shadows whistling through air. 

Chapter Text

By the end of the first day on their journey over Caradhras snow begins. Steel skies clogged with clouds as a river with silt does not bode well. Though Boromir’s pleased to have persuaded the company to bring as much wood as they can manage, he is convinced the supply won’t be enough. One desperate night and they’ll burn through the lot. Then what? They’ll be stranded without heat and, in Boromir’s experience, that means certain death. 

Here ends the nine walkers, who set out against the nine riders: frozen stiff on the side of a mountain they were stupid enough to attempt in winter. People will hike over their bodies to cross the Pass. He halts the thoughts, tells himself not to be so maudlin and melodramatic. Another part thinks, There's nothing else to do but be maudlin and melodramatic.  

Flakes begin and at first they are soft and light, they melt in hair and on shoulders. Then, they become heavier. It’s that sticky snow that you make snowballs from. Sculpting snow, as he and Faramir used to call it. Boromir finds that he must have a good dusting of it for Pippin laughs at him, says he’s suddenly aged. All that white marring black hair. 

‘Hello grandfather,’ Pippin teases. ‘This is an arduous mountain to climb for a man of your evidently advanced age.’ 

Gimli cuffs the lad, 'Behave, you little ruffian.'

‘I don’t mind,’ Boromir says. ‘I’ve a brother. I’m familiar with how these things go.’ 

Gimli, full of mock gravity, ‘I forgot that there are two of you. Gondor should tremble.’ 

The snow shows no signs of letting up. An hour, five hours, a day. Bleak whiteness around them, bleak heavens above. Roiling clouds, cracks of thunder, wind. Snow and snow and snow. Boromir thinks it unnatural. Another part of him thinks, That’s ridiculous. This isn’t the work of the enemy. But it is a fool’s errand taking this route. 

The ring would be safer if they had taken the Gap of Rohan. They would all be safer if they had taken the Gap of Rohan. 

Wind picks up when they enter an area of steep cliffs. It slices through clothes. Blasts skin raw. Whistling, Boromir thinks, there’s whistling on the wind which means there is to be a storm. More of a storm, he adds. For they’re already in the midst of one. 

Aragorn, at the head of the group but behind Mithrandir, looks down the line and meets Boromir’s eye. Aragorn nods to him and Boromir returns it. This appears to reassure the man for he turns back around and continues leading them forward along mountain pass, between high rocks, through the angry whistling wind. 

Days are as dark as night. Already inside out in their sleeping patterns, this change serves to only bring further disorientation. Even when they rest, Boromir cannot bring himself to sleep.

He explains to Aragorn, ‘Men fall asleep on mountains and don’t get up again.’ 

‘You’ve nothing to fear on that account,’ Aragorn replies. ‘I’d wake you before any harm could come of it.’

Boromir thinks there’s something beneath that. Second thought: No, there isn’t anything, he only wishes there was something beneath that. Third thought: No, he doesn’t wish for that. Yes, there might be handsomeness to the man, sort of, around the edges, but he is still what he is. Which is: ranger, a stranger to Gondor, someone not best suited to her throne, unreadable and unfathomable. Aragorn is, in the end, someone Boromir decides that he wishes to have no wishes for. Fourth thought: This riddling is as maddening as the dark day-time sky. 

Later, he jokes, 'Do you think we'll ever see the sun again?' 

Gimli, 'What is this thing called sun? Never heard of it.'

Pippin, with feigned horror, 'Don't say that! I'm vacationing in the South Shire in my head right now. It's very hot and there's much ale and a pretty lass.'

In a more serious manner Gimli tells Boromir that dwarves always know what the sun looks like: it’s the warmth of hearth fire, beautifully worked gold, and each other. 

‘We carry it in our hearts so even in the darkest corners of Middle Earth we would still know its face.’ 

At some point in these timeless days and nights the wind’s whistling shifts into whispers, unearthly shrieks, howls - it circles around them. Follows behind then leads in front. Whenever Boromir turns to catch a glimpse of whatever makes the sounds there is nothing to see. 

He begins to keep track of the noises. The whispers are always close. They crawl up the back of his neck and set his teeth on edge. The shrieks and howls are further afield. They are the ones that hunt or lead. That circle, like wolves after wounded prey. When Boromir hears them he imagines monstrous creatures with claws, distorted limbs, such teeth, no eyes. 

The wisdom of coming this way continues to unravel the more it snows, the more they are followed by unearthly noises. It lends a particular level of hopelessness to their quest whose outcome has never been terribly bright. 

But, Boromir chides himself, he cannot allow himself to become hopeless. 

Gondor’s always been good at finding hope , Boromir said to Aragorn. It was during one of the countless watch shifts they’ve shared. They leaned against a tree, Aragorn packing his pipe. Satisfied, he offered it to Boromir who said a thank you . They shared the smoke. Without hope there’s only emptiness. Like a great hall at twilight full of grey. When Gondor loses hope she loses herself.  

And Aragorn replied, I’ve always known our people to be resilient. They can find their way through darkness. 

We can find our way, Boromir corrected. It’s we, if you’re to be our king. 

Boromir grits teeth. There’s a sheer cliff he’s walking along the edge of, the thin path made of hope and it’s getting thinner by the day. 

Again, what useless thoughts! He can’t afford them. He can’t afford any doubt or befuddlement. Think of Faramir, think of his father, think of Gondor. Think of the people who rely on you. If there’s a reason to put one foot in front of another it is that there are people counting on him and he will not disappoint. 

The snow is a setback, setbacks are not failures. 

He decides he will repeat this to himself for the next mile. And the mile after that, maybe. 

They walk. And walk more. And keep walking. What time is it? Who knows. What day is it? Anyone's guess. The snow and noises continue unabated. The only improvement is that the whispering has dissipated for the time being. Only the cries and whipped up shrieks remain, bouncing off stone walls. The mountain laughs at them. Above them, hidden from sight, boulders tumble. Rocks crash against each other, a signal of what could happen to them if they journeyed any further along the pass. 

At a pause, the Company halting for rest and regroup, Boromir says: ‘We can’t keep this up. The weather alone could kill us, not to mention the unnatural winds. We’ve all heard the voices on them. Who has that sort of power? I can only assume it’s the dark lord.’ 

Aragorn shrugs, ‘Maybe. Sauron’s arm has grown long. That said, there are plenty of foul things in the world that are happy to cause pain and destruction for the sheer pleasure of it. No greater agenda than that.’ He pauses, adds an afterthought, ‘Some of them have been around longer than Sauron has.’ 

‘Joy,’ Boromir mutters. ‘That’s terribly reassuring.’ 

Aragorn twitches a smile at him then becomes somber. 

‘Still,’ Boromir quickly continues. ‘It’s quite a coincidence that we should be traveling across Caradhras when some other evil being, wholly unassociated with the dark lord, should decide to torment us. Randomly. Just happened to pick today to make mischief.’ 

‘It is,’ Gimli agrees. ‘Quite a coincidence and normally I’m of the same suspicious mind when it comes to this sort of thing. But, Caradhras was called Cruel long before Sauron and I suspect it’s Caradhras who wishes us gone.’ 

Boromir blinks, it’s the mountain that laughs at them? 

Gimli shrugs, sometimes mountains laugh at people. 

‘Well,’ Mithrandir says. ‘It doesn’t matter who is making these attacks, since we can’t fight them off. I say we should either stop where we are and try and wait the storm out or turn back. There’s no point going forward in these conditions.’ 

No point in going anywhere, Boromir doesn’t add. There’s no path forward and no path back. Everything’s been eaten by snow. What an appetite has Caradhras that it will eat its own ledges, rocks, and crevices with snow. Does the mountain wish to consume them as well? Smash them down and stamp them into its foundations? 

Unspoken agreement among the Company: they will rest here, for now, and hope for better weather. No one points out that even if it were to stop snowing this instant they’ve still no path. Caradhras has made of them an isolated island. 

And what can fire do against unending snow? Flames, meagre, attempt to lick up into air but are unable to provide enough warmth for survival. And the snow continues on. It piles up, it blankets, it pillows, it positively builds walls around them. Boromir stares at their dwindling wood supply, the snow covered hobbits. There is Merry and Pippin shaking with cold, Sam dismal and silent, Frodo falling asleep. 

Boromir reaches down, brushes snow off Frodo’s hair and moves him closer to the fire. 

‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he explains when Frodo wakes at the movement. ‘If you fall asleep here you don’t wake up.’ 

‘Dreadful,’ Frodo murmurs. ‘But there’s also a part of me that thinks sleeping forever sounds good right about now.’

Up in the White Mountains there are bodies of travelers who went too far in foul weather and perished on mountain faces, inside glacial crevices, and alongside cliff edges. Their bodies will never be brought down. There is one pass that takes a traveller from Minas Tirith through to Ethring and the Harad road. It’s the fastest option but also the most dangerous for the weather turns in a second and winters linger into summer months. Boromir took it only once, as a young man, and one of the captains of his company pointed to a body high up on a ledge above them, frozen and unmoving. 

We call him Blue Cloak, the man said. He means we’re a little over three quarters of the way.

How did Blue Cloak die? No one knows but the most popular argument is that he must have gotten lost in a snowstorm, somehow ended up on the ledge, and decided to take a nap.

Boromir whispers this tale to Aragorn and Legolas, who happens to be standing nearby. It’s a preface for his point that they shouldn’t remain where they are any longer. 

‘Cold makes men mad,’ Boromir says. ‘You wander away, take clothes off, decide snow banks are good places to take a kip. We can’t sit this one out, Aragorn. It’ll be the death of the hobbits. Not to mention us, and I’ve no desire to end up as that unfortunate man.’ 

Legolas adds more wood to the fast dwindling fire, noting, 'This is the last bundle. When we are through with it we are done with the wood.' 

Aragorn, tucking hands into armpits, ‘It’ll be dawn soon. We’re at the end of the small hours.’ 

‘Assuming we’ll be able to see the sun rise,’ Gimli mutters. 

‘I’m surprised you care at all about seeing the sun rise,’ Legolas replies. ‘Being a dwarf, the sight must be unusual to you.’ 

‘What do you know of dwarves and light?’ Gimli grouches. 

Aragorn gives Boromir a look: don’t get involved. The two quickly devolve into bickering. Mithrandir watches for a moment, sighs the deep sigh of one who has witnessed such scenes more times than possible to count. Legolas takes heed, claps his mouth shut and glumly surveys the snow. Gimli mutters that this is just like elves to think themselves superior to all. Legolas makes to reply but is stopped by Mithrandir’s loud, meaningfully loud , throat clearing.

To Boromir, the argument between elf and dwarf has the texture of one that’s old and well rehearsed. Though, so far as he is aware, the two met for the first time at the Council. It has the same essence to it of the tired ones between Denethor and Faramir about Osgiliath, about how best to defend the river, about whether or not Mithrandir is to be trusted, whose advice is best, what path forward they ought to take. 

A cycle of: But what about and Now listen here boy and I heard from Mithrandir that and He’s not worth paying attention to and It wouldn’t hurt to consider and I am your father and your steward, you will do as I say -- 

Boromir turns away from the fire, the warm light dancing on the Company’s faces, out towards the darkness around them. The snow is lessening. The wind is dying down, though fell voices continue. The whispering has returned. It circles. Comes close enough to sound as if it’s in his own head. 

Dismal luck, Boromir thinks. Who went and broke a mirror before joining the Company? Aren’t there ways to wash out bad luck? Something about salt and rosemary. Or was that for washing out unwanted memories? 

Sunlight creeps through Caradhras’s clouds. Thin, pink, it quivers on the horizon casting everything in rose and gold. Around them the snow is many feet deep, save for their small circle. 

‘Um,’ Aragorn says as he stares at the snow. ‘This is an interesting predicament.’ 

Legolas hums an agreement. Says half-serious, ‘Perhaps, if Gandalf went ahead with a bright flame he could melt a path.’ 

‘If elves could fly over mountains you might go and fetch us the sun to save us,’ Mithrandir replies tartly. ‘But I need something to work on and snow is decidedly not that thing.’ 

Boromir eyes the hobbits then the snow. He suspects it will be difficult, but not impossible, for the taller members of the Company to wade through. But stars, the halflings won’t make it two feet. He waits for someone to say something, to make a suggestion and lay out some sort of plan. No one comes forward. 

Typical, Boromir thinks. Out loud he says, 'Well, there’s nothing for it I suppose. Where heads are at a loss, bodies must serve. I think we should retreat down the mountain and decide from there where to go. If we go forward we're at great risk of dying from exposure. I think a few of us could clear a path towards, ah, that boulder there.’ He points to a large rock, in the distance, whose head peaks out from snow. ‘It’s about a furlong off, I think, but I’m fairly sure that’s where the snow began to be almost impassable. If we can get everyone to that point the remainder of the path down the mountain should be easy going.’

No one agrees. No one disagrees, either. Boromir stares at Aragorn, Come on. Aragorn stands, says that Boromir’s right. That’s their best option for the time being. He waits until there’s murmured agreement from the Company before giving Boromir a quarter-smile, ‘It’s on us, I think. As the tallest ones here.’ 

‘I always did like mucking about in the snow,’ Boromir replies amiably.

Making a path is slow going and, despite the cold, they’re soon sweating. An uncomfortable feeling. Boromir thinks that he’ll be well happy to be off the damn’d mountain. He’ll be warmer, and, with any luck, there will be better weather which might propel him out of whatever dreary mindscape it is that he’s fallen into. 

Aragorn works pensively. For the first hour they do not speak. It’s not disagreeable but that both are aware of the silence is evident. Towards the end of the hour Boromir makes some small attempts at conversation but they don’t go far. 

Another half-hour. 

Suddenly, Aragorn turns around to face Boromir. The ranger’s brow furrows, mouth down-turned. ‘When did you first realize you’d be taking your father’s position?’ 

Boromir opens his mouth, closes it. Blinks. That was not the question he’d been expecting. Not that he had any particular expectations to begin with. Aragorn begins his searching stare that looks through rather than at. Boromir wishes the other man would tell him what it is he’s looking for. Boromir might be able to help him, then. 

Eventual reply: ‘I always knew. Since I was a child.’ 

‘I mean, when did you understand what it meant to be steward? When you fully understood the depth of the role? The requirements?’ 

Boromir shrugs, motions that they should recommence. Aragorn twists around so Boromir speaks to his back, ‘It’s hard to say. I was raised knowing I’d succeed him. I feel like I was born knowing that. As a child, everything was done with the line: when you are steward attached to it.’ 

Aragorn makes no reply except to move forward, diligent in his path-making. Boromir turns the question over. It occurs to him that Aragorn must not have known he was to be king until later in life. He ponders this. What it would be like to be told: You’re to fill this great role when your entire life all you’ve been is a simple soldier? Or ranger, in Aragorn’s case.

He imagines having lived his life, up to this point, as a mere soldier then being told: By the by, you’re going to be the next steward. 

He’d be shocked, to say the least. 

Aragorn, contrary to his usual nature, seems to be a wealth of questions this morning. He pauses again, turning to find Boromir: ‘If your life had taken another road, if you weren’t destined to be steward, what would you have wanted?’ 

‘I don’t know. I’ve never spent much time pondering the could-be’s.’ 

‘Probably for the best.’ 

Boromir’s mouth tugs down. ‘There’s no changing these things, you know. So why spend time thinking about what won’t be? Unless I go and do something spectacularly stupid I will be Steward and, considering what Gondor has put up with from past rulers, it would have to be something fairly alarming and unprecedented.’ 

Aragorn laughs. Boromir finds himself pleased at the unexpected response.

‘But, to answer your question,’ Boromir continues. ‘I think I’d want to be what I am now. A soldier, a captain.’

‘But not the steward?’ 

Boromir shakes his head. No, not the steward. He’d leave that role to wiser men with greater foresight than him. He knows his limits and thinks that the qualities needed to be the leader Gondor deserves are more than what he possesses. 

'I have some of the necessary qualities,’ Boromir explains. ‘But not all.’ 

‘Some would say such insight into yourself is one of the greatest and most necessary qualities of a leader. Knowing what is your strength and what is your weakness. I believe no person possesses all things required for leadership. Or, the ideal of leadership.’ 

Boromir leans into a snowbank, 'I suppose that's true.' Aragorn seems pleased which in turn pleases Boromir. The man might be ridiculous, he might not be what Boromir hoped for in a king, but there is pleasure in making him happy. Stars. That’s unfortunate. He sees there is a slow, root-vegetable growth slow, softening on the ranger. This is a line of thought Boromir doesn’t wish to interrogate too closely. He’s already had this conversation with himself, after all.

‘When did you learn you were Isildur’s heir?’ 

Is that embarrassment? Aragorn quickly returns to path making before saying over his shoulder, ‘I was twenty.’ 

‘It must have been a shock.’ 

‘I ran away into the wild for a few years. Elrond was not impressed.’ 

Boromir laughs, startling Aragorn who looks back at him in uncertainty. Boromor can well imagine the scene. A just as dour-faced young man taking off into the wilderness. Shouting I don’t want to be king over his shoulder as he decamps into trees leaving behind a disapproving elf-lord.

He laughs more. 

Aragorn huffs. Boromir relents. It would be difficult to learn about that without warning. No gentle easing into the burden of kingship and all that it entails. Caretaking of a people is no easy task and not one any wise person would want to take up unless they absolutely had to. 

‘I’m glad to know that my youthful misadventures amuse you,’ Aragorn says. They are nearing the boulder and feeling enlivened by the end of the task. ‘Frodo calls me grim but you’re not much better.’ 

‘I’m not grim,’ Boromir protests. 

‘Grim men from Gondor. We can make a jest from it I’m sure.’ 

Time now for Boromir to huff and mutter under his breath about dignity and kingship. Then, they are quiet as they finish their task. And there is some warmth but also awkwardness. Boromir thinks that had their lives been different, as Aragorn asked, they would have made fine brothers-in-arms and would have been able to happily avoid the heaviness of ruling. 

Aragorn murmurs that they should return and let the others know that the path is clear. In a rush of feeling, from where it came he knows not, Boromir says with warmth, ‘When you’re king, make my brother your steward. He’s made for that role more than I.’ 

Aragorn tilts his head to the side, considers Boromir for a time. Not answering, he turns back around and disappears into the snow formed path. 

By day's end the Company has freed itself from Caradhras’s grip and walk down through the last of the mountain’s pass as the veil of dusk descends. Boromir takes up his usual position towards the rear of the group and, at the front, the usual Mithrandir and Aragorn. No one speaks as they leave the mountain. No one acknowledges out loud the fact that there is only one path left to take, since Rohan continues to be negated by Mithrandir. No one dares say what this path could lead to. What ruin it could make. 

The name of Moria makes Boromir shiver and there are precious few things capable of that. He suspects he could list them on one hand. He begins the list, for something to do, then stops because it’s upsetting and he told himself he’d be livelier with the sun and freedom from the dark of Caradhras’ skies. 

Coming to a collection of boulders by a small brook the Company pauses to rest and eat and hold council on what should be done next. 

‘What path is left?’ Pippin asks. ‘Since we can’t take the mountain.’ 

Aragorn and Mithrandir exchange dark looks. Pippin watches them then turns to Boromir who shrugs. Someone's going to have to say it. He certainly doesn't want to be that person.

‘There’s a path that I thought, from the beginning, would be our final route,' Mithrandir says with heaviness. 'It will be unpleasant and dangerous but I think it’s the only way left.’ 

‘Can’t be worse than Redhorn,’ Pippin says. 

‘Do not speak of what you do not know, Peregrin Took.’ 

‘But where is it? This path?’ 

‘Moria.’ Mithrandir breaths the name. His voice drops so the babble of water swallows it up. 

‘We know there’s a road to Moria,’ Aragorn counters. ‘But not that there’s a road through Moria. Not anymore, at least.’ 

‘What about circling around?’ Boromir asks. ‘Going from Isen to Langstranf and Lebennin. We would come to Gondor and Mordor from the sea-ward regions.’ 

‘We’ve no time for the long way around,’ Mithrandir says. ‘And while such a route may take us through barren lands it's good to remember that empty doesn’t mean safe.’ The wizard heaves a sigh. ‘I fear both Sauron and Saruman are watching us and so we will not be safe until we’ve managed to, how do you say it in Gondor? go to ground for a time. Cover our tracks. Therefore, it’s best we don’t go over or around the mountains but under them. In any case, I believe the enemy will not suspect us of going through Moria and that is to our advantage.’ 

Boromir presses lips together but holds his peace. He thinks likely that the enemy is watching all roads - both the trodden and untrodden, the likely and unlikely.

As if sensing Boromir’s objections Mithrandir says in a kindly tone, ‘I would not lead us into Moria if there was truly no hope of coming out again.’ 

‘I’m happy to try for Moria,’ Gimli chimes. ‘I’ve longed to see the halls of Durin, whatever may await us there.’ 

‘I went once into Moria,’ Aragorn says half to Boromir half to the Company. ‘And, while I clearly came out again, it’s not a trip I’m eager to repeat. But,’ he rubs hand over face. ‘You all followed me to near disaster on the mountain so I’m content to keep my peace and follow everyone else this time.’ 

Boromir makes a face, there is no uncertainty in his bones on this. He declares, 'I'm not venturing into Moria unless it is the choice of the entire Company. We've not heard from Legolas, nor the halflings. Surely the ringbearer’s opinion should be heeded?'

‘I am with Boromir,’ Legolas says. ‘I have no wish to go into the Mines. We have heard rumours in the north of dark things waking in the depths of the earth. While such tales may fall prey to addendums and embellishment, I believe there to be some truth in them. But, I share Boromir’s view. I will go if all are desiring of it.’ 

Eyes turn to Frodo who remains in thought for a long moment. Sam nudges him, 'What think you, Mr. Frodo?'

‘I also have little desire to pass through Moria,' Frodo answers. 'We hear only drips and drabs about the outside world in the Shire and even we’ve heard that Moria is an evil name.’ He fidgets with the end of his cloak. ‘But, if Gandalf says this is the best route forward, I trust his wisdom. That said, I think we should sleep on it. Cast votes in the morning when we might be thinking more clearly.’ 

With that settled the Company unwinds itself. Bedding unrolled, food brought out, attempts made at finding comfortable places to sleep. Boromir says to no one in particular that he’d appreciate at least one night that didn’t involve a bloody great rock harassing his back. 

‘I’ve got one following me, too,’ Sam complains. ‘The ground is plotting against us make no mistake.’ 

Boromir snorts, makes a noise of agreement before stretching out. As expected: rock. He shifts. Tries to find a better way to be but cannot. He gives up, shuts eyes, listens to the wind through trees. Will the hissing breeze full of voices leave them or are they to be dogged by it for the remainder of their journey? Heavens, is it going to follow them underground? 

The wind takes on a howling song. Boromir opens eyes. Stares across the dark camp, most are asleep or attempting to sleep. Finding Aragorn he watches the man ready his pipe when the wind bursts around them loud and wailing. Aragorn freezes. He listens to the wind and Boromir wonders what he hears. 

A howl. Oh. Boromir is up in an instant with a: shitshitshit . 

‘Fuck. Wargs.’ Aragorn, loudly, ‘Everyone up! there are wargs in the distance.’ 

Boromir squints into the darkness and sees nothing. A small mercy. They have some time before the hounds set upon them. 

Mithrandir, ‘If wargs are out then the way south is truly lost to us.’ 

Boromir, in his head: I get it, old man. No Gap of Rohan for us. No need to harp on it. 

Boromir, out loud: ‘How far until Moria?’ 

In the darkness, the howls grow closer. 

‘Fifteen miles as the crow flies.’

‘Fifteen?  We’re not making it there in the dark.’ 

‘No,’ Aragorn agrees. ‘We should stay here tonight. We can defend ourselves well enough and make for Moria at first light.’ To Boromir, ‘Does that seem a fair plan?’ 

'It does. We need fire, though.' All else fails, Boromir doesn't add, introduce fire to the situation. 'Everyone must remain vigilant. There’s no sleeping this night and no sleeping tomorrow - no sleep until Moria.'

And who knows what they’re to meet in the dark of the mines. 

Legolas takes charge of building the fire, adding as much timber as can be managed. The more flames the better. Legolas sings, ‘Let them kiss night sky as high as the moon.’ 

Boromir, ‘I’m not sure this is the time for song.’ 

Legolas, somber, ‘There is always time for song.’ 

Boromir makes a face at Gimli: Wild.

Gimli grins, hefts his axe, ‘My blade will sing mightily well tonight if we’re to hue warg flesh.’ 

Gradually, the howls come closer then taper off into silence. A bad sign, to Boromir’s thinking. Wolves and wargs are silent when they hunt. You’re safer when you can hear them than when you can’t. Shadowed figures appear, circling the Company. The carrion scent of carnivore seeps between the boulders that surround them. Eyes flash in the dark, glinting hungry yellow.  

By a large gap in the rocks stands a warg, patient and watching. For several minutes it does not move. It contemplates them and though it is in darkness, Boromir can see it surveying the group. The subtle movement of the head as it sizes up each member of the company. There’s a whispered conversation between Aragorn and Frodo - the hobbits are moved to the centre therefore more easily defended. 

A howl shatters the quiet. The hobbits startle. 

Echoes bounced back, other wargs answering with excitement. 

Boromir and Aragorn unsheath their swords at the same time but before they can move Mithrandir throws an arm across Aragorn’s chest. A meaningful look. The ranger doesn’t return his sword to sheath but he gives a slight nod in reply to the silent conversation. 

‘Listen here, hound of Sauron,’ Mithrandir snarls. Raising his staff a light begins to emanate from the carved end, white and gold. It blinds if you look at it too long. ‘Fly back to where you came if you value your hide. For if you set a single foot inside this ring I will shrivel you from tail to snout. You will die by inches.’ 

The warg snarls. Leaps forward. 

Falls. 

Lands at Mithrandir’s feet with an elven bow protruding from throat. Around them, the land erupts in howls then, just as quickly, goes silent. Nothing but insects. The sighing wind remains the sighing wind. 

Boromir re-sheaths his sword as Legolas pulls the arrow from the dead warg and returns it to his quiver.

‘Quick work,’ Boromir remarks. 

‘An arrow was more to purpose than a sword,’ Legolas replies. ‘Though I do not doubt your skill, nor Aragorn’s. I like things to be dealt with in a neat and orderly fashion.’ 

‘This seems the wrong sort of adventure to be on, if that’s the case.’ 

‘I have no doubt I will rise to the occasion.’

Legolas then flashes a silver-moonlight smile before returning to his usual calm, elven indifference.  

Chapter Text

Denethor approaches wanting in a two fold manner. One: To want is to admit to weakness for there is something external to you that is needed. Two: To want is natural and men should not shy away from their natural wants for they are part of you provided they do not undermine you. 

The second prong of Denethor’s approach usually applies only to Denethor and a select few others, depending on the day. 

These are things that are new in Denethor. Or, not new, but they are things that weren’t always so clearly seen. As older men tell Boromir with great dedication: Your father wasn’t always this way. Which is a miserable statement to make because it doesn’t undo the current way in which Denethor is.  

The Company is searching for doors that cannot be seen. They are wanting for an entrance. Faramir would make a metaphor out of this. Boromir does not. He simply finds it annoying, if not a little farcical. What good is a gate to a land if it can’t be found? 

Mithrandir speaks to the great skill and craftsmen of the old days when the world was a lighter place and Dwarves and Elves were friends and the east was not a darkness and there were not yet creations in the world that pull out a person’s wants and needs and twists them into a mockery of their former selves. 

Aragorn occasionally taps rockface. Runs fingers over moss and lichen. Boromir trails behind but cannot see anything of note on the rock wall they are canvassing. Black, red, some white, it glistens in moonlight. A sheer and untouched thing. 

The scrambling for doors leaves time to waste for those not involved, so Boromir leans against the husk of a dead tree by a glassy lake that looks as a mirror painted black for fortune telling. He picks at his nails. 

Aragorn, having helped Sam unload Bill the pony, retires to stand beside Boromir. He rocks back on his heels and turns his face up to moonlight, a nighttime flower searching for its nighttime sun. 

Except he’s too strange and dirty and worn to be a flower. 

Boromir looks away. 

Legolas, off to the side from everyone, presses his ear against stone with eyes closed. At one point he moves a few yards towards the Company and presses palm flat against the rock for several minutes. Pulling it away from the wall he licks it and shakes his head. 

‘There’s been no dwarven or elven work until,’ he walks along humming then points, ‘here. After this point there may be a door.’ 

Boromir turns to Aragorn, ‘Did he just lick his hand?’ 

‘We’re lucky he didn’t lick the rock.’ 

Boromir nods. Right, sure. That makes sense. He supposes the scene unfolding before him isn’t completely weird. What is there to see? A wizard cursing, in an increasingly colourful manner, at silent stone. An elf that licks rocks to tell if magic was worked on them. A dusty king-in-waiting who nibbles on sticks and talks to himself in elvish when bored. Halflings with no idea what they’re doing but the entire fate of the world rests on their shoulders. 

The only sensible one is Gimli. And Bill the pony, though he’s soon to no longer be part of the Company. 

Boromir takes up a pebble and chucks it into the water. Ripples emanate out. 

‘I think it best we don’t disturb the lake,’ hums Aragorn, still moon-bathing. ‘We don’t know who lives there.’ 

Boromir watches for a creature to rise up from cold depths but, as he expected, nothing shows its face. Aragorn, done meditating upon the moon, turns to Boromir and says they should see how the quest for the door stands. 

‘And if it stands nowhere?’ 

‘Then there’ll be much to reconsider.’ 

Not an encouraging thought, Boromir doesn’t point out. 

Coming upon the rest of the Company Boromir is awestruck. There, glowing soft greens and blues, is an outline of pillars, arch, and unmistakable doors. It casts enough light to illuminate the shadowed faces of his companions and all stand for a moment in wonder at the sight. 

‘The Doors of Durin,’ Aragorn whispers. ‘They are a beautiful sight to see, even in these dark times.’ 

Mithrandir points to the ruins carved into archway. ‘They read, Ennyn Durin Aran Moria. Pedo Mellon a Minno. Im Narvi hain echant. Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin. Or, the Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.’

‘What does that mean?’ Pippin asks. 

‘Quite simply, you speak the password and the doors will open.’ Taking up his staff Mithrandir presses it against the centre of the door and says a phrase in Elvish. No joy. He tries another. Still no joy. Boromir, having admired the silvery wonder of the doors, returns to the shore of the inky lake. Which he now dislikes the look of, since Aragorn pointed out that they do not know what lives within its unfathomable depths. 

It is nothing but a flight of fancy, he tells himself. There is likely nothing that will pay them any mind. Despite this, he cannot look away. The moon reflects a perfect image of itself and the stars blink on black water. 

‘Did you see something?’ Aragorn asks, coming away from the door. 

‘No, nothing.’ 

A companionable expression. ‘I’ve an uneasy feeling about this lake as well.’ 

‘Was it here when you last passed through Moria?’ 

Aragorn shakes his head. Patting Boromir’s shoulder he returns to the Company. While he isn’t sure when Aragorn passed through Moria, he reasons it couldn’t be too long ago. Therefore, something happened between then and now to cause the lake to form. Something, or, someone. He frowns at the water. Thinks something might be moving beneath the surface. He waits. Nothing happens. Must be a trick of the eyes. He turns and follows after Aragorn. 

As he approaches he hears Frodo ask, ‘What’s the Elvish word for friend?’ 

‘Mellon, ’ Mithrandir replies. 

Rumbling and the light from the rock glows all the brighter as the doors of Durin open. Cool air rushes to meet them and while not unpleasant, it is not fresh. There is age in what they breath. A trunk that has not been opened in years full of musty clothes and dead moths whose soft, brown bodies are to be found in corners. 

Boromir hesitantly touches the illuminated designs. Emitting no heat, they glimmer then fade as Mithrandir ushers the Company inside. 

‘While we’ve not heard from my cousin Balin in many years,’ Gimli says as they take stock of themselves, still standing within the light of the doorway. ‘I dearly hope we may find him here and what a welcome we would receive. Fine ale, good food, beautiful gifts. It might give you a better appreciation of us, Master Elf.’ 

Legolas raises eyebrows, a feint expression of I doubt it. 

‘I dislike being underground,’ Legolas says. ‘It disorients and does not breathe with life.’ 

‘It breathes well enough,’ Gimli shoots back. ‘If only you know how to listen and feel for it. Rock has as much life as your trees.’ 

‘Doubtful.’ 

Boromir gives Gimli him a sympathetic look. Though, he does agree that being underground disorients. Walking forward his boot hits something. 

A skull. 

Eyes adjusting to the darkness and suddenly the bodies are apparent. And the orc arrows protruding from them. 

‘This is no mine,’ Boromir turns around. ‘This is a tomb.’ 

Pulling an arrow from a body Aragorn scowls. ‘Orc, by its make.’ 

‘Yrch,’ Legolas agrees. He picks up a few and adds them to his quiver. When he notes some of the Company staring he says, ‘One restocks when one is able.’ 

Boromir, ‘We should never have come here. Let us leave and take yet another route.’ 

Mithrandir seeks out Aragorn who, without expression, agrees with Boromir which seems to settle it. A first time for everything: Aragorn publicly siding with him. Most usually he defers to Mithrandir. Boromir’s mouth curves up at the end when Aragorn meets his eye. His chest feels quite warm. He despairs at this. 

As the group crosses threshold to the outside world the water splashes. They freeze. Boromir thinks, Oh no -- then a tentacle slithers forward from the lake’s depths. Then another and another. Countless. One wraps around Frodo’s ankle yanking him backwards out of the mine. 

Immediately the Company is in the water hacking at limbs that seem to keep coming. There is no end in sight of the creature. Aragorn manages to cut the one holding Frodo and he drops into water to be quickly pulled up and out by Sam. 

‘Back into the mines,’ shouts Mithrandir. ‘We’re not going to make it back along the lakeshore path.’

They rush in, Boromir picking up Pippin and Merry along the way. Sam is pulling Frodo whose face is one of terror. Aragorn pushes Gimli and Legolas ahead of him. The tentacles follow them into the mine, groping at feet. Desperate, it seems to Boromir, to find Frodo and pull the ringbearer into icy depths. Eventually the tentacles stop, pull back, and wrap around the outside of the doors. With wretched sound the entrance collapses upon itself and they are left in the dark. 

Softly, a light appears. Mithrandir’s staff, affixed with a strange stone, emits light enough to walk by. 

‘This leaves us no choice,’ the wizard sighs. ‘We must face the long, dark of Moria.’ 

Sweeping stonework cascades up into darkened heavens where no eye can perceive it. Boromir cannot help but see the similarities between the majestic stonework of Moria and the glories of Minas Tirith. If Moria were taken out of the mountain and placed in southern fields, lit by glad sunlight, it could be a city of Gondor. 

Therefore, the sight of it desolate, ruined, covered with the dead, fills him with dread. For this is what Minas Tirith will look like in a matter of months. 

This is how Osgiliath currently looks.  

No time to bury bodies, no time for funerals — the dead are left to the Orcs who defile and abuse them. And this is not even the full might of Sauron! Men who fight for Gondor should have no lungs to be pierced by arrows, no entrails for orc blade to rent open, no blood to spill. 

Trailing towards the back, Boromir stops to contemplate a dead dwarf, its skeletal hand outstretched as if to ward off the inevitable. Several arrows protrude from chest. He touches the edge of one, feels worn wood and fletching. 

Even if they survive Moria they have months before they reach Mordor and then, when in Mordor, they must somehow make it to Mount Doom. All because of a ring. Such a little thing. 

‘Boromir,’ Aragorn’s soft voice floats over. ‘Do not linger so far behind. It’s not safe. Keep with me.’ 

A last long look at the dead dwarf and he rejoins the circle of light. 

In the dark there is no time. There is no day and night, no coming and going of the sun and moon. They walk for as long as they are able then take quiet, fitful rest in hidden places of the halls. Boromir finds he cannot sleep here. It is too unnatural. He stays up, keeps company with those on watch, tries to find form in the dark around them. 

The world shrinks so it is only what is contained within Mithrandir’s light. 

They travel on. 

Despite being underground Boromir can feel a breeze. He murmurs, ‘That’s surely unnatural.’ Gropes the back of his neck where he swears something brushed against it. 

‘It comes from the great open works,’ Aragorn whispers. ‘Though I did not feel the wind.’ 

Eyes cannot get used to this kind of darkness. It is beyond what any night brings, even moonless ones. On a break for food and sleep Aragorn says, ‘I’ll take this watch, you go sleep. I know you haven’t this last while.’ 

‘I can’t, though I’ve tried.’ 

Aragorn insists, Boromir should try again. Everyone needs to be as well rested as can be managed. This is a perilous place, we do not need mistakes made from exhaustion. Boromir wants to argue but cannot so slinks off to a clear space and attempts sleep. 

But, he can’t. His mind races, though his body wishes for quiet. He wonders how Gimli is feeling. Knowing that at any moment you may come across the body of a beloved family member. Or, worse, that you will never come upon it and what does that mean? It would mean, though slim, there is a chance Balin is alive. Alive and somewhere in these caves hiding. Or worse, alive but prisoner of the orcs. Borormir has heard tales of how they make sport of their captives. It sickens the stomach. 

If only there was a way to end all of this. All these needless deaths, the dwarves here who linger without fit burial, the men of Gondor, all those towns they have been unable to save. The land is shrinking beneath the cloud of Mordor and so Gondor’s hope withdraws to the circle of land around Minas Tirith. 

He knows he should not think of the ring as a possibility because he knows it will only bring harm. He believes Mithrandir and Lord Elrond when they said that only Sauron can wield it. He does not doubt them in the slightest. 

But, that said, surely if used only once or twice, in extreme circumstances, by one who is strong enough to cast it aside afterwards, then it could serve some purpose. 

All of this could serve some purpose. 

The men he and Faramir have lost would not have died in vain. His father’s despair might end. Without Mordor looming in the distance, he might come back to himself and Boromir would be able to see and know the man his father was and then, maybe, he might come to forgive the man his father is. 

He has lingered too long on melancholic thoughts. He berates himself for the indulgence. Aragorn is right in that the Company needs everyone at their best - or the best they can manage while in a dark, dank mine surrounded by the dead. He will pull himself together. He can hear Denethor chiding Faramir for wallowing. Boromir is strong, his father would say, he does not allow self-pity to manifest. Be more like him. 

Yet here he is, wallowing in self-pity. 

Not that Faramir did anything their father took him to task him for. Faramir isn’t a wallower. Nor is he prone to self-pity. But Boromir keeps Denethor’s message inside him because there is a truth in it and he must remind himself of it. 

Do not wallow. Do not give in to the weakness of self-pity. Be strong.  

A breeze sighs through the rocks and over his back. Boromir opens eyes to see Aragorn sitting, watching the group, then watching the dark. Their eyes meet and what expression comes across Aragorn’s face Boromir cannot name but he knows that he does not wish to see it again. Within it there was an immeasurable sadness and he thinks Aragorn, for all his idiosyncrasies and strange habits, deserves some happiness. Burdens of leadership are hard enough to carry without carrying grief as well. He wonders at the expression, though it was gone in seconds and the ranger again watches the dark. 

One man cannot save a city, Boromir thinks. It was foolish to believe one man could bring hope to a country that has not seen the light of morn in years. 

They’re crossing through a series of interconnected hallways when Sam asks Frodo: ‘The poem Mr. Bilbo made for Strider, what is it again?’ 

Frodo lets out a small laugh, ‘Why do you want to know, Sam?’ 

‘Seemed to be a pretty thing if I remember rightly. We could all do for a pretty thing right now.’ 

Frodo twists to find Aragorn, would it be alright? He wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Aragorn shrugs. He says, ‘I’ve heard your uncle recite it in more public places than here.’ 

So Frodo does. And when he finishes all make appreciative murmurs. Boromir, while acknowledging the niceness of the gesture, dearly hopes this doesn’t lead to yet another poetry-recital where Aragorn, Legolas and Frodo all try to outdo each other. 

It wears tedious by the third hour. 

‘Sort of like Thorin, isn’t it?’ Sam says after a moment. ‘All that is gold does not glitter. I mean, I know the poem is for Strider but from what I know of Thorin’s adventure with the dragon it could apply to him as well.’ 

All eyes swing to Gimli for confirmation. The dwarf shrugs, ‘I didn’t know Thorin well. You would have to ask my father. Not all those who wander are lost, I think he’d agree that would suit Thorin well.’ 

‘It’s true,’ Aragorn says amiably. ‘Bilbo could well have written it for both. That would be like him. A riddle within a riddle.’

Boromir thinks if that be so, it lends a mournful quality to the poem-riddle. It is at once for and of the dead while being for and of the living. 

Mithrandir’s voice floats over, ‘Not all that is over is past. And there can be kings who do not wear crowns. There are many marvels in this world, we only live to see a fraction of them.’  

Passing along steep stairs, over narrow bridges that cross chasms of unfathomable depths, the Company comes to a break in the path they had been following. Ahead are three doorways, carved with interlocking circles but no indication of where they lead. From where they stand it’s possible to see that one leads down, at least at first, another continues straight along, and the third begins to curve upward to higher ground.

Mithrandir halts and leans heavily on his staff. ‘I’ve no memory of this place.’ 

Pippin throws himself to the ground, ‘It’s a fine time to rest anyway. We haven’t eaten in hours and hours. I’m going to waste away to skin and bones at this rate.’

‘I don’t think so Pip,’ Merry says hauling him up. ‘You’ve a long way to go before that happens.’ 

‘Maybe you’re right. But still, I could do with a snack. Something little to tide us over.’ 

Boromir rummages through his pack and finds half a loaf. Portioning a chunk off he hands it over, ‘A bit stale but will do you.’ 

‘Many thanks,’ Pippin says, chewing on the side. ‘It’s no feast at the Green Dragon but I’ll take it.’ 

Merry scoots over and demands Pippin share. They quarrel with affection until Pippin gives in, the way Pippin always gives in when his cousin asks for something. 

‘When we’re done with all of this I’ll buy you both a meal,’ Boromir says. ‘What would be like home for you?’ 

‘Potatoes,’ Sam says immediately from where he sits by Frodo. ‘Nothing like a potato roasted on the fire with a bit of the finest salt and herbs from the Shire.’ 

‘Pie,’ Merry says. ‘Beef and lamb pie with carrots and roasted beets covered in so much gravy you could sail a boat.’ 

‘Oh that’s a good one Merry.’ Pippin swings his feet merrily then says, ‘Cheese. A big board of many cheeses with good bread. And maybe some cured ham.’ 

‘And you, Frodo?’ Boromir asks. He brushes the back of his neck for the breeze has returned. How no one else is annoyed by it is anyone’s guess. 

Frodo appears to come out of a meditative thought. Sam repeats the question: What food would you want most right now? 

‘I can’t think of food,’ Frodo says. ‘Least ways not here.’ 

‘There must be something,’ Sam insists. ‘It can be simple. I said a roasted potato and Pippin just wants cheese.’ 

‘And bread and ham. Oh, and maybe some pickles,’ Pippin adds. 

Frodo smiles, and though Boromir does not know the hobbit well he suspects it forced. It cannot be just the dreary mine that has taken away thoughts of comfort. From what he knows of the ring, he is sure that it is having some impact on Frodo. 

‘I suppose,’ Frodo says slowly. ‘If I must answer, it would be a roast with vegetables. Bilbo used to make a fine one with carrots and onions and turnips. It was one of our winter meals. When the snow came down as feathers on the south farthing.’ 

‘Put holly and pine up everywhere,’ Sam says. ‘And eat roasted chestnuts with soft cheese and preserves. How about you?’ 

Boromir blinks, him? Sam nods, since you’re buying this hypothetical meal. Boromir can’t think of anything. He too finds himself unable to think of food. 

‘Come on,’ Pippin says. ‘There must be something.’ 

Boromir leans back against a rock in thought. He says, ‘I think I miss the company at meals more than the meals themselves. But, there is this beef stew that we make in Gondor, full of beer and brandy--’

‘The only way,’ Sam says sagely. 

‘It’s also a winter meal. Though we sometimes make a lighter version for the summer. There’s also a cold tomato soup for hot August days that I’m partial to.’ 

‘I did not put you down as a soup person,’ Sam remarks. His tone is an approving one. 

‘Are there soup people and non-soup people?’ 

‘Absolutely. And your view on potatoes?’ 

‘Now you’re having me on.’ 

‘I would never!’ Sam becomes grave. ‘You can ask Strider. I do not jest.’ 

Boromir does and Aragorn says, equally grave: ‘I’ve never heard Master Samwise make a joke in all the time that I’ve known him.’ 

Boromir squints. Aragorn is impassive. Sam wears a pleased look. Boromir gives up, ruffles Pippin’s hair, and declares them to all be utterly ridiculous. 

Not a moment later there is an ‘aha’ from Mithrandir. The wizard stands, with evident self-pleasure, and points to the door leading upward: ‘It’s that one.’ 

‘Oh good, you’ve remembered,’ Gimli hauls himself upward. ‘I was beginning to worry.’ 

‘No, but the air doesn’t smell so foul that way.’ 

Aragorn flashes Boromir a fleeting expression that can only be called mischievous. 

The stairs lead them up and up, it seems a tremendous height they must be at. Then, just when Boromir thought they could go no higher, it evens out. Mithrandir begins making pleased noises eventually proclaiming that he knows where they are now. Perhaps a little too high for the Dimrill Gates, but they will be able to descend back down to them. 

Passing through a slim door they enter into a space Boromir guesses to be large. The air is cooler and fresher than what was in the passages they walked through. Mithrandir mutters over the rock then holds the staff aloft and a great light flows forth, illuminating the hall. 

‘Behold,’ he says. ‘The great realm and Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf.’

Chapter Text

Boromir cannot stop looking up even though there is nothing to see for the wizard’s light cannot reach the furthest rafters of the hall. What a fearsome thing, this city. Boromir thinks he can begin to understand Gimli’s desire to see Moria. And his fear. How can a person see Dwarrowdelf and remain the same? There are times when architecture uproots you, takes hold of who you are and makes you over again so you may appear the same but there’s been a fundamental change as deep as the bedrock of the soul. 

No one speaks. Because are there words? Maybe, in Dwarvish. There aren’t any in Westron. Westron was not made for this. It cannot encompass the vastness of the pillars, the complexity of the arches, the shadows, the light, the interplay of stones, the depth of height. Boromir thinks they should all have a seat and stare upward for an hour or else can they truly say they’ve appreciated the workmanship?

If only Faramir were here. He’s the only one Boromir can think of who would have words for this. Or a poem. 

Even Legolas is speechless. 

The company walks forward, the only sound being their feet on marble. 

At some point, Boromir doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking, Legolas says, ‘Aie, this is grandeur.’ 

And Gimli says, ‘Grandeur doesn’t begin to explain it. We have words.’ But he doesn’t share them. 

Legolas murmurs that where he is from the language is like the trees. He says he’s beginning to understand the language of the Dwarves for it is clearly made for these halls. Gimli does not reply. 

Boromir clasps his shoulder, ‘I cannot imagine what you’re feeling right now. But I assume it is too much to say.’ Gimli nods, pats Boromir’s hand, says he’ll be all right in a moment. 

Again, silence. A meditative one. Boromir has never seen Mithrandir in awe but he thinks the wizard is close to it at this moment. 

‘This,’ Gimli’s reclaimed voice. ‘This is just the main hall. Wait until you see the rest. I’ve only heard stories but it brought my father to tears.’ 

Boromir smiles at him. He tries to imagine the gruff old dwarf he met in tears and first he thinks: I can’t see it. Then he rethinks it: No, I can. 

It was how he spoke about Thorin and the Lonely Mountain. Boromir can see Moria bringing Gloin to tears. And it should! It should humble them all. 

‘It was mithril,’ Mithrandir speaks suddenly. ‘That they mined for here. Moria-silver, true-silver, take your pick of the name. This is one of the only places in all of Middle Earth it can be found which makes it a most precious thing.’ 

‘What’s the Dwarvish name for it?’ Sam asks. 

‘It’s not shared,’ Mithrandir replies. ‘To my knowledge at least.’ 

‘No,’ Gimli agrees. ‘We keep that to ourselves. It’s a sacred thing and so a secret thing.’ He adds, ‘It’s also a sad thing.’

‘A sad thing?’ 

In the absence of Gimli’s answer Mithrandir explains, ‘It was the foundation of Moria’s wealth, but it was also their undoing. They delved too greedily and too deep and awoke some dark things that ought to have remained sleeping.’ 

Gimli frowns. ‘We delved for it, yes, but we weren’t the only ones who desired it. Elves, men, even the dark lord himself. Everyone wanted it but we were the only ones who could procure it. Perhaps we dug too deep, but it wasn’t our desires alone that caused dark things to wake. Do not place the label of greedy solely upon our shoulders.’  

Mithrandir tilts his head, a silent agreement. ‘Bilbo was gifted a mithril coat by Thorin.’ 

‘A kingly gift.’ Gimli’s frown turns to amusement. ‘My father wouldn’t be too surprised.’ 

Mithrandir raises an eyebrow. Boromir turns to Aragorn for clarification but finds him as confused. Legolas, too, seems to miss the silent undertow of the conversation. 

‘I never told him what it was worth,’ Mithrandir continues. ‘But he could have bought the Shire twice-over with it. Which, he might have been tempted to do. If only as a lark. Bilbo’s a mischievous one.’ 

‘My father says that’s what endeared him to their party. He said he liked Master Baggins’ cunning. Described him as having a mind like a corkscrew: twisty and exacting.’ 

At this both Mithrandir and Aragorn laugh. Even Frodo grins. In laughter the hobbit says, ‘That sounds right for Uncle Bilbo. It’s all those riddles he’s so fond of. Cryptic ones are his favourite. He said his cunning came from having to outwit the Sackville-Baggins all those years. But everyone else in the Shire knows that if you want to get ahead of Uncle Bilbo you have to get up very early indeed.’ 

‘Best not go to sleep,’ Sam says. 

‘He’s not that wiley,’ Frodo replies smartly. But he’s grinning and soon laughs again. ‘A hobbit of mystery, my uncle.’ He stops, his smile softens, he appears to think something over then, having chewed it through says, ‘I’m fairly certain he knew its worth. Monetarily.’ 

Mithrandir’s bushy eyebrows go up, ‘Did he indeed?’ 

‘I think so. I would wager so. But I think it meant more to him as a gift from a friend than anything else.’ 

Again, the conversation beneath the conversation as Mithrandir replies, ‘Yes, I would think so. I suspect it’s one of his most valued possessions and not for its worth in gold.’ 

Through the dwarf city they continue. In the greatness of Dwarrowdelf it is almost possible to forget they are walking through a tomb. But a glance into shadows outside the ring of light shows the occasional body, the remnants of battle, the reminder of death. The whisper at the back of his mind has followed him from Caradhras remains, filling him with some fear he cannot name or place. It is a dread: a dread for them, for those who once lived and worked in these halls, for his people in Gondor. 

Despite their laughter, there is a darkness Boromir cannot shake. It worries at him, chews through thoughts of brighter days. He puts it down to the prevailing dark of the mines. This may be well and good for dwarves, but men were not made to live only at night. 

Mithrandir says that by the end of day they should be able to find the Great Gates and see the waters of Mirrormere. 

‘Good,’ Gimli sighs. ‘I’m glad to have seen these halls and walked the places my people walked. I’m glad to have touched the things my people made. But it also weighs down my heart to see it abandoned and gone to ruin.’ 

‘One day it could be reclaimed.’ Sam is all stoutness as he says this. Gimli smiles, Master Gamgee is full of hope. This is a good thing.

As they pass through an archway a shaft of light catches everyone’s eye and they turn to see a doorway into a chamber. To Boromir it seems as bright as the sun, after the dark. Inevitably, all feet make for the brightness. Silent, not a little mesmerized. 

Mithrandir: 'We shouldn’t linger.'

Gimli: 'I wish to see the words.'

Frodo: 'This feels like a tomb.' 

Boromir: 'To be fair, the entire mine constitutes a tomb.' 

Above the door, a sign in runes. Boromir squints at it then looks to Gimli, would the dwarf care to translate or is it something sacred? 

Gimli stands still, mute, eyes closed. There is pain on his face. 

Mithrandir mutters beneath his breath for a moment, working through the translation. Then he says, ‘These are Daeron’s Runes. They were used here many ages ago but, roughly, they say: Here Lies Balin, Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.’ 

‘He is dead, then,’ Frodo whispers. 

Gimli does not speak. His only movement is to pull his hood up and shadow his face. No one says a word for there is nothing to say that would bring comfort. I’m sorry cannot express enough, even though it may be true. Without looking at the Company Gimli walks into the room and takes up a rock to set at the head of the grave. Kneeling down, he places forehead to cold stone. 

Following him, the Company continues in silence. Boromir thinks someone should say something in memory of the fallen. Surely Mithrandir knew Balin and can say a few words to commemorate him. But Mithrandir does not speak. Just looks on with grief and exhaustion. 

How many lives of men has he lived? How many people has he buried whom he cared for? 

Boromir cannot fathom it, but he thinks he does understand the fundamental feeling. 

‘Bilbo knew him,’ Frodo says suddenly. ‘He always spoke highly of Balin. He said you couldn’t find a wiser or more understanding friend than Balin.’ 

‘He was the only one of Thorin’s Company willing to go with Bilbo into the mountain,’ Mithrandir murmurs. ‘Everyone else, including Thorin, was too afraid of Smaug. But not Balin. Or, he was afraid, but he didn’t let that keep him from being a true friend and doing what he knew was right. A brave and steadfast dwarf.’ 

At length, Gimli stands, wipes cheeks and says he is done. The only thing he could wish for now would be an account of what happened. ‘Aside from the obvious,’ he says. A harsh laugh. ‘I think we can guess orcs were involved.’ 

Boromir suspects they can recreate the battle based on the fallen whose remains make for sad companions to Balin’s tomb. Aragorn positions himself at the foot of the tomb and looks at the room then turns and inspects the door. 

‘A last stand,’ Aragorn says. ‘They bared the doors as best they could but they didn’t hold. For some reason there was no lock, or they were unable to lock it, for it gave way easily enough that the hinges remain in tact.’ 

It would have been easy pickings for the orcs. Everyone compact in a room. A brave but dismal end. 

A content noise catches attention and the Company finds Mithrandir brushing off an old book. Pages slip out, some crumble at the slightest touch. Mithrandir reads for a time then clears throat. Waits till everyone is at attention. 

‘It appears to be an account of Balin and his people. Let us see, there’s pages and pieces missing. Hardly surprising, all things considered. A bit here says, and my translation is rough so bear with me, We drove out the orcs from the great gate and guard - I think the next word is room but I can’t be certain. We slew, or something to that effect (there’s no clear translation of that word into Westron), we slew many in the sun bright. Sorry, bright sun and we have taken the twenty first hall to dwell in now it’s almost impossible to read. I see the word shaft and chamber - I assume that’s a reference to where we stand now.’ He hums over the text. ‘I can’t read several pages, they’re written hastily. Ah, here’s a clear hand and in Elvish script. How thoughtful.’ 

‘That’d be Ori,’ Gimli says. ‘He preferred Elvish when writing fast.’ 

‘The first word is sorrow. ’ Mithrandir glances over to Gimli. ‘This is grim reading. I don’t have to do it aloud.’ 

‘No, I want to hear. I know my father will want to know what happened.’ 

Mithrandir returns to the book. ‘The rest of the line is lost but ends in -- estre. I suspect it’s yestre. The next that is legible reads, roughly: being the tenth of November, Balin, Lord of Moria, fell in the Dimrill Dale. He went alone to look upon the Mirrormere and an orc shot him. We slew the orc, but many more , unclear. The remainder I can’t make out. It picks up, we have barred the gate but cannot hold them for long. We cannot get out. They have taken the Bridge and the second hall. The Watcher in the Water took Oin. We cannot get out. The end comes with the drums, the drums in the deep. The last thing written is a trailing scrawl: They are coming. Then nothing more.’ 

Mithrandir closes the book with reverence and places it by the body of Ori. 

The Company composes itself. Begins to make indications they should move. Boromir glances into darkened hallway, ‘Which way now?’ 

‘We must go down,’ Mithrandir says. ‘We’re above the gates at the--’ 

A clang. 

Everyone whips around. Pippin stands by a well and a bucket drops off the edge into the depth pulling down its chain and the body of one of the slain. The hobbit closes his eyes, sucks in breath, and waits.

It bangs downward. It seems as if it seeks to hit every possible obstacle on the way down. Pippin’s face scrunches inward with each sound that echoes upward. 

Finally, silence. 

Until Mithrandir tears into him. ‘Fool of a Took, throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity.’ 

Boromir is about to say that the hobbit had no ill-intent. He did a foolish thing, but he is not malicious. When a deep boom emanates from the well. 

A second follows, it vibrates, feels as if it comes from all around them. The booms roll over them, roll through them. It comes from air and rock and the absent dark outside the room. 

Legolas cries, ‘They’re coming!’ 

High pitched screeches dance down the hall. 

‘Damn,’ Mithrandir whirls back to face the door. ‘We’re trapped.’ 

Boromir, grimly, ‘Well, we’ll barricade the doors and give them a hell of a fight.’ 

‘And keep your packs on,’ Aragorn says, joining Boromir by the doors. There is little enough to use but they must make do with what they have - so, an old table, spears, rocks. ‘We may be able to cut through them and escape.’ 

Boromir, shoving a spear against the door, mutters, ‘Really?’  

‘Hope,’ Aragorn shrugs. ‘We had a conversation about it, if I remember rightly.’ 

Boromir rolls eyes, mutters that there’s a time and a place for jesting. This is not it. 

‘I don’t know,’ Aragorn’s reply is mockingly solemn. ‘Seems as good a time as any.’ 

A thwack as an arrow lodges itself into the door, it’s head just piercing the wood. 

Boromir smiles at it. ‘Well, that’s just rude. We’re guests in their hall, after all.’ 

They pull back to the tomb and the company draws swords. More arrows lodge themselves into the wood then the door begins shifting. Slowly, it begins an inevitable grind open. Rock and steel and wood scrape against dusty ground. As soon as a sufficient opening appears an arrow flies past Boromir and lodges itself in an orc on the other side of the door. Legolas sneers, ‘Yrch gweyr.’ 

It doesn’t take long before the door fully opens and orcs pour in. 

Battles seem an age when you’re involved yet also, so short. Arrows fly. Borormir can’t tell which are Legolas’ and which are orc until they hit their target. Or don’t. He’s just aware of sharp projectiles around him. 

Then there are the orcs with their blades, their knives, their spears, their cleavers, bare hands, fists, nails that can claw flesh as sure as an animal. 

Between him and Aragorn they manage to push the orcs back into the hall and close the doors again, granting them seconds of peace. With shoulder pressed against the wood Boromir feels rather than hears heavy footsteps. A moment later an unmistakable bellow. 

He turns to Aragorn: ‘They have a cave troll.’

‘What joy.’

The door splinters open. Boromir feels his head connect with something hard then the world becomes soft. All noise drowned out by a rushing filling his ears. He thinks Gimli stands before him yelling insults at the orcs. He gropes for his sword, manages to find it. His head clears and he’s up again.

The throbbing of the left side of his face is ignored. Gimli growls, ‘Good to see you up.’ 

Boromir nods, his mouth not ready to form words beyond fuck this. He searches for Aragorn, finds him standing, shaking his head. The future-king is up and mobile, Boromir thinks this is about as good as they’re going to get at the moment. 

The troll is crashing through the room. It wields a hammer and smashes it down over the tomb of Balin. Bones spill out. It slams against a wall, an attempt to swipe Legolas misses and knocks against a column. Dust cascades down. 

Boromir and Aragorn lunge forward, aiming for tendons in the legs but the skin is thick and swords can only do so much damage. From above, Legolas shoots arrows into the neck snarling a litany of words Boromir isn’t sure he learned when he was taught Sindarin. In the midst of the chaos, the troll trades out hammer for spear. With the new weapon, the beast darts forward, driving the end into Frodo’s side and barreling the hobbit backwards. 

Not a moment later, the troll stumbles, groans, and falls to the ground. Legolas’ arrows stick out of the back of its neck. Thick blood runs from wounds on legs. One of them managed to hit an artery, by the look of it. 

But orcs remain. So there can be no rest.

Boromir returns to reducing their number as he hears anguished cries from the hobbits. This cannot be the end of the Fellowship, he thinks. Underground, never to be heard from again. Their bodies desecrated by these foul creatures. Sauron prevails because of a cave troll. A damn cave troll. 

But - all is not lost, he supposes. Frodo may fall, but the ring can be carried on by others.   

A shout over the fray: ‘Run, run now, we make for the bridge of Khazad-dûm.’ 

And they run. Frodo included. Boromir is shocked. Which must be evident on his face for Aragorn quickly says: Mithril . And Boromir replies: Useful. 

It’s like cockroaches, the way orcs crawl and slither up and out from their holes. They make a place as great as this city dank and foul by their presence. The way infestations slowly consume and control the vessel they’re claiming. 

It is a matter of minutes before the Company stands surrounded and the hobbits herded into the middle of them for what little good it will do. Shrieks of glee from the orcs fill the great hall with such clamour Boromir thinks the roof, unseen and hidden, should come falling down upon them all. 

But, if this is how they are going to end, they will make it such an end that the orcs will remain fearful of their ghosts. That the orcs will believe their halls haunted by them and live always looking over their shoulders. 

A boom. Ground shakes. A low, rumbling growl, unlike anything Boromir has heard before, erupts from down the hall.

The orcs go silent. 

That’s not a good sign, Boromir thinks. To the orcs he snarls, ‘Fuck off.’ 

Aragorn’s harsh laugh is the kind given when in a desperate situation. Boromir glances at him; this is what makes the man laugh? Really? 

A second boom, the ground trembles, the orcs scatter. From the far end of the hall a deep, red light begins to form and move, with great purpose, in their direction. It reflects off the marble pillars, the stone worked floor, makes strange shadows on walls. It is unmistakably monstrous. 

Boromir sucks in a breath, swings his sword, repositions himself to face whatever beast stalks towards them. 

A deep growl ripples through air making the hairs on Boromir’s neck stand. The rest of the Company wear expressions of fear, concern, confusion. 

Save for Mithrandir. He is pained resignation. 

‘What is it?’ Aragorn asks.

‘A Balrog,’ replies Mithrandir. ‘A demon of fire, a creature of Morgoth.’ 

Promptly Legolas wails, ‘Ai! Ai! a Balrog!’ 

Gimli’s face is ash. Boromir licks lips, says, ‘I’m sure we can fight it.’ 

‘Fly.’ Mithrandir stares down the hall lined with its columns and buttresses and finest dwarven craftsmanship. ‘Fly now.’ 

Aragorn’s hand digs into Boromir’s arm, hard and uncompromising. The ranger’s face is absolute fear, ‘Swords are of no use. Come on. We can’t fight this.’ 

Boromir stares towards the advancing fire. The heat emanating makes the air shimmer as the hottest of August days. The kind where young boys run wild with shirts off and armour scalds so everyone is in leathers and hiding under trees. 

A heat that scorches. Boromir doesn’t think he can move. Aragorn yanks him forward, away from the mesmerizing flames, whisps of smoke, whispers of staystaystay. 

They run. 

It’s only adrenaline that’s keeping them going. Boromir doesn’t think his legs, his lungs, his heart would be working if it weren’t for that. Not after a battle, not after getting slammed against a wall by a cave troll, not after everything they’ve been through. 

None of them should be upright. Thank the gods for the body’s animal instincts and innate desire to survive. 

Mithrandir leads them through a passage then down stairs and stairs and stairs. Crumbling ones where boots have no purchase and bored orcs take pot-shots at them. Rounding a corner, Boromir’s foot goes out from beneath him. Below, a sheer drop. But an arm grabs him. Hauls him back from the edge. 

‘Steady,’ Aragorn says with his soft voice. ‘We can’t lose you.’ 

Boromir says a thank you , continues on. His chest feels bound - as if it cannot expand. He thinks this is what true exhaustion is. He thinks it has something to do with Aragorn’s voice. He thinks he will examine this later. When they’re not being chased by a fiery demon straight from the histories Mithrandir once taught him. 

Finally - the bridge. What a thin strip of hope suspended over a great depth. If you dropped a stone you would not hear it hit the bottom. 

Aragorn charges over first, then Legolas, Merry, Pippin, Frodo, Sam, Gimli — Boromir turns, ‘Mith- Gandalf.’ He motions for him to go. 

Mithrandir shoos him forward, ‘No time to engage in niceties for old men, Boromir. Go, go.’ 

Boromir makes an exasperated face but Mithrandir is unshakable. So he crosses over. Turns to make sure the wizard is following and finds him standing in the middle of the bridge facing an outpouring of smoke from the door they came through. The smoke continues, it piles on top of itself and from within, a shape takes form. 

Red eyes, horns, a snarling mouth, teeth - then wings and two arms, two legs, it stands upright. From fire and smoke a whip and sword appear in the Balrog’s hands. 

It roars. 

Which tears through air, burns skin, digs past skull to brain. 

Mithrandir does not waver. He stands, small and grey, against the great fire of the beast. Until this moment, it never occurred to Boromir that Mithrandir could be considered small. His beard, his hat, his demeanor makes him seem bigger than life. A constant in a world of inconstancy. 

But here he is, small and old and tired. 

‘You cannot pass,’ Mithrandir cries out. ‘I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. Dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn.’ Holding staff and sword together he lifts them up, a great light pouring out from them. ‘Go back to the shadow. You cannot pass!’ 

The staff slams down against rock. A crack. The bridge splinters. As the Balrog takes a step forward the earth crumbles beneath him sending him down into the unknowable depth. 

Mithrandir visibly droops, turns to rejoin them, when from the darkness the fiery whip licks up into air, wraps itself around Mithrandir’s leg pulling it out from under him. The wizard lands hard, arms scrabbling at rock. 

Boromir lunges forward the same time as Frodo, but Gimli catches him with a harsh, No. Boromir, in turn, grabs Frodo, hauling him back from the edge of the stairs leading down to the bridge. They are all so close to falling. 

Mithrandir looks at them. At Aragorn. 

Fly, you fools. 

He is gone. 

Chapter Text

Boromir first met Mithrandir when he was a boy. Brought in by his father, the wizard was tutor to him and Faramir. Though Faramir took to Mithrandir with greater warmth and enthusiasm, Boromir still felt some softness for him. 

He knows he was a difficult pupil. Never attending to lessons, declaring in petulant voice: but this is boring when being taught the lore of Middle Earth. He’d squirm at his desk, positively bouncing. When he wasn’t jostling about, he slouched, stared out the window daydreaming of being a soldier on some great campaign. He imagined hundreds of battles, hundreds of impossible feats he was to accomplish once he was grown. Once he didn’t have to sit and listen to this old wizard drone on. 

He recalls a scene: he’s thirteen, sitting with eight-year-old Faramir, and they’re both declining verbs in Sindarin. Faramir, enraptured with the language. Boromir, terribly uninterested. 

Mithrandir said, The faster you do your lessons, the sooner you can leave. 

Boromir sighed dramatically. But I can’t. It’s too boring. 

Mithrandir, You could spend your time finding another adjective for boring. 

Boromir did, because that was better than declining verbs. He sucked on quill top in thought then said, Dull. 

Mithrandir, Give me another one. 

Boromir scowled, Terribly dull. 

Mithrandir, That’s a modifier. I want a new word. 

Boromir, Fine. Tiresome. 

Mithrandir, Again. 

Boromir, Stupid. Mundane. Umm, stale. Lifeless. Incurably uninteresting. 

Mithrandir grinned, it was wickedly mischievous, and passed him the list of words. Now, translate them into Sindarin. 

Boromir, aghast, declared this an outrage. Mithrandir laughed. Faramir didn’t know whether to laugh or be outraged on his brother’s behalf. 

It’s funny, how you always want those moments back as soon as it becomes impossible. 

He should have been able to save Mithrandir. He should have done more. But it’s too late. The wizard is gone. 

The company runs up stairs, through halls, then finally through the Great Gate and out - out to open sky. And they keep running, because legs won’t stop and stopping means realizing and realizing means weeping and weeping means your grief has time to become a loadstone in your stomach so you cannot move. 

Finally, out of bowshot of the gate, Pippin halts. Stops dead in his tracks before sinking down with face in hands, dry heaving between sobs.  

Sun shines. It is only an hour past noon. The air cold, crisp, clean. The sky a blue that is so blue Boromir thinks it could be the bluest blue he’s ever seen. 

And there is no Mithrandir.

Going to Aragorn Boromir takes his shoulder and steers him away from the Company. In a whisper he says, ‘Let them rest for a moment. Let them catch their breath and collect themselves.’  

Behind them lies the shadow of the Misty Mountains, before them the emptiness of the Dale they’ve been deposited onto. Aragorn worries on bottom lip before giving a curt nod. ‘Only a few minutes. We must keep moving.’ 

Boromir returns to the group, drops his pack and doesn’t know if he should sit or remain standing. 

Legolas stands frozen, his dark face drawn in a mask of horror and grief. Gimli sits with head bowed against his axe, openly weeping. The hobbits are inconsolable. 

Boromir thinks that this isn’t the time for his own grief. He will tend to that later. He takes out food and goes to sit by Merry and Pippin. 

‘Here,’ he offers them pieces of cured beef as he drops to the ground beside them. ‘You must eat, regain your strength.’ 

Pippin hiccups between sobs. He sits with food in hand but does not eat it. Merry half-heartedly nibbles but cannot manage more. Boromir pulls Merry into a hug and lets him sob against his chest, leaving a trail of tears and snot.

‘We’ll avenge him, I’ve no doubt,’ Boromir says. A cold comfort. ‘And he would not want us to fall into despair.’ 

‘We don’t know what he wants,’ Pippin says, wiping cheeks with palms. ‘We’ll never know what he wants. That’s what death means.’ 

Boromir sighs, ‘In Gondor we say that death only truly comes when a person’s name is no longer spoken. And people will speak his name for many years yet.’ 

Pippin shrugs, maybe. But he’s still gone and they cannot ask him what he would want. They can’t talk to him. They’ll never see his fireworks again. They’ll never have another smoke with him, another ale. He’ll never trundle into the Shire with his cart full of strange and foriegn delights. 

‘I want to go home,’ Pippin concludes, still wet about the eyes. ‘I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.’

‘None of this is your fault.’ 

‘I was the idiot who made the bucket fall.’ Pippin begins crying again. ‘They all came because of the bucket. Gandalf died because of the bucket.’  

Boromir lets Merry go and replaces him with Pippin who has returned to heaving between sobs. ‘You had nothing to do with this. None of this is your fault, eh. Those orcs, the Balrog, they were aware of our presence as soon as we stepped foot in the mines.’ 

Pippin, ‘Are you sure?’ 

‘I would bet my sword on it.’  

Pippin doesn’t appear convinced but he has stopped dry heaving so Boromir counts this an improvement. The poor lad. Boromir continues saying it wasn’t his fault, that there was no one to blame for this. We can all act perfectly, plan an adventure perfectly, but fate is cruel. Sometimes she snatches people up. Or pulls them down. Like a snapper turtle. 

‘Does it stop hurting?’ Pippin asks. 

Boromir doesn’t reply. 

‘It doesn’t, does it?’ 

‘It improves. I promise it does improve. And it changes. With time. Be patient with yourself.’ 

Pippin hiccups, whispers, ‘I don’t think I can do this.’ 

‘You can,’ Boromir says. ‘And you will. You’re stronger than you know. And you have us.’  

‘Boromir,’ Aragorn’s voice floats over. ‘We should go.’ 

‘A minute more,’ he says. ‘For pity’s sake.’ 

‘By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must go. Come on, get them up.’ Aragorn passes by Legolas and Gimli, touching them both on arms, a firm grasp. ‘Come, we must go.’ 

They seem to return from whatever secret place it was they went to in their grief. Legolas coughs, picks up his pack, looks around dazed. Gimli shoulders his before pulling Sam up, ‘Come now, Master Gamgee. We will mourn when we’re safe.’ 

Boromir helps up Merry and Pippin, finds their bags, makes sure they have them on before shouldering his. 

Aragorn, ‘I didn’t mean to snap.’ 

Boromir, ‘You didn’t.’ 

‘We have to keep moving.’ 

‘I know.’ 

Aragorn studies him. That grey, see-through-you stare. Boromir thinks it’s fast becoming a familiar expression. And there’s some comfort in that. It’s like being held but by a gaze. 

It’s soon enough gone. Aragorn is looking over the horizon, towards the future they will travel to. 

‘I’ll take the lead if you make-up the rear-guard,’ Aragorn suggests. And it is a suggestion. His voice a questioning one. 

‘That makes sense. Gandalf left you in charge.’ 

Aragorn sucks in a sharp breath, purses lips. Boromir gives him a wan smile, ‘Not a pleasant thing, I know. But don’t worry, I’ll not contradict you.’ 

‘I didn’t think—’ Aragorn pauses. Then, ‘That’s for another time.’ 

Boromir tilts his head, waits, but nothing more comes. He retreats to the back end of the company. 

Dimrill Dale is flat, cold, open. Green, with grasses and early flowers opening up. Northward, it runs between the mountains of Moria making a pretty valley currently cast in shadow. Southward, it continues out from the mountains and turns into plains. 

Aragorn points to a torrent of water running down the side of Caradrhas whose peak continues to haunt them. ‘That’s the Dimrill Stair, where we would have come had fortune been kinder.’ 

‘Or Caradhras less cruel,’ Gimli mutters. He glares at the mountain, gives it a significant gesture. ‘Damn mountain.’ 

Caradhras seems to smile in the sunlight.

On the dale but to the west of the Company, a vast expanse of water. Shimmering, it is a gem against the empty land. The lake is the blue of deep evening. It is velvet, soft, a comforting depth of colour. The kind of darkness you light a lamp in and the dark becomes a blanket. 

‘What’s that?’ Merry asks, voice rough. 

‘The Mirrormere,’ Gimli reples. ‘Kheled-zâram. Gandalf said, may you have joy of the sight. But who can have joy now?’ Abruptly he stops. Closes eyes. ‘Kheled-zâram fair and wonderful - where lies Durin’s Crown until he wakes.’ Opening them, there is a last long look at the water, the sun dancing, lighting it up as jewels, as a great treasure. Gimli murmurs, farewell , then looks away and continues on, meditative and mournful. 

They pass southward along the Mirrormere away from the Dale into heather. Shrubland pricking at their clothes as afternoon sun attempts to restore warmth to bones though it feels as if all have forgotten what sun is. And it can do nothing for their loss. 

Boromir takes deep breaths to calm himself whenever thoughts of Mithrandir crop up. Which is every few minutes. He breaths out slow until his chest feels as if it’s caving in. He admires the sky, the horizon, the bushland around them. He swallows a great deal and tries to distract himself. But can’t. 

Because he’s going to have to tell Faramir of Mithrandir’s death. He’s going to have to look at his brother and say, I watched him fall and I could have done something to save him but I didn’t. 

And he’s going to have to live with whatever way that reshapes him in Faramir’s eyes. 

He pushes this aside. Gimli! Gimli’s lost twice as much as all of them. Cousin, friends — all dead. Let alone Mithrandir. He should be thinking about Gimli. About the hobbits who clearly knew Mithrandir well and loved him, Legolas who evidently struggles with accepting the death of someone with greater age and wisdom than him. Aragorn, who was friends with the wizard and now must lead them. 

Their path soon empties from brushland to river which they follow along. The further they walk, the greater the current. After the unsettling silence of the mines the noise of water crashing against rock, of trees creaking, birds, wind is both overwhelming and deeply welcomed. 

Aragorn explains as they go, ‘I’m taking us along the path Gandalf laid out. We’ll follow the river until over there.’ He points to a distant shape, hidden in a golden mist, that could be forest. 

‘Lothlórien!’ Legolas exclaims. It is the brightest Boromir has seen his face since — He thinks back, settles on, ever. ‘Autumnal leaves pure as gold but do not fall. The trees are never barren, there is no life there that is ever empty. Come spring new, green leaves sprout and only then do the old ones fall and there are golden flowers upon the branches - everything is golden and when it is not gold it is silver. It is the fairest land of my people. We sing about it in Mirkwood.’ 

This brings no joy to Boromir. He knows the stories of Lothlórien, how men will journey in and not return. Or, if they return it is never unscathed. He thinks there is surely another path they can take but decides to let it rest for the moment. When they are further from Moria he will raise the issue. There truly is some ill luck in this Company. He wants to demand who broke a mirror; who shot a sparrow; who spilled salt and did not throw a piece over their left shoulder. It seems they will never have a moment of rest before the quest ends. 

These thoughts circle downward, tensing shoulders and settling in stomach to make a knotted nest for themselves. And here he thought things would simply improve because of sunlight, more fool he for that. If anything, things are more hopeless than ever. 

He attends back to the group as Aragorn says, ‘--but we’re still many miles out. So, best make haste. I don’t want us to be out in the open at nightfall.’ 

The sun sinks low when they manage to enter the woods and the company visibly slows. Aragorn’s anxious energy can only carry them so far and he keeps glancing back at him then forward. Boromir sighs, mutters that he gets the message, and says, ‘Come, Master Baggins, Master Gamgee, we must keep pace.’ 

Frodo, ‘We must surely be near a resting point soon?’ 

Boromir squints ahead to Aragorn who shows no signs of flagging. He says he isn’t sure. Probably, soon. They’re no longer out in the open and so there is some safety in taking a rest. 

‘And it’s only natural you want to rest. You’ve been skewered by a cave troll,’ Boromir attempts levity. He isn’t successful. ‘Mithril or no, I’m sure you’re well bruised.’ 

‘Oh yes,’ Frodo says. ‘I don’t think I’ve been this sore in years. Fell out of an apple tree when I was young, banged myself up pretty badly. It’s reminiscent of that but worse.’ 

‘Not to mention other weights. Small things may be harder to bear than one would imagine.’ 

‘I bear it well-enough.’ 

‘That is good,’ Boromir smiles. ‘We’re making progress, you’ll get there in the end.’ 

An end that would be a waste of a tool that has the possibility to bring good to the world. If used sparingly, of course. By someone who is strong enough to resist its influence. There are surely people with that kind of fortitude. 

But no, they’re going to destroy the ring and Sauron. Then what? There’s so much to rebuild. So much to mend. It would be no bad thing to have some aid with that. 

Frodo is talking about his uncle when Boromir attends back to the conversation. Frodo says that Bilbo once said that age made him feel thin, like too little butter scraped over bread. He thinks he’s beginning to understand what his uncle meant, and he’s only fifty. Uncle Bilbo didn’t feel that way until he was one-hundred and eleven! 

‘I can only imagine how Gandalf felt,’ Frodo says. ‘I never knew he was so much a part of the comings and goings of the world. He must have been tired.’ 

‘Most probably,’ Boromir agrees. ‘He carried much on his shoulders and showed little of it to anyone. And you, also, carry much. Have been through much. It’s only natural to be tired.’  

‘You’re not, though. Nor is Aragorn. Gimli and Legolas seem to bear their age and burdens that come with it easily enough. I’ve gone on half a journey and am exhausted.’ 

Boromir snorts, ‘Oh, I’m tired Master Baggins. I put on a brave face but I could use a few ales, a bath and a comfortable bed right about now. A week of lie-ins would be grand.’ 

Frodo smiles, ‘That sounds perfect. I’d settle even for one night of sleep that wasn’t outdoors. Or, you know, exposed. I suppose Moria wasn’t strictly outside. Regardless, a night with a real bed, a real pillow, would make everything look better.’

In deep violet night they enter the forest of Lothlórien. Boromir’s sense of unease returns. The group walks together, no longer spread out. The dark, the closeness of trees, the quietude brings them to each other. Even Legolas, who seemed so keen to see the golden land, is on edge. 

Boromir slots himself next to Aragorn, whispers, ‘Can we not take another route?’ 

Aragorn frowns, ‘Which way would you prefer?’ 

‘Anyway but through these woods. Men go in and I’ve never heard of them returning unscathed.’ 

‘Don’t say unscathed,’ Aragorn says sharply. ‘That isn’t the right word.’ 

Boromir lifts an eyebrow. Then what is the right word, pray tell? He has heard stories of the woods and none of them cheerful. They say a witch lives in the centre and she is not to be underestimated. Aragorn, still cross, does smile at the notion of a witch in the woods. 

‘Sort of,’ Aragorn says. ‘Let us say, men rarely return unchanged by their time here. It has that sort of uprooting effect on people.’ 

‘You’ve been?’ 

‘Many years ago. I’ve fond memories and will be glad to see it again.’ 

Boromir hugs himself, glances over shoulder down the road behind them as the plains are swallowed up by trees. 

A quarter mile later Aragorn turns abruptly and leads them off the road into the treeline. 

‘We’ll be safer if we’re not on the road,’ he explains. ‘If the orcs chose to follow us from Moria we shouldn’t make it too easy for them to find us. They deserve a bit of a challenge.’

The further from the road they walk the denser the trees. Their silver bark cold and unwelcoming. The gold leaves catch moonlight but there is no warmth. Boromir shivers, puts himself by Merry and Pippin who share his disquiet. They are watched, Boromir is certain. There is something that has cast its eyes on them and follows them, knows their route. 

The witch, perhaps. Elvish magic making it so she can watch them and know them and understand their purpose before ever meeting them. He doesn’t wish to be confronted with magic - the little Mithrandir did was fine. It was normal magic, making light, making fire, breaking stone. 

Then there’s strange magic. Untrustworthy magic. The kind that binds a person, corrupts a person, eats its way into your mind and makes a home for itself. Unscathed, Boromir maintains, was the right word. 

At length Aragorn stops, drops his pack to the ground. This is as good a spot as any. He looks around, then up to the dark canopy. ‘We should sleep in the trees tonight. The ground isn’t safe.’ 

Boromir groans. Great, no bloody rock in his back, just a bloody tree limb. But, Aragorn is right. With possible orcs on their trail, being up high is best if there’s no other shelter to be had. Boromir adjusts his pack, warily eyes the trees. Their trunks thick, branches fearsome. They can easily bear the weight of the Company but will they actually rest while roosting like birds? Boromir is doubtful. 

‘I could never sleep up high,’ Sam says. ‘Too much like a bird for my taste.’ 

Legolas, circling the base of a particularly sturdy tree, ‘Well, if you wish to sleep in the earth you best dig quickly and deep if you want to avoid orcs. There is no time for foolishness.’ He pats the tree affectionately then launches himself upward with the agility of a cat. As he pulls himself onto the first branch a voice calls from above: Daro! 

Legolas drops to the ground, eyes wide. He shrinks into bowl of the tree. Hisses for everyone to remain still, do not move. Boromir rests hand on sword but knows it to be useless. Aragorn, seemingly unphased, calls out, ‘We’re no enemy to the golden wood.’ He repeats it in Sindarin. 

Laughter. A voice replies in a language Boromir isn’t familiar with, one of the elven dialects little spoken outside of their own lands. Not a second later, a grey form drops to the ground, landing in a crouched position. It is an act of unfolding how the elf stands, slowly and with precise movements. Whereas Legolas is black haired, brown skin with eyes of umber, this elf is of his land: silver haired, pale, he resembles the trees that surround him. 

‘An elf!’ Sam exclaims. 

The elf tilts head, large, deep-set eyes unblinking. Cats, Boromir decides, all elves have the movement of cats. Careful, precise, graceful. It’s their one unifying feature. Elrond, Legolas, this one, all the others he met in Rivendell - cats. 

The elf, mildly, ‘You breath so loud we could have shot you in the dark.’ 

Sam gasps, covers his mouth and blushes. The elf’s head returns to a normal angle in a strange, rotating movement. 

‘My name is Haldir,’ the elf continues, in strongly accented Westron. ‘We do not receive many strangers here and so please forgive my Westron. It’s been many years since I’ve spoken it. My brothers do not speak it at all. You,’ he nods to Legolas. ‘And that one,’ he points to Frodo. ‘With me.’ 

From the darkness above a ladder drops down. On silver rope it appears too small and frail to bear the weight of a full grown person but Haldir is up it with ease followed by Legolas. Frodo looks to Aragorn who nods, Go, go. It’s fine. Legolas will speak for us. So Frodo does. And Sam follows, his other half, visibly trying not to breathe loudly. 

Boromir settles on the ground by Aragorn who, for all the world, is content. The ranger takes out his pipe, packs it, and leans against a tree. 

‘Do you know that elf?’ Boromir asks. Aragorn nods. ‘He seems, um, intense.’ 

‘He’s one of the guards of Lothlórien. They watch the land between field and gate. A grey area that isn’t strictly under the guardianship of the elves but isn’t not-theirs at the same time. Haldir’s uh,’ Aragorn pauses, chews on pipe end. ‘He’s a unique character.’ 

‘That’s one way to put it.’ 

‘Spends a lot of time alone, watching the woods.’ 

Not unlike you, Boromir smiles around the thought. ‘Do you know him well?’ 

‘As well as Haldir lets anyone know him. I’m not sure his brothers know who he is at heart.’ 

‘That’s not necessarily comforting.’ 

Aragorn grins, vanishes it around pipe. Blows out a ring of smoke. Grey, it dissipates into night air. ‘Haldir is an elf of mystery. Especially in Westron. Though, as a note, he speaks it better than he lets on. His manner is very different from that of the people of Gondor so I can see why it would be disconcerting.’ 

Boromir leans back on hands and looks up to leaves and branches - there is no sky to see for the trees are so think, so plentiful, they vanish the earth from the heavens. Or the heavens from the earth, as the case may be. The ground is littered with the golden leaves of the golden and silver trees. Aragorn calls them mallorn and says that they’re unique to Lothlórien. He’s never seen them anywhere else in his travels. If he were sentimental, he’d keep a few with him. 

‘But, practically speaking, they’d end up crushed in the bottom of my pack within a week.’ 

This is an interesting thing. Boromir didn’t pin Aragorn for over-sentimentality. Which was a mistake on his part, now that he thinks back. It’s all the lyric poetry and deep commitment to reciting lore in song-format whenever an opportunity presents itself. And Aragorn thinks almost anything is an opportunity. 

Making breakfast? Time for a song about Beren and Luthien. Sharpening sword during a Watch? Time for a poem about some stones in the ocean. Running away from orcs? Why not hum-mutter a tune about the fall of Numenor. 

Boromir considers it a lucky thing that Aragorn has a nice enough voice. It’d be worse if he didn’t. 

After what Boromir judges to be half an hour, though he has a limited concept of time due to no sky, Legolas descends down the slim, rope ladder. 

‘We’re to sleep here, tonight. Haldir will bring us to the golden wood tomorrow.’ Legolas clasps an arm around waist to prop an elbow on and hold his chin in hand. Whatever pensive thought caught him evidently leaves for he is soon ushering the hobbits up the ladder to Haldir and pointing Aragorn to another tree. ‘The rest of us are in that one. Mind your head on your way up.’ 

Legolas is the last to arrive, well after Gimli and Aragorn have dozed off. Carrying his supplies he quickly sets himself up in his neat and orderly fashion. Boromir, who cannot sleep because he’s beginning to think the concept sleep hates him and wants nothing to do with him, remains awake. Legolas does as well, staring down to the ground then over to him, then their sleeping companions. To Boromir it seems as if his eyes linger longest on Gimli and the pensive face returns. 

‘Well?’ Boromir asks in a whisper. ‘What did your brethren say?’ 

‘That they expected us. They could hear us ‘ere we entered the woods but knew of our coming before that. They knew of Frodo’s coming particularly.’ 

‘And tomorrow, how far to the golden wood?’ 

Legolas holds his hand out, tilts it side to side. Hard to say, not too far he thinks. ‘Gimli will have to be blind folded.’ 

Boromir scowls, ‘Absolutely not.’ 

Legolas shrugs. That isn’t for any of them to say. ‘You should sleep, son of Gondor. You haven’t in many days. We are safe here. There is nothing to be afraid of. These woods are well guarded.’ 

It’s not necessarily what is outside the woods that concerns Boromir, but what is in them. Not wishing to offend his companion, Boromir leans against the trunk and says that he will try. But it’s been difficult - too many dreams. And his mind keeps him awake. Running around in circles, whispering to him when he tries his best to shut eyes and drift away. 

‘There’s much to think about. I too am concerned for my home and my people. There are many songs in one’s head to listen to,’ Legolas agrees. ‘It can be difficult to rest well when sleeping and knowing you must be on guard. And that is for normal journeys. This one brings us new and darker reasons for not resting easy. Sometimes, I sleep and fear my eyes have closed.’ 

Both glance in the direction of Haldir’s tree where sleeps the hobbits. Where rests the ring.

‘Gimli won’t be blindfolded,’ Boromir states to the dark. ‘That’s the most disrespectful thing I’ve heard in a long while.’ 

Legolas doesn’t answer. He sits still, with eyes open, but for all Boromir knows, he could be asleep and dreaming. 

Chapter Text

Evidently Boromir nodded off for he finds himself opening eyes to filtered sun and Gimli’s beard as the dwarf nudges his shoulder. ‘Time to get up, lad.’ 

Boromir yawns through: Lad?

‘How old are you? Forty? By my people’s count that’s young indeed.’ 

Boromir waves Gimli off saying he’s just woken. It’s not time to be razzed by a dwarf who had a full night of sleep. Give him half an hour to become fully human, then he’ll be in the mood for banter. Stretching he looks about for his pack and finds it where he left it, sitting next to him against the trunk. Legolas has already departed, as well as Aragorn. 

‘Didn’t wait for us, I see,’ Boromir grouses, slinging pack on and looking down to forest floor. The thin rope ladder dangles in morning breeze. He still marvels that it is able to hold their weight. It seems such a frail thing. 

‘Aragorn said to let you sleep but was up only a moment ago. Said our hosts are ready to lead us into the golden wood.’ Gimli affects the voice of someone telling ghost stories to children when he says into the golden wood. Boromir raises an eyebrow, is that how one should treat one’s hosts? Gimli shrugs, depends.

‘You said it yourself, there’s something unnatural about these woods. Stories that bode ill.’ Gimli swings legs over the ledge and slots feet against the ladder. ‘Unscathed or unchanged - I like neither option. We went through Moria, that was enough wounding and changing for a lifetime.’  

The forest, with late morning light filtering through thick canopy, feels not nearly so lonesome as it did the night before. The leaves are golden, as Legolas said they would be, but seeing them in light, with just slivers of blue, small shards of sky peaking through, makes it feel as if the heavens are ablaze with a golden fire. And the ground, too, covered with leaves is a river of gold. Everything gilded. It is like walking through living metal. Boromir wonders if this is how dwarves feel about gold and silver and mithril and all the other metals they work with. Does it feel as a river, as a fire, as a living thing to them? 

Given how Gimli speaks of their craftsmanship he assumes it must. He talks about minerals as if they shared blood. 

The mallorn trees are still silver but now Boromir notes slashes of bright white cutting up and moments of darker grey. Between leaves on forest floor pale, green grass shoots up. A coolness added to the fire. Boromir is both warm and cold. He thinks it all a pretty sight. So much to take in, he doesn’t think he’ll manage it. How long is that list, now? The one of things he must tell Faramir about? Too long. 

He’s losing count how he and Pippin could not count the stars. Lord, that night feels an age ago. 

Despite the beauty, or because of it, Boromir cannot set aside his unease. It sits at the back of his head and tells him that this land isn’t to be trusted, no matter who vouches for their safety. Things this fair, this fearsome in their beauty, are rarely gentle. Unscathed, unchanged - when you build you uproot parts of the earth. You are changing, sure, but you are also wounding. He wishes to point this out to Aragorn but the ranger is nowhere to be found. 

The halflings are gathered around a small fire on a raised metal platform. An ornate, open brazier where cooks sausages and eggs on a sheet of cast iron that covers half the brazier. Also on offer, bread and mushrooms. 

Pippin happily holds out a blue bowl delicate as robin’s eggs. ‘We saved some for you. Since you slept so late.’ 

Taking the bowl Boromir asks with mock gravity: ‘Is this how I’m to be remembered? Is this my doom? To be known as the only member of the Company who slept late that one time in Lothlórien.’

‘Only because we never see you sleep,’ Pippin laughs. ‘Always up, taking our Watch shifts.’ 

‘All right,’ Boromir continues in gravity as he tucks into breakfast. ‘I’ll allow it.’ 

Unable to keep still as he eats, Boromir wanders around their small camp. If one may call it that. Looking up at the flets where they slept he attempts to better understand the architecture. Despite it being below ground and in ruin he understood Moria. Minas Tirith is marble and limestone and granite. It is mountain in its own way. Even Rivendell, being built into a valley ledge over a deep plumeting river and falls, was stonework. 

This is all wood. It feels unsafe. Exposed. Oh yes, he trusts that the borders are well guarded. But are they safe from what is within? 

Halfway through breakfast he turns his attention to the ground and notes disturbed leaves, branches, grass along the trail they took in from the road. Wandering over, he cuts up his egg as he idly turns a branch over with boot. Nudges leaves out of the way to see  unmistakable orc prints. 

‘They came through late last night.’ Aragorn materializes. Boromir starts, is about ready to throw his breakfast at him. Aragorn’s brief smile is apologetic. ‘Towards the end of the small hours. But they’ve been taken care of. None will make it out of Lorien.’ 

Boromir chews his bread. 

Patting his arm Aragorn says in his soft, earnest way, ‘I’m glad you got some rest,’ before wandering off to the hobbits. A conversation floats over: Is there any left for him or have they taken all the rations meant for hardworking members of the Company? Sam snarks something back. Aragorn settles down on a log beside him.

Remaining adrift, Boromir continues to nibble at his bread. Soft, flat, with many air pockets, it proves full of flavour but inadequate for mopping up breakfast remains. He stares off in the direction of the Dale. The path they originated from. More signs of orcs can be seen. 

He sighs. Decides that he clearly needs to reset his sleep habits if everyone has taken it upon themselves to notice and comment. 

Once finished with breakfast he helps Merry and Pippin clean the dishes and stack them neatly at the base of the tree the elves use. He dries hands on the base of his tunic, says that it was kind of Haldir and his brothers to provide food. 

‘They said it wasn’t their usual fair. Apparently Aragorn told them what we hobbits eat for breakfast,’ Merry says. ‘I’m certain Haldir was nauseated. Hard to tell with that one. Legolas is strange, but it’s a normal sort of strange. Like old Bilbo: eccentric. Haldir and his brothers, a whole different kettle of fish.’ 

‘Sam’s over the moon of course,’ Pippin adds. ‘He loves his elves.’ 

Boromir finds the halfling in question by the fire with Frodo, Aragorn and Gimli. Every so often he looks around with wonder on his face. Well, Boromir is glad someone is enjoying their time here. Aside from Legolas and Aragorn, that is. 

Joining the others, Boromir drops down next to Gimli, ‘I’m stealing your pipe for a smoke. If we’re having a relaxed morning I might as well lean into it.’ 

Gimli, feigning affront, ‘Isn’t it about time you got your own?’

Boromir jabs back that it’s Gimli’s fault he’s taken up the habit. 

And Aragorn’s. (A raised eyebrow.)

And Merry and Pippin’s. (They object, it’s not their fault he’s lived an unfulfilled life until now.)

It's as Merry waxes poetic about Shire weed that Haldir appears along with his brothers and Legolas. They all pause, tap out pipes as the guard surveys the group. 

‘It is time,’ Haldir says. ‘You must away with us for we are to lead you to the Lord and Lady of the golden wood.’ Turning to Legolas there is a hurried discussion and Legolas’s face flutters through a series of emotions before he leans over, ‘Aragorn?’ 

Aragorn sighs, sets down his own pipe, ‘make sure it doesn’t fall over,’ and joins the elves. They huddle and converse. Or discuss . Boromir doesn’t think it a conversation so much as a very polite argument. 

Gimli, out the side of his mouth, ‘Ever get that feeling people are talking about you while in front of you?’ 

‘I have, indeed.’ 

A brief moment of a raised voice from Aragorn and Boromir is more than certain he knows what is under discussion. The conversation settles back down though shoulders remain tense. Eventually, the group goes quiet and turns, with unhappy expression, to face the remainder of the Company.

Haldir coughs, steps forward, ‘Dwarves have not passed through Lothlórien since the elder days. Until given leave by the Lord and Lady, Gimli must be blindfolded.’ 

A beat. Boromir lifts eyes to Aragorn who remains impassive. Gimli, says something in Khudzul as he stands before snarling, ‘This is an outrage! I am a dwarf of honour and nobility who has done your people no harm. I will not be treated as a prisoner.’ 

Haldir, ‘It is required. We are secretive. It is our way, more now than ever before. There are evil things at work in the world. One can never be too careful.’ 

‘ Evil things ,’ Gimli sneers. ‘I am no evil thing and I will not be called one. If I’m to be treated thus I will go no further. If I must, I’ll return to my home where I am known to be trustworthy and honourable.’ 

‘A plague on dwarves and their stiff necks,’ Legolas says sotto voce.  

This is too much. No one else has said anything, which Boromir thinks shameful. He stands, ‘I think it unnecessary, if not outright unkind, to treat a guest in this way. One who has done you no harm and is a good and honourable person. Why should he be singled out? We’re all strangers, aren’t we? If this is your supposed custom, that strangers can’t be trusted so must be blindfolded, then it should apply to us all.’

‘It is only Dwarves this applies to,’ Haldir clarifies. ‘We have our reasons for not trusting them.’ 

‘And I’m sure they have reasons to not trust you,’ Boromir counters. ‘To my understanding, this isn’t the time to be snapping at each other. It’s like a snake eating its own tail and surely what the enemy wants. Aragorn will vouch for us all, Gimli most especially.’ 

Boromir stares at Aragorn who says yes, he can vouch for everyone here. None of them have dealings with the enemy. 

‘If Legolas goes blindfolded as well,’ Gimli says. ‘I’ll be content. We can share the mutual shame of public mistreatment together. The rest of you may maintain your sight. Indeed, I’d feel safer if I knew there were some I trust who have all their senses.’ 

‘I am an elf and a kinsman,’ Legolas snaps back. Dark eyes narrowing at Gimli looks at him with disgust in return. 

Boromir turns face up to mallorn leaves, beautiful and shimmering. The weight of the argument, the thousands of years of mistrust, darkens the place. Is it the land that makes them fractious? Is it just the historic tension between elves and dwarves? Or is it exhaustion, stress, frustration, resentment, grief, anger -- all these many emotions the Company has been carrying since before Moria.

Probably a combination of the above. 

This wouldn’t be happening if they had taken the Gap of Rohan. The old argument jumps up from nowhere. Boromir shoves it aside; could-bes and would-bes are not useful. He returns attention back to the argument which has apparently progressed. Now Aragorn is involved. 

The ranger, with some aggravation slipping into his voice, ‘With that view, Legolas, we can now say a plague on elves and their stiff necks .’ He holds his hands up before either Legolas or Gimli can reply. Levels his voice, becomes calmness itself. ‘But, let us set this all aside for now. In terms of this issue of the blindfolds I agree with Boromir, it is either all of us or none.’ 

Haldir hums this over. Confers with his brothers in brief, clipped sentences. Then, with an elegant shrug, says, ‘Very well, we will lead you all blindfolded. Though our Lady may not be best pleased with Aragorn sharing this fate.’ 

‘I’ll take her displeasure myself,’ Aragorn replies mildly. ‘You need not worry.’ 

Haldir’s lips curl upward into a smile, white teeth flashing. ‘Oh, I was not.’ 

The blindfolds are duly secured. Into the sudden absence of sight is Gimli’s laugh. He says, ‘To my companions, please know that Legolas and I shall claim full amends for every stubbed toe and every fall.’

‘I didn’t agree to this,’ Legolas complains loudly. 

‘You’ll bear it all the same,’ Gimli replies.  

Haldir’s voice interrupts, ‘None of you will fall. Indeed, none of you will hurt a hair on your pretty heads. I will lead you safely. You all will remain upright.’

Losing sight is a strangeness. Boromir waits for his other senses to adjust, and they do, sort of. His ears attempt to work as eyes but cannot orient him in terms of direction. His companions’ footsteps are heard, Gimli in front of him, Aragorn behind, the hobbits at the very front. Legolas, being an elf, makes no sound at all. 

But are they going north, south, west, east? He doesn’t know. What position is the sun, save for up? Unclear. How straight is the path or does it wind but so gently your feet do not notice. Breath becomes loud. He hears his own. Hears others. Snaps of twigs. Hush of leaves. Buzz of insects. Birds. 

As they walk the smell gradually changes. From the damp, fertile smell of woods in early spring it becomes something akin to the fields of Rohan in summer. Or, the low valleys of the White Mountains in late spring. Grass, he can smell grass. Also flowers, though he cannot place any by their smell alone. Everything is growth; everything is clean. 

When he was first learning how to use a sword his tutor blindfolded him and made him walk across the courtyard. The man was a ritual of: Trust your feet. Trust your feet. Trust your feet. They will keep you safe. They know where to take you.  

Eventually he would lay out obstacles - representation of rocks, branches, the fallen dead. A soldier does not look at his feet, he trusts they know what they are doing. 

Luckily for the Company, the ground is smooth so it takes little effort for Boromir to feel that he can walk with ease. 

Ahead of him Merry chatters on about the Shire, explaining to Haldir what the hills are like, and the trees, the paths, rivers, ponds, grass, flowers, animals, food. He says, ‘I don’t think I could ever leave.’ 

‘Not even to see fair Lothlórien?’ Haldir asks. There might be a tinge of awareness, or irony, in the question. 

‘To see,’ Merry replies. ‘But I couldn’t stay. I’d miss my home. I miss my home. Which is to say, it’s a current thing. But we’ll return, I’m sure of it.’ Merry’s voice tapers off, uncertain. No one has anything to say in reply for there is nothing to say. They all hope for it. None can promise it. 

Thin voices of birds chatter above them. In the distance, there is water. Clearly a river runs nearby. How different from the Dale, from Moria, from Holin. Where everything felt empty, or almost empty. Even the beauty of the Dale was tinged with sadness, not just from Mithrandir’s loss, but the knowledge that once there was a great and mighty people who lived beneath it and now they are all gone and dead. Holin, too, wore a melancholic mantel that would come into sight with the occasional ruin, the silence that prevailed. 

Aragorn told him, when they were still in Holin, that the elves were fading and returning to the West. Middle Earth will soon hold no memory of them, save these occasional ruins and the stories and lore of old. It gives the Third Age a feeling of sadness. Boromir said, Sure, for them. My people aren’t fading. Gondor will thrive again. And Rohan. And the hobbits remain. The dwarves. Not everything is about the elves. Aragorn had laughed, True. That is true. And some may remain. Some may choose this land over that of their forefathers. His future king spoke with hope, then. 

Boromir now suspects the lady, to whom the mysterious necklace belongs, must be an elf. It would explain Aragorn’s camaraderie with the elves here, let alone in Rivendell. (Though, Aragorn seems to have comrades and friends in all places. How the man has had time to travel so thoroughly is a mystery.)

So, for Aragorn the question of: Is there one person you would decide to die for? A single individual that is worth leaving family, friends and your people and their land for? is especially pertinent. 

Boromir still cannot fathom making that decision. Or, indeed, finding anyone who would be worthy of that choice. In this hypothetical situation. 

They walk on in quiet until the air becomes cool and Boromir senses that night is nearing. Or, perhaps they have entered an area of greater shade near water and rock for those components often make for a cooler climate, even during hot days. 

Stopping them with a word Haldir explains that he still cannot unbind their eyes, so they must sleep on the ground. But they should not worry. They are safe here. Far from the border, far from orcs and wargs and the foul things of the world. 

Boromir gropes for a nook in one of the trees and, finding one, leans back to listen to the soft voices of the night breeze, a call of an owl, rustle of animals. Occasionally, a lilted laugh drifts down from above, where Haldir and his brothers rest. A song sinks through the air, melancholic but beautiful. 

For the first time since he can remember Boromir falls asleep and does not dream, does not feel his mind run circles whispering to itself about what he needs to do, what he has failed to do, what he must make right. He sleeps and it is the simplest sleep he has had in years. 

Morning comes with Haldir’s low voice, with it’s lilted accent, saying, ‘Please rise, it is morning and we must continue.’ A piece of flatbread is pressed into Boromir’s hand. The same, he suspects, as they ate the day before. ‘Something to eat.’ 

As it was the day before, they walk and there’s limited concept of time and direction and space. There is also the same limited concept of temperature, though there is enough shift to enable a sense morning and afternoon. Boromir hears birds. Wrens, he thinks. Others join, but their language he does not know and assumes them to be native to this land. Evidently not a migratory species. Or, leastways, not a migratory species that passes through Gondor. 

At an indeterminate time Haldir abruptly halts, the group follows suit. Voices - distant and growing louder and it becomes apparent that there is a group of elves ahead of them on the path and they’ve stopped to converse with their guide. 

While the dialect of Lothlorien is foriegn to Boromir the more he listens the more it is evident that it isn’t wholly independent from Sindarin and so he picks up a few words: the lady … orcs … trees … sword? (uncertain; could be l ance, helm or dagger ). The voices peter out and movement starts up - feet on land (barely there), armour shifting, the group takes itself off somewhere away from the Company. 

‘I have news that will please you,’ Haldir says once those he was speaking with have gone a fair distance. ‘Our lady sent word that you may all walk free with sight restored, including the dwarf. She apparently knows who and what you are.’ An aside, with suspicion, ‘I suppose news has traveled from Imladris ahead of you.’ Boromir thinks it must have been meant for only Aragorn for the ranger replies, ‘There are many ways to collect news.’ 

Blindfold comes off and the world is made of sunlight. Boromir blinks, watches it pour down a waterfall of brightness. His eyes hurt. The Company stands in an open glade within the forest which rises up to make a small hill which is ringed with trees. Rings of gold, rings of silver and in the centre a large tree, larger than anything Boromir has seen before, that stands a tall shimmering bone white. 

‘The Naith of Lórien,’ Aragorn whispers. ‘I’ve missed this sight.’ He plucks up a gold flower and becomes meditative. 

Haldir leads them towards the gently rising hill through tall grasses that brush against knees. Moss green, it rustles in the wind. An ocean on land. Hidden within silver-green blades are white flowers, yellow, purple - dots of colour to catch the eye and distract. 

Speaking over his shoulder Haldir says, ‘Another thing, an update on last night’s movements. More orcs were spotted on the northern border. But they will be taken care of. We are thorough. But, the true mystery is the creature spotted by my brethren. Not an orc it was small, hunched, with eyes large and luminous as an owl. It was described as being like a beast though it was no beast. It was not shot for we do not know if it is good or evil.’ 

Boromir, aligning his gate with Aragorn, ‘I wonder what that creature is, if it’s not an orc.’  

Aragorn glances back to the hobbits, drops his voice, ‘Do you remember us speaking of Gollum at the Council? I suspect it’s him. Gandalf thought he saw him when we entered Moria.’ 

‘I see. And what should be done about him?’ 

‘Nothing, for the moment.’ Aragorn adds, ‘Gandalf said he suspects Gollum has a part to play in all of this, though he couldn’t see what it was.’ 

All these people attempting to see to the end of all of this. Boromir believes if they spent less time attempting to read the future and more time in the present it would save them all much trouble. Sometimes decisions must be made on the fly, sometimes there is no right answer, no right path forward. 

He points out: ‘Gandalf was unable to see his own end, let alone that of another.’ 

‘Maybe,’ Aragorn says. ‘But I think he knew that was going to be his end. He spoke to me once of a trial he was to face at some point in his life. I think that was it. You saw his face when the Balrog arrived. He knew.’ 

Boromir goes to disagree but decides against it. This is too beautiful a space to argue. Mithrandir’s death still too fresh. 

Ahead of them, Haldir twists around to walk backwards. He addresses Boromir in Sindarin, ‘Is our language spoken in Gondor? There was a time when it was used by many: noble and common alike. But that was years past and I suspect it has changed.’ 

‘Some do,’ Boromir replies slowly. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up to the topic-change; his tongue to realign to the language. Eavesdropping on conversations being a different engagement level than speaking. ‘Noblemen. My brother speaks it near-fluently. As does my father.’ 

‘But not you?’ 

A shrug. ‘I never took to languages. I am passable. Do not ask me to write in it.’ 

Haldir gives him a knowing look before turning back around and leading them ever towards the ring of trees that glisten as gems in sunlight. 

Chapter Text

The heart of Lothlórien lay deeper than Boromir expected. He half-thought the hill, called Cerin Amroth according to Aragorn, was their destination but no, they walked on past it. Now that they had sight everything took on a soft beauty. As if that brief lack reminded eyes of what the world could and can hold. 

‘Fine as gold,’ Boromir says to Gimli. ‘Or would you disagree?’ 

Gimli makes a face. ‘There are many golden things in this world. Many things as precious and as beautiful as that metal.’ He gestures to the trees. ‘I would count these among those precious and beautiful things. But don’t tell the elf.’ 

‘Your secret’s safe with me.’ 

If Boromir thought Rivendell uncanny in its timelessness, Lorien is beyond reckoning. They’ve been walking but he couldn’t say for how long. They go up stairs, over bridges, around trees - trunk to trunk, limb to limb, flet to flet, it could have been a circle, or circles within circles. Circles of cool greys, soft whites, unblemished silvers. And oh yes, this is all beauty - more beautiful things he cannot name at this moment - but Boromir can’t help but feel disjointed. Something within the land not sitting right. He looks to Gimli for a shared what have we gotten ourselves into now look only to find his friend staring in wonder. Slack jawed, even. 

What is this? A dwarf awed by elven architecture? In any other circumstance Boromir would be amused. But he can’t manage it here, not when they are heading ever deeper into this land and Boromir has not received enough assurance of their safety. 

Foul things can wear fair faces and it isn’t always possible to discern this until too late. If a person presents in a certain way, uses all the right words, does all the right actions but beneath it all they are evil - why would you suspect them? There’d be no reason to. 

Other than from sheer inherited paranoia, he supposes. But what a miserable way to live. 

Eventually the Company arrives before a large building wrapped around an impressive mallorn. Wings, halls, rooms all cast themselves out to other trees. A house, a palace of sorts, sprawling across the canopy. It is situated in sky as if by magic. 

But, he knows, magic doesn’t work like that. 

The wood is bone white of bleached animal skeletons. Thin pillars, etched with repeating spirals and circles, designs curling in on themselves before bursting open, spinning round and round. 

Arch ways are suggested more than made, the roof high enough, and so much like a dome of leaves, it barely registers. Gauze drapes brush ash coloured floor. Gentle, they shift against each other and the pillars, walls, branches. Thin phantoms lining the Company’s path forward towards the centre. 

Boromir isn’t sure there is a word in Westron for this. Faramir always said each language developed to suit the land, culture and people. Or, reflects the land, culture, people. So, Westron, being sturdy, hard language with how it feels does suit the stone buildings of man, the ground-based dwellings. Feet more at home when planted on earth — not above or below. 

Sam, to no one in particular, ‘I feel like I’m in a song, if that makes sense. This is the most elven thing I’ve ever seen but it’s not like anything I’ve ever thought of when I thought of elves.’ 

‘Which is all the time,’ Merry says. 

Sam rolls eyes, returns his attention to the world they’ve stepped into. 

A world Boromir wonders if they are ever to step out of. 

At length Haldir pauses, to his left there stand two impressive and well crafted doors. He explains that he will introduce them to the Lord and Lady and no bowing is necessary. It is not the custom of elves to bow to each other. (This is said as a private joke. Boromir dredges up old lessons to attempt to find the root and wades about in murky lore. Is it all that kin-slaying they got up to? He supposes that’ll do it.) 

Lord Celeborn is ethereal silver and Lady Galadriel starfire gold. Gods, they are their land as surely as the land is them. Boromir has never seen a leader so embody the physical earth over which they rule as these two. 

Ageless. No indication of exhaustion or sorrow or grief despite both having lived through so much of it. Boromir marvels at it yet cannot help but find it suspect. Legolas and Elrond are positively brimming with human feeling in comparison. 

The Company is welcomed and introduced prettily enough. Lord Celeborn looks each over, an eyebrow twitches up. When Haldir finishes speaking the silver lord says, ‘There are eight presented yet nine there were that set out from Rivendell. Unless a last minute change was made and Lord Elrond has not conveyed it to us. There grows a steady darkness between our lands. Not all messengers make it safely to their destination.’ 

The sudden tension of the Company is palpable. Grief has been expressed in gasps and pauses — a moment here, a lapse there. But, for the most part, no one has spoken of Mithrandir. As if saying his name will make it all the more true. 

‘Gandalf the grey set out with the Fellowship,’ Galadriel says, she does not look to Celeborn but speaks out to the Company and those gathered. ‘But he did not cross the borders of our land. Tell us, where is he? We have a great desire to speak with him.’ 

Aragorn sucks a breath in through teeth. Galadriel lets her gaze end on him, waiting. Aragorn’s posture alters, it is at once tall but conciliatory. Bold but sorrowful. ‘Gandalf fell,’ he says. ‘In the last moments of our flight from Moria a Balrog appeared—’ A moment of distressed noise from Legolas. A muted echo of his cry from the mine. ‘Gandalf stood between us and the beast and it took him with it.’ 

‘That is evil news indeed,’ Celeborn frowns. A subtle movement, soft compression about the edges of his mouth. 

He continues to speak and as he does Galadriel begins a slow assessment of each member of the Company. Her gaze hot and cold, it pulls you as if in a rip tide. Aragorn is able to hold his eyes to hers, but he was raised by elves so Boromir assumes him used to this strange, silent interrogation. Legolas, too, is able to bear it. But the hobbits fluster, shift foot to foot and squeeze hands. Sam blushes and looks down, Frodo blanches, Merry frowns, Pippin wears something like pained guilt. Gimli looks away, sorrowed but bittersweet. A happy sorrow. 

Boromir — well, he thinks he is to drown in the gaze. Someone searches his mind as blue eyes bore into him. He thinks he must be looking at the sky over Rohan or Holin, the biggest skies he can think of. The searching tugs memories forward: Denethor smiling; his mother smelling of lilac; Faramir running before him on a hot summer day where everything glistens with sweat and the air shimmers; Mithrandir chiding him; Mithrandir falling; fly you fools but how can they fly if they are below ground being pulled into darkness; Osgiliath falling; the feeling of drowning as he swims away from burning city; that unique scent of burning buildings and burning people fused to hair and skin; his stomach falling out of his body when he thinks about the city and all the other cities; all the dead —

There was a battle where so many had fallen he could not walk without stepping on the fallen. And the smell. The sounds. How horses scream. The fear of Minas Tirith becoming a tomb for those inside, a Moria above ground, knowing there is no hope, none at all as it stands now and stars the frustration, the anger that others (save Rohan - thank heavens for Rohan) have left them alone to die. 

Then they dare think to speak of weakness, of the failure of men, as if they haven’t been holding out against Mordor since the return of Sauron. 

And to have a council, made of a collection of people whose lands and lives have been kept safe by the blood of his own, decide , dictate, how to best defeat Sauron. 

And what would he do if he could leave the Company now and go home to Gondor? If leaving now could, in a magical turn of fate, mean he would be able to live how he actually wanted to live. With whoever he wanted. Or — what would he do if he were granted a father who was able to love both his sons, and in a warmer fashion than at present? Would he give his father back a mended heart and mind? Would he take that offer even if, in exchange, he would give up his place on the quest? Or — what would he do if he could change positions of affection so Faramir was the favoured one? Would he give his brother the chance to live in the sun? 

In a heartbeat. 

Where did that come from? He doesn’t know. He thinks, I’d be ashamed to live thus, knowing I left people who I promised I would keep safe to the best of my abilities. I would have broken my word and what am I but my honour and duty? 

Nothing. 

His mind empties as if a cool fall of fresh rain downpoured to wipe it clean. A voice, unlike his usual internal running commentary and the whisper that he has labeled Duty, says, There is always hope. Even in the darkest hour there is a light and while it may feel endless and insurmountable now, there is always a path forward and a new dawn to behold. Nothing is forever, nothing is so wholly broken it cannot be mended. Even if it does not seem possible. Hope — when this is extinguished is when the enemy wins. And if you cannot find hope within, find it in those around you. 

Sky blue, the bluest blue, a blue full of stars, leaves his mind. In its place, a memory: Without hope there’s only emptiness. Like a great hall at twilight full of grey. When Gondor loses hope she loses herself. 

Aragorn: I’ve always known our people to be resilient. They can find their way through darkness. 

We can find our way. It’s we—

When Boromir lands back in his body he hears Galadriel saying, ‘The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. One misstep and you will fall. But hope remains, so long as the Company is true.’ 

She looks at all of them and none of them. Water dries on Boromir’s cheeks. He hadn’t realized he was weeping. 

‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary. Tonight you shall be in peace.’ 

Boromir is relieved to find that their hosts have seen to a series of pavilions set up on the ground for the Company to sleep in. In the model of the flets and the great hall of the Lord and Lady it is light touches of structure. Many drapes and curtains, hints of arches, roofs, and separate sleeping quarters. Despite the relative openness of the buildings it feels like sleeping in the keep of a fort compared to the past few months. 

And, he knows, having feet on grass and dirt makes him feel more sure of himself, regardless of how phenomenal the tree-bound elven homes may be. 

Legolas is the only one who begs off for the night. Says, ‘I do not mean to be apart from our Company but I dearly miss being in trees.’ 

‘Could always take a kip in one as we travel,’ Gimli points out, though not with his usual level of sarcasm. ‘I’m sure none of us would mind.’ 

‘What?’ Legolas answers smilingly. ‘And have more of my sleeping habits commented upon? Oh, don’t blush master Dwarf. You should know my jesting by now.’ 

Gimli squints at him, ‘Should I? I can never tell when you’re making a joke.’ 

‘I’m always in jest,’ Legolas replies evenly. ‘Always assume I joke. I am the least serious person here.’ 

Gimli frowns. Legolas stares, impassive. Then, Gimli cracks a smile, ‘Fine. I’ll never take you seriously again.’ 

‘Good.’ Legolas gathers up his pack to leave. ‘We’ll understand each other now.’ With that he flourishes a bow to the Company and departs, singing, into woods.

Gimli turns to Boromir, ‘Was that a joke?’ 

‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ Boromir says through a yawn. ‘I’m too tired for this.’ Taking up his pack he makes for the pavilions with the intention to plant himself face first into a bed. 

Boromir sleeps without dreams and without a dirty great rock in the middle of his back. It is the first truly deep sleep he’s had since Rivendell. When he wakes there is light. Mid-morn, he thinks. But it’s impossible to tell time in this land. He intends to rise and join the others for he can hear, at the very least, Pippin, Merry and Sam speaking nearby with great animation which makes him suspect food is involved. 

And he is hungry. 

But he is also exhausted. Pippin wasn’t wrong when he said Boromir never slept, at least since Carahdras. If not before. 

He passes back out. 

Early afternoon. Maybe. He wakes and actually sits up instead of just thinking about sitting up. Beside him a plate of fruit, fresh cheese, soft bread. He eats it with gusto. Beside the plate sits his clothes which he only has the vaguest memories of taking off. Someone has seen to their cleaning. A true gift, more so than the bed and the food. Clean clothes. Oh, they may not be a large army, they may not be cooped up in barracks, but lice know no god and no master and multiply with enthusiasm. 

Washed, dressed and feeling entirely more human he searches out his companions who seem to have taken themselves off to disparate parts. He wishes to find Gimli to confer about views on Lorien and to make sure he is bearing up well under the recent events. Lorien may make a man lose sense of time, but it cannot remove the grief of dead family, dead kith and kin, dead friend. 

Aragorn is the first he stumbles across. He sits on the ground, leaning against a fountain basin with book in hand, smoking. Boromir doesn’t wish to intrude so falters, steps backwards. 

‘Please,’ Aragorn says, marking his page with a length of cord. ‘Sit, if you’d like. We haven’t had much time to speak these last few days.’ 

Boromir settles on the ground, opposite Aragorn, and rests back in a bowl of a tree. 

‘I tried to rescue food for you from our companions,’ Aragorn says. ‘They were doing justice to what was provided. Though, if you’re still hungry that can be addressed.’ 

‘Thank you, it was much appreciated. And no, I’m fine. I don’t know how I’d feel eating a full meal. Everything is off-kilter. Vertiginous, I think, is the word.’ 

‘Vertiginous.’ Aragorn smiles. ‘That’s a good one.’ 

‘When I was a boy I had a tendency to not pay attention in lessons.’ 

‘I’m surprised,’ says Aragorn, not looking at all surprised. 

Boromir snorts, isn’t sure what he thinks of this side of Aragorn he is beginning to see. Terribly sarcastic with such flashfire wicked smiles. 

‘One of my tutors made me come up with lists of synonyms to words to keep me busy. I now know many synonyms for boring, lame and pointless.’ 

A dry ha . Aragorn grins around his pipe. ‘How old?’ 

‘Me? Twelve, thirteen. Old enough to know better.’ 

‘I’m sure you were a handful.’ 

‘In my own way. I didn’t mean to be. Indeed I was desperate to be a good pupil to best please my father but couldn’t quite manage it.’ He pauses. He isn’t sure where this is going. Or, rather, he is, but he is loathsome to arrive at the point. 

Aragorn, for once, pushes it to the crises: ‘Gandalf’s fall wasn’t in vain.’ 

‘No,’ Boromir agrees. ‘It wasn’t.’ 

‘There was nothing any of us could have done.’ 

‘I should have tried. I was at the back of the group, closest to him.’ 

‘Then we’d have lost two,’ Aragorn says harshly. Quickly, he calms. ‘My apologies, only we’d have then lost both Gandalf and you and I don’t know what I’d do then. A selfish thing, I know.’ 

Boromir becomes quite warm. He takes to watching the water. How it gently flows over marble carved as leaves, ivy, sinewy branches, then into the basin and from there to a small brook that babbles through the clearing they sit in. 

‘You said, after Moria, that Gandalf left me in charge—’ Aragorn begins. 

‘It was quite clear, I thought.’ 

‘—and that you wouldn’t contradict me.’ 

Boromir shrugs, takes up a twig to fidget with. ‘I only meant, I wouldn’t contradict your claim to that position. Heavens, I certainly am not capable of fulfilling it as I still mean to leave for Minas Tirith.’ 

‘I would hope you felt free to voice your opinion.’ 

A sharp laugh. Boromir takes to breaking the twig down to smaller and smaller pieces. He says, perhaps a bit ruefully, ‘By now, you surely know that if I have an opinion all will very shortly know of it.’ 

A smile from Aragorn, bright. Stars it is bright. Boromir continues feeling warm and thinks he will have to sit himself down and give his head and his heart a stern talking to. To Aragorn Boromir merely raises an eyebrow, gives another shrug, as if to say: Well, it’s true.  

‘I appreciate it,’ Aragorn says. ‘Truly. Is that a skeptical look? I’m trying to learn your expressions but they’re hard to pin down.’ 

‘I believe Pippin has named them: Grim Expressions One, Two and Three and Sombre Expressions One, Two and Three.’ 

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ 

‘Don’t worry, he has a similar set for you. Grim men from Gondor he’s named us.’ 

‘Joy.’ 

Boromir gathers himself. He feels terribly raw and believes that any further kindness from Aragorn would tear him right open. Standing, he says he is going for a walk. Aragorn offers to come along. 

‘I can show you some of the sights,’ he says, emptying pipe and tucking it away. Tobacco, it’s strange, sweet scent is now firmly imprinted in Boromir’s mind as something of Aragorn. 

‘Sure,’ Boromir gestures for the other man to lead. ‘You might have better luck with getting me to pay attention to a history lesson.’ 

Aragorn murmurs: ‘Gandalf had many strengths. Patience with energetic, easily bored youths wasn’t one of them.’ A pause, he adds, ‘Patience in general, now that I think about it.’ 

‘How did you know him to be the tutor?’ 

‘Oh, something he said once. Let us go this way,’ Aragorn gestures to a path leading into the gentle twilight of Lorien. ‘I think you’ll like the buildings through here. If not you, then I’m sure your brother will. They’re the first constructed in Lorien, I believe.’

Chapter Text

As the days drip on in uncertain fashion the Company discusses the offers they were made. All confirm that it seemed a clear voice made of stars and sky and glass, but cold as crisp, clean mountain tops, spoke to them. It said: If you could have this, or that, would you? 

Sam flushes when it comes up again in conversation. Pippin, bold: ‘So? What was it?’ 

‘A garden,’ Sam says, not meeting anyone’s eyes. ‘In the shire. A home, as it were.’ But he will say no more than that. 

Boromir ruminates over his own offers, all of which feel as natural crystallizations of his wants. He knows himself to be a relatively simple man (had wanted to say: there’s no shame in desiring home), with relatively simple needs: safety, family, a modicum of personal happiness - though he would readily forsake the latter if it was required of him. He can, and will, pour water from an empty vessel if he must. 

‘And you, Master Baggins?’ Boromir asks, yanking himself back into the present conversation. ‘The Lady Galadriel seemed to look at you a good while.’ 

Frodo demures, rubbing hand over chest, hovering where Boromir suspects the ring to rest. The Halfling is clearly tired, despite the rejuvenation of Lorien. He is exhausted and weighed down and Boromir thinks it an injustice that one so innocent, so unknowing, should be burdened thus. When Frodo volunteered to take the ring to Mordor he surely did so without full knowledge of what that would entail. The council, Boromir included, have placed an impossibly cruel task on too small a pair of shoulders. 

‘We were all offered something of home,’ Boromir says gently. ‘There’s no shame in having wanted it. Who doesn’t miss their friends and family?’ 

‘I’d rather not say,’ Frodo replies. ‘I miss the Shire and my uncle, but that wasn’t what — ‘ he breaks off. Boromir waits. At length Frodo says, ‘I think they’re singing about Gandalf.’ 

He means the elves. Their music drifts down from tree tops soft as falling snow. 

Frodo fidgets with fingers, pulling at knuckles, twisting skin this way and that. ‘I still expect him to show up. I expect to turn around and see him and I can’t help but feel it’s partially my fault.’ 

‘I don’t think Gandalf would want you to carry the weight of his death. And, you have no cause to reproach yourself for you did nothing wrong. He wouldn’t want you to give up hope.’ Sensing Frodo’s desire to be left alone Boromir stands, brushes himself off. ‘The dead don’t haunt the living, Master Baggins’.

A smile that seems to want to turn this conversation into a wry jest but Boromir is serious. 

‘They don’t. It is us, the living, who haunt the dead. Believe me, Master Baggins, it is not good to stay too long in the land of grief and mourning. If you do, you might not remember how to come home.’ 

Boromir then gives a terse smile and says he is going for a walk. 

Days are bleeding together. When they finally extract themselves (if they extract themselves) will a week have passed? A month? A year? Elven time, like the time of the dead, is not human. 

Night. Boromir has found a half-jug of wine and wanders off with it and two glasses. Locating Gimli, finally, he seats himself down by the dwarf who has perched himself on a bench hidden away along one of the many small, barely-there paths intersecting the woods. 

‘Hello stranger,’ Boromir greets happily. ‘I keep missing you.’ 

‘My apologies. I’ve been given the full tour of the land by Legolas. A multi-day affair as it turns out.’ 

Boromir cocks an eyebrow, sets both glasses down and pours them a healthy offering. ‘Wine. But flavoured with something. Myrtle, maybe.’ 

‘He’s not that bad. I was expecting something different than what I’ve found which makes me wonder if I’ve been too fast in other judgements in my life.’ Gimli speaks in the tone of one trying to explain something. Boromir wonders if the explanation is for his benefit or if it’s Gimli’s way of convincing himself of something. ‘But really, he’s not like his father at all, which is what I had expected.’ 

‘Legolas?’ 

‘Aye. His father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood for the full title, there’s bad blood between him and my father over the retaking of Erebor.’ 

‘I see.’ 

‘There was a battle. Or, there was to be a battle, over a disagreement regarding payments for aid given, but it was diverted due to the timely arrival of an army of orcs.’ 

‘Right.’ 

Gimli laughs, pats Boromir’s face. ‘I thought my father told you all of this.’ 

‘I think I received the abridged version.’ 

‘Ah, well, I’ll tell you the version I know at some point. Perhaps with Frodo, as his uncle was there. My mother always said that you can never see a mountain in its entirety and so it is with events.’ Gimli fishes for his pipe in a bag hanging from his belt. He pulls it out and sets about packing the bowl. 

‘So,’ Boromir ventures with some amusement. ‘You have seen a new perspective of our elven friend.’ 

‘Indeed. He’s been gracious. I think he was not a little embarrassed over the blind folding disagreement. And, I will admit to leaning into that a bit. But, I believe we’ve come to some sort of understanding over the last few days.’ 

‘I’m shocked.’ 

‘It’s my turn to make drastic discoveries about our fellow travellers. What news from the journey? Hark, Legolas is a good companion. Elves might not be that bad. My father is going to have heart failure. Anyway, you’ve already had your turn.’ 

‘Have I?’ 

‘You and Aragorn are friendly now. Well, you’re acting less like cats in a bag. I assume you’ve decided he’s more civilized than a ground squirrel.’ 

Boromir snorts, refills their wine. ‘I’m not so sure. That might be disparaging to ground squirrels. But this isn’t about Aragorn — what have you seen? Tell me your favourite places.’ 

Gimli leans back with a smile, blows out a smoke ring and watches it dissipate into air. Thin grey smoke becoming silver night. 

It is a few hours later and Boromir is having a wander, not entirely sure which path he is on but certain if he keeps going straight he will eventually return to their pavilions. There is something in the land here that makes it so one’s feet will always come home again. Gimli has wandered off to contemplate elvendom with a bit of a misty-eyed expression.

Though, that could be the wine. Of which they have helped themselves generously.

Gimli said, ‘I’ve never liked being wrong, but I think I'm alright with it in this instance.'

Boromir replied, ‘Are we back on that? Am I being replaced as your bosom companion on the quest?’ 

To which Gimli laughed. ‘No, no.’ Then he went quiet and contemplative and Boromir thought there was much going on but Gimli didn’t want to share which is, all things considered, fair. 

So, Boromir up-ed himself from the bench and said, ‘Shall we?’ 

‘You can, I’m going to go for a walk,’ Gimli also stood and brushed himself down. Loose tobacco falling to the ground. ‘Thank you for the wine.’

Then off he went. Misty-eyed. 

Shaking his head, Boromor rounds a bend and half-runs into Aragorn who is standing in the dark, staring up at the trees. Also misty-eyed. 

Boromir wonders if he should have some more wine. He clearly needs to join the community of the misty-eyed. Wiggling the jug in hand there is a gentle slosh. He holds it up, ‘Wine?’ 

Aragorn blinks up at the trees. Appears to register Boromir’s presence and turns attention to him. Boromir wags the jug, holds up the glasses. 

‘Gimli and I had some but he’s gone off to meditate on elves.’ 

‘Has he?’ Aragorn asks, bewildered.  

‘He and Legolas have apparently come to understand each other.’ Boromir shoves a glass into Aragorn’s hand and pours him some wine. He does the same for himself. ‘I have witnessed the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ 

Aragorn half-smiles, ‘Something to cheers to then.’ 

They do. Boromir thinks it’s a great shame their lives are the way they are. He thinks it’s a shame he can’t take that offer: If leaving now could, in a magical turn of fate, mean he would be able to live how he wants to live. With whom he wants to live.

Would you do it? 

But the offer isn’t real. He isn’t a child, he knows how witchcraft works. It slides into your mind and makes you think things possible that aren’t. 

Aragorn looks gently bemused and it’s a soft expression and it occurs to Boromir that he’s not seen the man wear many soft expressions. He’s seen some smiles, heard some laughs, but they were always fleeting. This is a terribly pleasant look. He wishes to see more of it.

Taking up a slow stroll they begin down the path together. 

‘What were you offered?’ Aragorn asks gently. 

Boromir pauses, licks lips, cannot meet Aragorn’s eye. ‘What you would expect. My people’s safety, my family’s. There was talk of hope.’ 

‘There is always hope,’ Aragorn agrees. They resume walking. 

Boromir doesn’t think he has anything to say to that for he believes he lost sight of it in Moria, or maybe a little after. At some point in their journey he mislaid hope and cannot seem to remember where he put it.

Aragorn takes his arm, Boromir stops, hears: ‘I know a path, it’s sort of the scenic route back. If you’d like.’ 

Boromir wouldn’t like, only because he doesn’t want to know how warm Aragorn’s hand is. Because nothing can come of that warmth. It is like a brand like the sun like a red coal against flesh of inner arm. The tender bit, where skin is thin and vulnerable. And the heat unfurls itself swimming from arm to chest to stomach.  

It truly is the eyes, Boromir laments as he hears himself agree. He’s always had a weakness for serious men with meaningful eyes that look like storms over ocean. 

‘What think you of our future options?’ Aragorn asks. They’ve stepped into a darker area of Lorien. It’s a velvet night with light coming only from the flets above, blinking fires in the distance. There is such intimacy in darkness. 

‘After Lorien? You must go where you are needed. We made our arrangement to leave for Gondor when Gandalf was still our leader.’ 

Aragorn doesn’t respond immediately. He hums a tune beneath his breath then, with a tone of disinterest: ‘And your thoughts on kingship? We never did get very far in that conversation.’ 

Boromir decides they need more wine so refills their glasses. The jug is near empty. He wishes for more. 

‘My answer remains as it was: the arrival of the heir of Elendil would be good for Gondor.’ 

‘And you never thought it unfair that your family were stewards for thousands of years and not kings?’ 

Boromir lifts eyebrows, taken aback. He frowns, though he knows Aragorn cannot see his discomfort. ‘My father would say that in a land less royal-minded than Gondor that might have been the case.’ 

‘And what would you say?’ 

‘You’re Isildur’s heir.’ 

‘That’s not an answer.’ 

‘There have been times when I raised the point with my father, but much has changed since those days. Indeed, much has changed in the last six months let alone the last six to twelve years.’ 

The path curves, taking them into a cluster of trees growing closer. Huddled. Their leaves so thick upon the ground the path vanishes and it looks as if they’re walking through a river of gold. In the midst of the covered path they stop. 

Boromir cannot say that he doesn’t want Aragorn to go to Mordor. If Aragorn goes to Mordor, and Boromir to Gondor, there is no way he can keep the damn ranger safe. Which is, as Captain of Gondor, future steward, part of his job. And so Aragorn will go and die along with Gimli and Pippin and Merry and Frodo and Sam and Legolas. He doesn’t think Gondor can stand losing another king to Sauron.

He thinks that at this rate, the Company is veritably handing the ring over to the Dark Lord. Might as well chuck it at the black gate and call it a day. Bang on the door, Cooee I have a delivery for Sauron, Lord of Mordor. Someone found some missing jewelry of his. 

There are other ways. 

His hands itch, everything is the nervous energy of feeling so unable to stop events as he watches them lurch forward to inevitable conclusion. 

How can Aragorn speak of hope? How can anyone? But Aragorn is looking at him with those eyes of his, face shadowed. Everything shadowed, everything is gentler for the night. 

‘Would you have me go to Gondor?’ Aragorn asks. 

‘I’d have you do what is right.’ 

‘And you complain that I cannot state myself clearly.’ A smile and soft burst of laughter. Boromir wants to keep it in a box. 

‘No,’ Boromir sighs. ‘No, your place is now firmly with the Company. To whatever end.’ 

They stand close. Boromir isn’t certain how this happened. Maybe it was all the hushed speech. Aragorn’s voice is a low, soft kind that a person could curl up inside. 

The king-in-waiting murmurs, ‘Theoretically, as my future steward, your place is with me, therefore with the Company.’ 

Boromir despairs. Aragorn cannot ask him that. Because he knows what his answer would be. And it would grieve him to give it because, gods help him, he would be loyal to his king to the sacrifice of his people. 

With warmth Aragorn says, ‘Don’t worry, I would never take you from your country.’ 

What he doesn’t say is that Gondor can’t lose both steward and king. Better the one no one knows than the popular captain, the favoured son whose death might unwind the country’s ruler. 

Aragorn tilts head forward, half his body leans into Boromir but he quickly pivots and resumes their walk. Kicking up leaves as he goes, scattering nature’s shards of gold. Boromir follows, his chest tight. He thinks he might suffocate. 

There are words for what is curled up in Boromir's chest like a cat before a hearth. He knows fondness and affection and warmth and affinity and whatever else there is. He should make a list and translate them all into Sindarin and then give it to Aragorn. That would clear the weight from his shoulders. 

Because then Aragorn would know and would understand that it is yet another reason why Faramir should be steward and not Boromir. 

Stewards must remain objective. They provide support, a second set of eyes, a clear head that can see forests for trees when kings become immersed in the depths. This task becomes increasingly difficult when one is feeling fondness for the king. When one feels that the king is one’s, how shall he put it?, one’s affinity.  

From out of all of that grows adoration and love, but not a natural adoration and love a subject should feel for their monarch but the more volatile and intimate adoration and love one feels for, well, a beloved. 

And that’s what Boromir is concerned about. The depth of feeling and how it might impact his ability to be a good steward, a good captain, a good subject. The steward’s loyalty is to the crown, yes, but also to the people. To do justice to the people they serve, they need clear judgement. Love clouds and blinds. It is famous for that. 

Lying down, staring out to dim woodland, Boromir shuffles around in bed. He cannot get comfortable. Rolling about he thinks he should have squashed this when it first began rearing its head in Hollin. When he recognized that small flutter. 

With men before it was never a concern. They were soldiers, or civilians in occupations that wouldn’t conflict with Boromir’s duty. And some he loved. Others he merely felt fondness for. Still others, not much at all. There are one or two he looks back on and thinks: Wow, I really made a choice there and it wasn’t a great one. 

But this situation. With Aragorn who is annoying and strange and handsome when not covered in leaves and dirt and handsome when covered in leaves and dirt and endearingly eccentric and clever and not anything Boromir thinks a king should be but here he is being a king and with those eyes. Those fucking eyes. 

Boromir sighs. It’s all an impossibility. He had best put it aside. Think no more of it. It will only end in mayhem and misfortune. 

For him, at least. And, perhaps, only in his head and heart. But mayhem and misfortune nonetheless. 

Chapter Text

Denethor: ‘All my life I swear I have been able to feel happiness.’ 

Late afternoon, hot sun rains down on them, the white walls of Minas Tirith shine in August heat. The air shimmers. Boromir is in a loose tunic, no mantel. It’s too hot for formalities. The gardens they’ve retreated to in an attempt to escape the heat are perfumed jasmine and over-ripe fruit that’s dropped to the ground where hungry wasps and ants feast. 

Denethor continues, ‘Except when what I was feeling wasn’t happiness. Which has been often of late. So often, I sometimes forget happy times.’ 

Boromir goes to say something but Denethor clasps his shoulder and tells him to wait a moment. (Do you remember, my boy? Your impossibility for waiting? You are too eager by half. Always so daring as a child. Sometimes you did not look and instead dashed forward to do a task, to take something up, to fix what was broken.)

‘Each of us wears a shadow,’ Denethor says. ‘And mine is long at this time.’ 

‘You will know summer days,’ Boromir replies earnestly. ‘There will be days without clouds and red suns. I’m sure of it.’ 

‘For you, perhaps.’ 

‘No, father, you will know them again.’ 

Denethor pats Boromir’s cheek. What small affections Boromir would carry the weight of the world for. 

‘You are a good soul, Boromir. A good son. But I have always known the sky to be thus, the sun to be red, the moon to be shadowed. Same as you, but for longer. My only hope is that one day your sons will not have to witness such things. I do not think I will live to see it.’ 

‘You will,’ Boromir insists. ‘You’re strong and able and will live a long life. Don’t worry, father, I’ll make it so you know some happiness again. I promise.’ 

And Denethor smiles and says he knows Boromir to be true to his word. ‘You always know what to say. You always know how to fix my moods.’ 

His father, a lighter step to his gait, departs from the gardens they had been standing in leaving behind him a lingering scent of dead roses and myrrh. 

Their last night in Lothlórien. Boromir packs his bag then unpacks it then packs it again. Nothing is right. He is restless. He wants to run off somewhere far away from everyone and everything and care for only himself for once. 

Well, he amends, maybe Aragorn can come. 

And Faramir, of course. And Gimli. Gods, Legolas would have to be included since they’re best of friends now. Also, Merry and Pippin. And old Tobin from Minas Tirith’s main guard. And -- 

He smiles to himself. Well, that was a short-lived thought experiment of: How shall Boromir, son of Denethor, run away into the wild to live alone in a hut and raise sheep? 

‘What amuses?’ Aragorn asks. As is his custom, he appears from air. Then, as is also his custom, he becomes concerned he said something out of place and hurriedly adds, ‘I do not mean to pry.’ 

‘Oh nothing of import,’ Boromir replies. He once again commences packing his bag. ‘Just a mad thought.’ 

Aragorn hovers. Boromir, head bowed over his bag, smiles. Then reminds himself: That is an unwise path. 

Still, there is no harm in taking some pleasure in the man’s company. Why should he deny himself small happinesses? Catch the sun when it’s present. 

Boromir looks up, explains, ‘Just a notion of: What if I was to run away to a cabin in the mountains and raise sheep or goats. Initially, I had intentions of going alone in this hypothetical. But quickly a large crowd of people ended up coming along with me.'

‘I could never see you living alone. You’re much too sociable. Even if Pippin and Merry have labeled you a grim man of Gondor.’ 

Boromir returns gaze to his supplies for Aragorn is looking terribly kind. He thinks Aragorn wants something and tries to intuit it but, unlike Faramir and Denethor, he has no clear grasp of the man. Yet. He’ll get there, he reasons. Eventually he’ll be able to read and predict his king’s moods and wants. 

Aragorn says, ‘Sheep though?’ 

‘Or goats.’ 

‘Right, or goats. Goats are ornery creatures.’ 

‘Ah good,’ Boromir stands up straight, finally content with his bag. Which he knows will be in disarray in a matter of days. ‘Just like half of Gondor’s army. It’ll be like home.’ 

The remainder of the Company assembles slowly. They reappear from the forest in drips. There are Merry and Pippin half-rolling in with laughter echoing. Then Sam and Frodo, but more quiet and reserved. Frodo especially appears distracted and concerned. Last is Gimli and Legolas, to the shock of those who hadn’t been paying attention the last few days (Pippin, it’s Pippin who is shocked). 

Aragorn gathers them all around the fire and, in an awkward manner, explains: ‘We have a decision before us. We’re going to be following the Great River for much of this portion of the journey and it can’t be crossed by travellers with baggage between here and Gondor except by boat. And, eventually, we must turn east so we must cross. The question is when and where.’ 

‘What?’ Sam frowns. ‘There’s not a single bridge between here and Gondor? It must be done by boat?’ 

‘There were some, but I believe they’ve been either destroyed or taken by the dark lord.’

Sam, in an aside to Frodo, ‘Boats are little better than wild horses, Mr. Frodo.’ 

‘And Gandalf’s thoughts?’ Gimli asks. 

‘I don’t know what he intended after we reached here. I don’t know if he knew, to be honest.’ 

The Company hums this over. Boromir catches a look from Aragorn that clearly says: Do you have anything to say? 

Boromir sighs, internally. It’s a very loud sigh in his head. He has much to say. But everyone has heard it many times. The occasional explosive discussions with Mithrandir left little to speculation. 

But, if Aragorn wishes him to speak he will. 

‘My path, as you all know, is to Minas Tirith—’ 

‘You still intend to leave?’ Pippin asks. His tone one of someone attempting to sound calm and collected but who is decidedly not calm and collected. ‘You can’t.’ 

‘Unfortunately, yes. But, my advice is for us to keep to the western bank and then down to Minas Tirith and from there you can strike out to Mordor.’ 

Aragorn makes no indication of his views on this which Boromir takes to mean: Generally, not an option. 

So, the ranger has the same concerns of Gandalf about the honour and strength of the people of Gondor. A fact that is frankly appalling, all things considered. 

Boromir opens his mouth to make a case for the path when Legolas says: ‘I am not adverse to our leaning on those who are our friends.’ 

Boromir furrows his brow at Legolas. Legolas stares back, ever impassive. Did Legolas just agree with him? Is the entire world going to turn upside down next? 

Merry and Pippin also chime in with their wanting to keep to civilization for as long as possible. ‘And,’ Pippin adds. ‘There’s probably an alehouse in Gondor. Isn’t there?’ 

Boromir snorts, ‘More than one I can assure you.’ 

‘Oh good. We’ll have to make a night of it. Like when we were tweens, Merry. (Merry: You’re not exactly far out of them, Pip.) One night we went to most of the alehouses in Hobbiton and the surrounding areas.’ 

‘I’m sure you felt great the next day.’ 

‘Woke up in the middle of a field tied to a donkey with half my clothes missing. So all in all, a successful night.’ 

Boromir looks up to the canopies with a smile. Aragorn ushers them back to the task at hand: What does Frodo and Sam think about their routes? 

Frodo will not say one way or another and Boromir finds the hobbit looking over with something like concern. He cannot fathom the change. They’ve never been close, but he counts himself Frodo’s friend, for his part. Frodo’s dark looks continue as his companions opt for Boromir’s chosen route.

But, as has always been the case, the final decision rests with Aragorn. Who, once again, appears loath to make one. 

'Look, if you wish only to destroy the ring,' Boromir says. ‘Then there’s little use in war and we of Minas Tirith will be of little use to you, save to provide some small comfort before you head out. But, if you wish to destroy the dark lord’s might, his men, his horses, his battlements, then it’s folly to go into Mordor without force and folly to throw it away.’ He pauses, clarifies, ‘Folly to throw lives away, I mean. It is a choice between defending a strong place and walking openly into the arms of death. At least, that is how I see it. But,’ He smiles, perhaps too cheerfully. ‘We will have boats for a time. There’s no need to choose a route just yet.’ 

Aragorn nods, but still he remains concerned. His eyes bore into Boromir then, one by one, the rest of the Company. If he is trying to see a change of heart of where most of have lain their choice, Boromir thinks he is going to be out of luck. 

There are some here among them that do not fear that the strength of men would fail were they to go that route. Which brings some pride to Boromir. Despite his future king’s (rather rude) reservations. 

But, in an effort to make Aragorn feel less anxious, he repeats, ‘We’ve time yet. And, it’s always best to sleep on these things. I think this is one of the few times we have the luxury of that.’ 

At length the Company breaks and goes their separate ways to bed. Aragorn catches Boromir’s arm, ‘I don’t mean to make it seem like I have an issue with our people.’ 

Boromir thinks, bleakly, Was my annoyance that easy to read? 

Boromir, softly, ‘It’s fine. We’re all under a lot of stress. And you have your reasons for wanting to avoid the city, I understand that.’ 

Aragorn’s grip remains firm, though not tight. Enough to be groundingly present. To Boromir, the longer Aragorn holds his arm the more it feels as if there is something clearing from his mind. Like drapes drawn back to let light in. 

Aragorn lets go. 

The drapes close. Darkness shutters back in. 

Aragorn says, ‘You don’t have to smooth every wrinkle.’ 

Boromir tilts his head. ‘What do you mean by that?’ And Aragorn says, ‘I only mean, you’re allowed to be annoyed with me.’ And Boromir says, ‘I’m not, truly. Everything is well.’ And Aragorn opens his mouth to reply but thinks better of it. They part ways into the dark. 

There is an old man and Boromir gives him a smile he is about to eat an orange but the old man takes it he is watching eels swarm out of the orange it breaks apart becomes dirt which hardens into granite that makes walls to a courtyard full of rotting fruit and there are more eels that are worms and the sun is ringed with orange peels painted red. There’s an old man who says I need the gods to pay attention and a horse many horses a multitude of horses running over him as he watches he wants to stop them but can’t he holds his hands up falls beneath and there is someone with no skin saying he should also have no skin the world will look better if you can see what is beneath skin. 

There is an old man and he is obstructing Boromir’s view of the sky he is singing a song on repeat everything is terrible in how white it is. He fears the colour white. Knows bad things come from the colour white such as lies and dirt and dug up hearths and burnt barns. 

He wakes, sweating. It is dawn. 

The final departure from Elvendom takes place early morning with mist hanging low over the water. Mallorns branches droop to brush the river and as they are near the edge of Lothlórien Boromir spies other trees as well: alder, willow and ash. 

Haldir, who reappeared that morning with a delicately wrinkled nose at the Halflings’ enthusiastic making of a Fry Up (as they term it), leads the Company along a slim path towards a dock where wait three boats. They are small, white and swift. At the entrance to the dock stand Celeborn and Galadriel looking warmer than Boromir remembered. 

Galadriel smiles and motions for an attendant to distribute gifts. She explains, ‘These are elven cloaks. They are made in such a way that you will be kept warm in cold air and will cool you in heat. They are no colour and all colours and can hide you from the enemy’s eye. For a time.’ She then turns and indicates another attendant to approach and slowly she goes down the line of the Company providing further gifts. Swords and belts to Merry and Pippin, rope and a small box with a mallorn seed to Sam (who is beyond pleased), a sheath to Aragorn for Narsil, to Frodo a strange vial that shimmers in sun but also glows as if it contains a star, to Legolas a new bow, to himself a belt and sheath. 

She pauses before Gimli. ‘I do not know what of our making could best please a Dwarf.’ 

Gimli bows and says, ‘I am content enough to have looked upon your face and to have seen this fair land and to have been welcomed as a guest.’ 

Galadriel tilts her head, smiles a little secret smile. ‘Well, let no one ever say again that Dwarves are grasping and ungracious. But you must have some wish, Master Gimli. I cannot provide gifts to your Companions but not one to you.’ 

Gimli shakes his head. ‘There is nothing, my lady. But if you command me to name something it would be a strand of your hair that is far greater than all the seams of gold ever worked or ever will be worked.’ 

Boromir thinks, Wonders upon wonders. Do not say unscathed - but unchanged. Boromir glances towards Aragorn whose faint amusement is visible. If only Faramir were here, he would have much to say about this event. Especially as he was the one who absorbed all those histories. Boromir assumes he would have an earful afterwards. 

He can hear it now: Boromir, this is astounding. After so many years (insert correct timeline Boromir does not know), to have peaceful relations between Dwarves and Elves would be akin to starting a New Age. Oh brother this is truly phenomenal, I am beside myself - etc. etc. 

Perhaps add some poetry. 

Faramir tilting head back half-laughing, Brother you don’t understand. 

Stars he misses home. 

Reaching up, he rubs the back of his neck. Recalls the voice that he had named Duty to One’s People, or something to that extent. Wonders where it has been for he had well-forgotten it these past days. 

As Aragorn thanks Galadriel and Celeborn for their hospitality Boromir hears him say, softly as an aside, ‘You will tell her I think of her, even if things are not as we thought they once were.’ 

Galadriel smiles her strange elven smile. Aragorn seems to take this as affirmative. He turns to usher the Company to their boats, catches Boromir’s eye, becomes embarrassed and will not look at him as they climb into their respective crafts. 

Boromir dismally paddles away from Lothlórien with Merry and Pippin sitting towards the prow of the boat. So, he thinks, Aragorn’s necklace belongs to a lady who is waiting for him and who is almost certainly an elf if Galadriel knows her and is able to speak with her. 

Well, that’s his head and heart sorted very quickly. 

Which is for the best, he tells himself. Because it was always an impossibility. As he told himself the other night - it will only lead to misfortune. And he has known that, all along. Known what a deep impossibility this is. So much so he’s spent months avoiding putting words to it. Allowing it to remain amorphous and unnamed because naming gives it power and he cannot afford to allow something, even something so small as an infatuation, to have power over him. 

Lorien fades. Trees grow barren. Ground empties itself of life. No more is the world ringed in gold. The memory of the land becomes faded. It is soft and fragile, like the edge of a fine webbed dream that will break apart in daylight. Boromir doesn’t wish to touch it lest the memory shatter and take all the little things within it that he so wants to save with it.

Chapter Text

The river can do kindness - the soft way it laps boats, tree roots, rocks, shores. It can do animal fearsomeness - picking them up and hurling them forward faster, faster. No care, no awareness, no thought of what they might hit along the way. 

And as they journey, Lorien fades. Tall mallorns disappear, becoming shrub, grassland, rocks, gnarled, grey-brown jagged trees that once might have been a pretty silver, a delicate lavender, but no more. 

The gold of the land is over. It has become sand, dead myrtle, prickling low bushes sprouting red and black berries that will kill you if you eat them. 

Pippin holds the prow of the boat with both hands. He looks over his shoulder to Boromir who paddles along this early morning in amiable quietude. 

‘Are you certain you have control of this?’ Pippin asks. 

Boromir readily smiles, ‘Of course. I grew up faffing about on the Great River.’ 

‘Sure. But perhaps that was long ago and maybe there’s a chance you’ve forgotten how to boat properly.’ 

Boromir lets out a ha. Merry, lounging in the middle amidst baggage, ‘You’re not scared are you, Pip?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘You’re not like Sam, right?’ 

‘Never.’ 

‘Alright.’ 

Pippin twists about, quickly replacing hands on the edge of the boat once seated facing them both. ‘I’ll have you know, Meriadoc Brandybuck, that I am the most fearless of all Tooks.’ 

‘ Cor,'  Merry laughs. 'More so than Bilbo?’ 

‘He’s a Baggins.’ 

‘He’s got Took in him. Which is why,’ Merry angles his head to see Boromir. ‘Gandalf asked Bilbo to go on the adventure to the Lonely Mountain. Because of this Took-side.’ 

‘Does Frodo have this Took-ness as well? As Bilbo’s nephew,’ Boromir asks. 

Merry wags a disparaging finger. ‘Cousin, my lord. Just a cousin. Though old Bilbo adopted him long ago.’ 

‘He’s Brandybuck and Bolger and Hornblower,’ Pippin says. If with a bit of a sneer. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.’ 

Boromir remains mystified. So many months in their company and he still does not understand Halfling families. He even had Sam draw it out for him - the principle families of Hobbiton - but he remains none the wiser for it. 

‘Are you insulting my grandfather again?’ Frodo calls over from Aragorn’s boat where he sits with Sam who appears equally, if not more, terrified of being in a boat as Pippin. 

A ripple speeds them up a fraction causing Sam to let out a low, ‘Oh no.’ 

‘I would never do that,’ Pippin declares. ‘I’m simply speaking the truth.’ 

‘Bolgers are perfectly respectable as are Hornblowers,’ Frodo replies archly. ‘More so than Tooks.’

Pippin holds his hand as if to say Aha but quickly reattaches it to boat edge. 

‘That’s just it,’ Merry says. ‘We’re discussing your Tookishness.’ 

‘Or lack thereof,’ Pippin adds. 

Aragorn throws a comment to Boromir: ‘If this becomes yet another four day long conversation I am placing full blame on your shoulders, son of Denethor.’ 

[Sometime in Hollin: 

Pippin, smoking with feet on a log, ‘-- and us Tooks are the handsomest of course.’ 

Merry, ‘Hardly. Brandybuck.’ 

Boromir, trying to follow the genealogy that was just explained, ‘And you’re the only Brandybuck here?’ 

Frodo, ‘No, I’m one through my mother though I’m all Baggins in appearance.’ 

Boromir, confused, ‘Right. Sam?’ 

Sam, ‘I don’t go for the same nonsense arguments as some gentlehobbits might get into.’ 

Merry, ‘Views on the Lugtreads?’ 

Sam, ‘Oh well --’ ]

The day passes quickly now that they’re making good time and they soon move from shrubland to forested embankments. They climb high, towering over the river steep, sandstone cliffs and rocky banks with tree roots jutting out, exposed after floods ripped away land. 

Boromir finds it strange to be traveling without Mithrandir. The old man’s absence is only now becoming tangible. Though he wasn’t nearly as close to the wizard as Aragorn or Frodo, he still expects to hear the gruff voice, see the grey hat ahead of them leading them onward. Strange, how activity makes grief that much more real. More so than the timelessness of Lothlórien. 

A night riverside. All resting is done on the West bank for Aragorn is insistent that there’s a darkness on the eastern shore. A shadow growing in his mind and he is loath to take them over sooner than he must. Eye watch from wooded shores. Not normally one to subscribe to ominous feelings without some proof, Boromir finds that he too can sense a darkening. An overall dimming of the world. 

That morning, through bright, felt as if a fog descended over it. Boromir wondered at Merry and Pippin’s chatter, felt churlish and annoyed by Gimli’s cheerful, ‘How many rocks will we narrowly miss today?’ 

How can any one be so light in their mood? How can any look at their future and see anything but destruction? 

Perhaps that’s the problem. No one is looking. Everyone has accepted what the Council told them as immutable fact. But the world ever changes. What was certain six months ago may not be certain now. Or, they’re like Mithrandir, Aragorn, his own father even, and trying so hard to see what is to come they miss the obvious. They stare too much at trees and cannot see the forest, as the saying goes. 

A bowl is thrust into his line of sight. Boromir blinks at it. Fish of some sort. 

‘Thank you.’ He glances to see who gave it him and finds Aragorn standing above him and when their eyes meet the tall man (all long limbed, like a willow tree) drops down to peer into Boromir’s face. 

‘Is everything alright?’ 

Boromir nods, oh yes. Everything is fine. Why? 

‘You seem out of sorts.’ 

‘Trouble sleeping. Since we left Lorien. That’s all.’

Aragorn continues peering. A breeze rustles through the camp, Boromir’s hair gets itself into his face. He pushes it back. Wishes Aragorn would stop staring for there’s a flush expanding over his chest and he doesn’t know what he would do if Aragorn figured out what Boromir is thinking. 

(And what is he thinking? That the quest would be better served bringing the ring to Gondor. That Aragorn has terribly grey eyes and terribly black hair which is different to Boromir’s own grey-eyes-black-hair combination in that Aragorn’s are mountain peaks-grey and rich, velvet ceremonial robes black while Boromir errs on the grey-that’s-sort-of-blue and black that is more brown, especially if he’s in the sun. That he so very much wants Aragorn and is not man enough to admit it to himself in a full, naked truth so only admits it in caveats and round-about, twisting ways. That they’re all going to die. That he’s going to fail them all because he should be able to keep everyone safe. That he still sometimes doubts Aragorn’s ability to be king though he no longer is so doubtful about his skill as a leader.) 

If Aragorn read all that? Knew all that? What would Boromir do? Die, probably. 

How embarrassing. 

With a gentle pat to Boromir’s arm Aragorn hoists himself up, an unfolding of those long limbs, and goes to Gimli. Boromir overhears, Are you keeping well? And Gimli’s, Well enough . Then on to Legolas. 

Boromir prods at his fish with little interest. Later, he will pick its small bones from between teeth. He will keep watch with Frodo, neither of whom will be able to sleep, and they will not look at each other nor make conversation. Dawn will come fast over horizon. Bold, daring, seeping a cold red into the world. 

Back on the river it occurs to Boromir that today the decision will have to be made of whether to remain on the west bank or cross to the east. Either way, the boats will have to be portaged for there is no navigating the Falls of Rauros.

An almost uncontrollable energy rises up. Makes Boromir want to paddle faster, or not at all for paddling isn’t enough. He wants to run. His left leg bounces. He hums distractedly. The sun climbs through morning sky to rest directly above them. 

Hot. Unseasonably so. 

Boromir catches Merry watching him with a feint look of concern. He smiles, ‘Hot and tired.’ 

Merry yawns, fans himself with a leaf formerly wrapped around lembas, ‘You’re telling me. I can take over if you want. I grew up on the Brandywine and know my way around a boat.’ 

‘No, no. It’s good to have something to do.’ 

Merry shrugs. If that pleases him, Merry is happy to continue lounging. 

The day marches on and slowly the dull roar of Rauros can be heard as the River Anduin plummets down into the wetlands of Nindalf. At last, Boromir thinks. They’ve come to the point. The moment of choice. 

For the time being. 

He thinks surely Aragorn will choose the west bank. Surely he sees the logic and sense in it. They’ve been gone from Lorien for no more than ten days and already everyone is weighed down. It’s the right thing to do for the same of the entire Company. And, perhaps a selfish motive, it would also allow Boromir to show his father that his quest to Imladris was not in vein. Anyone who died defending Gondor while he was gone did not do so without meaning or hope. 

The countryside becomes a blur. More of a blur. Boromir realizes he couldn’t describe much of the land they’ve been through since Lorien. A sort of above ground Moria, though even in the darkness of the mines who took note of what he saw. He has clear, vivid memories of all they walked through. 

It’s the sameness, he decides. And the speed of traveling by boat. 

How people feel a calling to live on the water is a mystery. 

Sun begins to kiss treetops when Aragorn steers his boat towards the shore. The west, Boromir is happy to note. Ahead of them, down the river, a golden mist of Rauros’ waters rise up. The thunder of the falls shakes the air. Thrums in the skin. 

‘We’ll rest for a time here then make our move under the cover of darkness,’ Aragorn explains as boats are hauled onto muddy banks. 

‘And what move will that be?’ Boromir asks. Aragorn blinks, startled. It occurs to Boromir that his tone may have been harsh. ‘I only mean, we haven't discussed it since we left Lorien.’ 

‘I suggest we eat then discuss,’ Aragorn replies. Perhaps cooly. Boromir ducks his head, says he’ll go for firewood then. If they’re making a meal they’ll have need of it. 

Brushing by, Aragorn catches Boromir, says, ‘Don’t go far. I have an itching in my mind that says this side is as untrustworthy as the east.’ 

Boromir nods, pulls away, delves into scraggly trees with their exposed roots and loose hanging moss. Grey, drooping, tangled there are small, orange bugs that live within it. They smear light red against skin when crushed. 

Is this fate? Boromir adds a branch to his collection. He has been wandering for no more than ten minutes and suddenly, ahead of him also gathering wood, is Frodo. A chance to speak! To explain his reasoning before the official Company council begins. 

Boromir calls out, ‘It’s not safe to wander too far alone.’ 

Frodo pauses, hand half-way to a branch. Eyes trained on Boromir he leans over and plucks it up. Around his neck, the chain shifts. Though Halflings look young despite their age, Boromir thinks there are lines on Frodo’s face that were not there in Rivendell. The ring must be a loadstone. The chain must cut into his neck like hot wire. His shoulders must ache. Frodo does not deserve this. 

It was something Mithrandir said off hand in Moria, ‘I’m somewhat to blame for this. I brought Bilbo into Thorin’s company and he found the ring.’ 

To which Boromir replied, ‘You weren’t to know.’ 

And Mithrandir said, ‘Bilbo is made of different stuff than Frodo. I won’t say sterner, merely different. Some inheritances should never be gifted.’ A long, long look at Boromir. At length, Mithrandir sighed, ‘And here I am, wounding another Baggins.’ 

Then he wandered off smoking and didn’t speak to Boromir for the remainder of their Watch.

‘We spoke briefly before we came to Lorien about carrying the weight of the dead,’ Boromir continues, waiting for Frodo to come forward so they may walk together. ‘I can see that the weight has only grown since then. Of Gandalf, of your homesickness, of your burden.’ 

‘I can bear it well enough.’ Frodo hugs his kindling close to his chest as Boromir falls into step beside him. 

‘But you don’t have to. It’s unjust that such a burden should be placed on a single person when it’s something we all share. And, in your case, it was placed, or I suppose assumed, without full knowledge of what being a ring bearer would entail.’ 

‘Being alone. To bear a ring of power is to be alone.’ A pause. ‘Or so said the Lady Galadriel.’ 

‘She is wise I’ve no doubt, but surely it need not be so for you. It’s like inheritance, which I suppose it is for you. But, simply because you inherit a house, a title, a piece of clothing, doesn’t mean you must inhabit it the same ways as the dead. Simply because other ring bearers have been alone doesn’t mean you have to be.’

Stars in their heavens it is hot and Boromir swears he is seeing black spots dance and his head pounds like he’s never felt before. 

He stops, for he wants this to be clear to Frodo, ‘There are other paths. We have more than one options before us —’ 

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Frodo frowns. ‘That we should take the road through Gondor. But I’m not willing to do it. And Aragorn said that he is loath to bring the ring within a thousand leagues of Minas Tirith.’ 

Boromir scowls. Fury rising, unbidden, from stomach to chest. ‘I’m pleased to know he thinks so lowly of his own people. I don’t, and nor should you.’ 

Frodo takes a step back, still holding wood close. ‘I know what you’re going to ask but there’s a warning in my heart—’ 

‘A warning? Against what? A man wanting the strength to defend his people, and yours as well. If Gondor remains strong your lands will remain safe. It’s that simple.’ Boromir walks towards Frodo who continues backing away. He cannot understand why Frodo cannot see. Will not see. He knows the Halfling cares for his land. He has heard how Frodo speaks of the Shire, the hills and trees and rivers. 

‘If you would but lend it me—’ He tries. 

Frodo’s eyes widen. ‘You’re not yourself, Boromir.’ And with that he drops his wood, turns and darts into the trees. 

Boromir is on him in a matter of seconds, his firewood forgotten on forest floor. 

‘The ring is only yours by chance,’ Boromir snarls. ‘Unhappy chance at that. It could have come to any of us.’ He grabs Frodo’s arm to stop him running. To make him listen. ‘I’m just asking for it to help my people.’ 

Frodo tries to twist away. Kicking out he hits Boromir in the shin, toppling both over into leaves. Decaying forest. Half on all-fours Boromir scrambles after Frodo. ‘Give me the ring, damn you.’ 

Frodo scuttles backwards but Boromir catches his foot, ‘Do you want to be the cause of the fall of Middle Earth? Do you want to be the cause of the death of your friends? Give me the ring and we can save them all.’ 

‘There’s no saving anything with the ring,’ Frodo gasps, yanking foot from Boromir’s grasp. Eyes wide, whole body trembling. ‘The ring can’t save us.’ 

Frodo is gone. 

Disappeared. 

Boromir hears feet on ground but there is nothing to see. A half-hearted kick to his shoulder then the sounds grow faint before tapering off to nothing. 

And Boromir is alone. 

He dry heaves. On hands and knees, head bowed so hair hangs in the leaves. He can hear himself whispering I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry but there is no one to hear it. 

[Like being a child and you’re alone resewing the cloak you ruined and your father is gone but you keep saying it over and over in case a bird or a bug might think to carry the message to him even though you know they won't so you’re stuck, alone, in a cold room trying to sew and bloodying your fingers in the process —]

The world crashes around him. Trees, wind, birds, everything becomes too loud. He swears the ground trembles. Or is it merely him that trembles? 

Frodo trembled. Because he was scared. Because he was frightened of Boromir. Boromir cannot bear that he made someone so scared of him they disappeared themselves. They’d rather have the enemy know their location than Boromir. 

Gods, what has he done? 

He failed. He failed them all. Sitting back on heels he weeps into knees and palms which are stuck with mud. Ugly sobbing. He feels like he’s falling. He’s never going to stop. Like Mithrandir, he’s gone into darkness. Only this is a darkness of the mind. A sickness of himself. 

So, like his father. He became his father instead of saving his father. 

How weak is he? 

There’s snot on Boromir’s chin. He wipes it away and tilts head back to look up at the trees and the sky and wonders at its blueness. Well, he asks Faramir, because he has to speak to someone, what should I do? 

You have to admit to it and make amends. His brother’s voice is far too reasonable. 

If the ground will not swallow him whole then, he supposes, making amends could involve pitching himself off Rauros. That sends a very clear message. The statement is hard to miss. 

He could make a sign: Don’t try and take rings of power. 

Gods he must be mad as well as a failure to make jokes at this time. He shudders. Rubs eyes. Sucks in a stuttering breath. Wonders if he can stand. 

He thinks he must tell Aragorn. At the very least, he must tell Aragorn. Then Gimli, then Merry and Pippin. Then, when that is done, he will take his things and depart from the Company. 

A slithering thought, And Denethor? What will he make of this? Will he find a way to take it out on Faramir? Probably. Would he be able to hear Boromir when he says: It’s my fault, I alone am to blame for it all. Probably not. He never could before. 

If he found Frodo before the others, calmly apologized, begged forgiveness, then explained, he would perhaps be able to keep his promise to his father, along with his promise to the Company. 

The thought slides up the back of his head. A soft breeze gliding against his neck. He rubs at it.  

No, he thinks. First Aragorn and the others. Then Frodo.

Standing, he brushes leaves from knees and bottom before beginning the solemn walk back to riverside. 

Coming through a particularly thick set of trees to a clear patch of forest Boromir feels his heart lift at the sight of Merry and Pippin. Then it sinks. Grows cold. Standing above them on a small hill crest is an orc. 

Not just an orc, an Uruk-hai. Upon its helmet an emblem of a white hand.

It raises its cleaver and howls.

Chapter Text

The uruk-hai are upon Merry and Pippin in seconds and Boromir is racing towards them with sword drawn. He thinks he’ll kill the uruks by inches if they harm a single hair on either halfling’s head. 

First uruk down. Boromir thanks the stars for adrenaline. Everything is this battle. The forest floor he was lost in is gone. Confusion and despair have left. There are no uncertain thoughts here. Only what is before him. 

Merry has his own sword out manages to hack off one uruk’s hand before jabbing blade into its neck. Blood spills out, covers his face and hands. 

‘Run,’ Boromir shouts at them. ‘Go, now.’ 

Pippin grabs Merry’s arm and they take off scrambling through bushes. Uruks chase after them and no matter how many he slays, no matter how many he wounds, Boromir knows he cannot stop them. Knows he cannot save Merry and Pippin. 

Between parries and jabs, and trying to follow after the hobbits, he manages to pull out the horn of Gondor and prays someone will hear it. 

What if the uruks have Frodo? 

What if they kill Aragorn?

There can be only one reason that these creatures have come upon them and that reason must be that they were sent. The white hand on their helmets calls out their allegiance to Saruman which means somehow, through some foul craft, Saruman knows their route. 

Whether Saruman wants the ring for himself or for the Dark Lord - that is unknowable but Boromir is familiar with Saruman’s love of control. Making everything just as he likes it. Organizational obsession taken to heights that are manifestly unhealthy.

An arrow whizzes past, misses Boromir by centimeters. It lodges into a tree. 

Looking around he can see that he is trapped - without aid there can be no path forward. Well, if this is how he is to die he is glad to be doing it in service of the Company. There will be some honour in his end and he hopes that perhaps, if he dies bravely enough, honourably enough, Aragorn might not think too ill of him for trying to take the ring. He might even, in time, forgive him. 

A second arrow. This one glances his shoulder. He curses, spins around and stabs an uruk through the eye with a dagger. Suddenly, behind him, a clatter of swords. There is a glimpse of Aragorn and Legolas between trees; a snarl of Gimli: Die already you -- it transforms into Khuzdul. 

Another arrow. 

It’s a punch, how it hits him. Makes a home for itself in the outer muscle of his upper arm. His sword arm. He staggers back, hand automatically dropping the sword. Muscle and bone chafe against arrow shaft. With left hand he picks up his sword but can feel an onslaught of exhaustion. He manages to parry an uruk’s blade, but strength is leaving. Washing out of him as water through a dry canyon. 

An uruk grabs him by the throat. Boromir looks down at the clawed hand wrapped around his throat. It digs into flesh. The uruk snarls, hefts him up and tosses him. Boromir collides against a tree. His head hits rock as he lands. 

The uruk stalks over, raising its blade as it nears. 

Boromir passes out. 

Hands. Rough hands, thumbs on cheeks, palms against jaw. Someone speaks. It is a low, insistent speech. A hand in hair, pushing it away. 

Elvish, then, between it, his own name and Westron. 

Aragorn. 

His king has calloused hands. Which isn’t necessarily a useful thought to have.

Boromir opens his eyes. Aragorn breaths out a whispered thankgods, briefly closes eyes for a moment of evident relief. Boromir attempts to sit up and his right arm immediately declares its intent to revolt and sever itself from his body. 

He instinctively reaches for it but Aragorn stops him. Pushes him back down. 

‘Don’t sit up.’ 

‘I’m fine-’ Boromir stops. He looks at his arm and finds the arrow gone and make-shift bandages in place. ‘It’s just my arm.’ 

‘Your sword arm.’ 

‘I can fight with my left.’ 

‘There was an arrow in your arm. It required stitches. I don’t know if they’re going to hold.’ 

Boromir shifts. Aragorn’s anxious face searches his and stars he is close . Boromir breaths slowly out, ‘Could have been worse.’ 

Aragorn scowls, mutters that Boromir shouldn’t make light of such things. Haven’t they already had that conversation? One hand remains against Boromir’s cheek, the other rests on his chest, not letting him up. 

‘Please,’ Boromir insists. ‘I’m fine. Or will be fine. I’m able to get up being the point.’ 

Aragorn sits back on his heels, hands hovering as Boromir fully sits up then, slowly, manages to stand, using the tree as a support. 

As he moves it floods back: Frodo. The Ring. Merry. Pippin. Where are Legolas and Gimli? Surely they’ve not fallen -- 

He leans into the tree as the world rocks back and forth. Small dots dance before his eyes as he blinks through them. He didn’t think he lost that much blood and surely he didn’t hit his head so hard as to warrant this sort of untimely display of weakness from his body. 

‘Merry and Pippin?’ He asks. ‘Frodo and Sam?’ 

‘Merry and Pippin were taken by the uruk-hai.’ Aragorn stands as well; he chews on bottom lip. ‘I let Frodo and Sam go.’ 

Boromir nods, rests the back of his head against the tree so he is looking up at canopy and through it, the sky; blue and barren of clouds. Good, he thinks. Then they will be safe from him. ‘You did what I couldn’t --’ 

‘The ring has an insidious power-’ 

‘I tried to take it.’ Boromir turns to look Aragorn in the eyes because he will do this the right way. No matter how much he wishes for the earth to swallow him he will not back away. He will face the inevitable disappointment, the forthcoming lack of trust that must be born from his confession. ‘I was unable to resist the ring - I tried to take it. I am sorry. I am sorry for letting you down, you all down.’ 

Aragorn shakes his head, reaches forward to cup Boromir’s face. ‘You fought honourably -’ 

‘That is irrelevant.’ Pulling away Boromir walks a few steps towards a pile of dead uruks. He stops, for the world decides to become a series of waves. Aragorn’s eyes bore into him. ‘I succumbed,’ Boromir says, still facing the dead. ‘I’m no better than Isildur. Than any of the nine who fell. Than the creature who’s been following us. The pitiful one not slain by Frodo’s uncle.’ 

‘No,’ Aragorn snaps. He is suddenly in front of Boromir looking hurt and furious and anxious and sad. ‘Do not say that. You have honour, you have not forsaken yourself, nor us, nor the quest. You haven’t failed.’ 

‘How can you say that? It’s a shameful thing, what I’ve done. Breaking the Fellowship -’ 

‘The ring, Boromir. The ring broke it. You did not. You have only ever tried to do what is right.’ 

Boromir cannot hear this. His eyes burn and he is aware that he is crying. Aragorn reaches forward and pulls Boromir into a hug. It is the softest thing he has felt in months. 

Between muffled sobs he manages to ask Aragorn’s shoulder: ‘Are Gimli and Legolas safe?’ 

‘They are. They’re by the boats getting ready.’ 

Boromir nods. Face still pressed into Aragorn’s shoulder which isn’t necessarily comfortable but he would take it over all the feathered pillows the world had to offer. Good, he thinks. He is glad they’re safe. More than he could possibly say. And he is glad Aragorn will have company for whatever the next leg of his journey will be. 

‘I’ll take my leave of them,’ Boromir says, stepping away, wiping cheeks with the heel of his palm. ‘Before I go.’ 

Aragorn frowns. ‘Go where?’ 

‘To Gondor.’ Boromir stands very still. He looks at the trees around them. The rocks and ruins hidden between dark trunks. The uruks will decompose amongst such beauty.

Gods, he doesn’t know if he can say the next words.

He doesn’t think his heart will bear it. His pride will bear it.

In a voice that sounds detached yet so very much is his own: ‘I’m not worthy of this quest, nor am I strong enough for it.’ 

And gods, all he has ever been is strong. All he has ever been is capable. He knew he was out of his depth when he arrived in Imladris all those months ago but he always assumed he would be able to make it. To rise to the occasion. He has never failed in being able to do that before. How was it that it was this quest that broke him? That made him fail so utterly? 

He knew he took pride in his strength, in his ability to protect others, to keep people safe. But with how his chest wants to cave inward, he didn’t think he took that much pride in it. He hadn't realized how much of himself was sewn into that. And here he is being shredded by the things he thought would keep him safe.  

It's a veritable horse-kick to the chest. 

But here is Aragorn shaking his head. Here is Aragorn, who is too good for Boromir by far, looking sad and disbelieving. ‘I don’t know what I can say to convince you otherwise but I would not have you go. I know you always planned to turn aside for Gondor but please, as we are so few, stay for a while longer yet. I mean to rescue Merry and Pippin if I can. I would have you with me.’ 

The kindness of the offer. The warmth of Aragorn’s earnest face. Boromir cannot stand it so looks away. Up to early spring sky - the trees are beginning to bud so the branches appear a mustard yellow, a pale green. The sky is such a pretty blue as the sun begins to set. 

Aragorn says softly, ‘I was tempted by it too. The ring. It wound its way through my head as well and there were times I was terrified by what I might do.’ 

‘I --’ Boromir stops. He wants to say he is sorry, for Aragorn is too good a man to be forced to experience such things. To have every fear, insecurity, dark thought amplified ten fold so it is all you think about. All you are able to see, hear, believe. He also wants to say that he is sorry for being so blind, so unaware of what others were suffering. So wrapped up in his own head he couldn’t think that others might be struggling. He settles on, ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t see.’ 

And Aragorn smiles a small, beautiful, fleeting thing. It is a starling in spring. Iridescent and precious. 

In a movement Aragorn cups Boromir’s face and slowly, cautiously, kisses him. 

The world moves. For Boromir, at least, it jolts. Then settles. Becomes calm, collected and wholly focused on this moment. 

They part with Aragorn saying: ‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep-’ And Boromir saying, ‘No, you didn’t. I’m glad.’ 

‘Good. Good, I’m glad as well.’ 

Is that shyness on Aragorn’s face? Boromir wants to know every expression that Aragorn wears. He thinks it utterly ridiculous that it should be Aragorn that does this to him. Takes his heart then makes a knot of it. This man who stands before him covered in dirt, sweat, uruk blood with leaf litter in his hair - Boromir becomes dimly aware that he is probably in the same situation. 

Gods and stars above if only they had inherited different lives. 

But Aragorn seems pleased and the sun is beauteous in its golds, pinks, purples, and reds so Boromir does the only sensible thing and kisses Aragorn. One hand in hair, the other circling around waist. 

It seems to Boromir that Aragorn is the only stable thing in this world. He wants to live here forever. 

They part, awkwardly. 

Gods and stars above if they could only have all the time in the world to walk beneath the sun. 

‘We should, uh-’ Aragorn says. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the boats. 

‘Right.’ Boromir replies. 

They walk beneath the naked trees with their spring leaves only just unfurling and Boromir says, ‘Perhaps it would be wise to stay a little while yet. That’s a lot of uruks you’re chasing after.’ And Aragorn replies, ‘I’m glad you’ve come around to the idea.’ To which Boromir says, ‘I’ve heard worse arguments, in my life.’ And Aragorn laughs. And Boromir believes that he might be, in this moment, happy. 

Arriving back at the boats Boromir finds himself in the vice like grip of Gimli. His arm flaring up at the touch but so glad is Boromir to see his friend he thinks the wound could flare up for the rest of his life and he wouldn’t care. 

Gimli, wet about the eyes: ‘I’m so glad you’re alive. I don’t know what I’d do if you had died. Especially on top of everything else. Kill a bunch of orcs, probably.’ 

Boromir, holding Gimli back by the shoulders so he can meet his eye, ‘I need to tell you and Legolas something.’ 

Gimli, hastily: ‘You’re not going to Gondor are you?’ 

He should, Boromir thinks. But now, he can’t. ‘No, not yet. It’s not to do with Gondor.’ 

‘Good. I always knew you were sensible.’ 

A breath in and Boromir says everything in a rush. How he tried to take the ring. How he is ashamed. How he is sorry. How he understands that this will change things. How he means to make it up to them.

Gimli waits. When Boromir peters off, not sure if he should repeat again that he is sorry, just in case it wasn’t enough the first time, Gimli gently pats Boromir’s shoulder. In a sad voice he says, ‘It was going to be one of us. If not you, me. If not me, Legolas - and so on.’ 

Boromir blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it. 

Gimli continues. ‘That’s the nature of the Dark Lord’s power isn’t it? Sow doubt, insecurity, prey on the goodness in us and twist it around so it becomes harmful. You’re a good man, Boromir, don’t doubt that. If you do I’ll be annoyed.’ Gimli glances over to Legolas and Aragorn before adding, ‘If it’s any consolation, we all felt it. I did, I know Legolas did -’ 

‘It was an unpleasant song though I could never place what was wrong with it. But it made me fearful for my people, my family, our trees.’ 

Aragorn adds, with meaningful expression, ‘I also felt it.’ 

Gimli thumps Boromir’s arm which makes Boromir wince. ‘Ah, sorry.’ 

‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing-’

Aragorn, ‘Just a little arrow through the arm.’ 

Boromir makes a face. Gimli laughs. 

‘Well, there you go,’ Gimli says. ‘Even Aragorn felt it. We all did. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’ Stepping away Gimli takes up his pack. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. Now,’ a vicious grin. ‘I think we should go hunt some orc.’ 

Legolas mirrors the smile. ‘We shall make our enemy tremble and we give them such a merry chase it will go down in the legends of our peoples.’ 

Boromir, finding his feet again as the conversation shifts. ‘We’re no longer the Fellowship, though. Do we get a new name? We were the nine walkers against the nine riders ... ’

The flumes of Rauros float up, gentle white gusts of mist coloured soft gold in setting sun. 

‘The four hunters,’ Aragorn suggests after a moment. 

‘I like it,’ Gimli says. ‘The four hunters against the several hundred orcs. Well, our quest never had great odds. Why should that change now?’ 

Boromir smiles, turns his gaze to the mists of the falls. He cannot fathom how he is still here. How Aragorn can look at him and not see how he has failed not only the Fellowship, but also their people, the role of Steward - the thoughts trail off. There is no new deluge to continue as if they were laying siege to his mind, as there always had been. 

Shadows linger. But they aren’t so dark as before. Nor so frightening. Twisting around Boromir finds Aragorn holding out his pack for him.

‘Ready?’ Aragorn asks. 

‘As I’ll ever be. Is there a poem for this?’ 

A full smile breaks out over Aragorn’s face. Boromir thinks it could change the weather. ‘Many. I’ll find one that’s best suited for the moment.’ 

Together, the four hunters set out to follow the trail of the uruk-hai. Heading, steadily, westward towards the open fields of the horse lords. 

Well, Boromir thinks as he follows behind Aragorn. At least some of the Fellowship will make it to the Gap of Rohan.

Chapter Text

The Past. Mid-September, 3018

A large plain stretches south from the Misty Mountains and Fangorn forest. It is silver, pale moss green, a twilight colour grass that is an ocean. Within it runs a swift river that, when it catches in eddies and pools to make it calm enough to swim, is not nearly so cold as the rivers and lakes it descends from. Somewhere in the mountains snow and ice melt, run down earth, and empties into the river. There is a chance this mountain snow was walked upon and those footprints faded into water into river into ocean. 

Éomarc’s sky is big, open, gapes down on the inhabitants of these grasses, these hills, these flat plains, these jarring rocky outcrops that jut out a reminder of a time when the earth was forming, angry and molten. 

The sky is like the plains which is to say endless. There are small, scrambling roses that clutch to the rock and bloom in short bursts of fatally bright red smelling rank in how sickly sweet they are. The simbelmynë, a gentle flower, raises white head year long and smells softly of spring and youthful summers. When the world was an easier place to live. If only because you were small and worries were carried by people with broader shoulders. 

One time, some man from somewhere outside of Éomarc said: It must feel constraining to live in Rohan and see only the flat and the hills and those very distant mountains. There’s nothing to inspire you.  

To which Gríma replied: Bullshit. Only, with greater politeness. 

He was a young man at the time, maybe five-and-twenty. Maybe less. He was draped over a stool in a tavern in Gondor and feeling nostalgic. 

This is a memory that floats up as a shawl of wind blows in from the west bringing warm air that once-upon-a-time had been over the ocean. 

Which he has never seen but has an idea of what it must be like. He assumes it to be terribly dark and terribly cold and terribly endless. He has little desire to ever lay eyes upon it. 

Another memory: Éomer asking, What’s your greatest fear? You have many, I’ve no doubt, but if you had to choose one. 

And Gríma took umbrage at this but was too annoyed, too tired, to protest the aspersion. He replied, Drowning at sea. The idea of open water beneath you, all around you, and no land in sight. The sheer emptiness of it. 

Éomer had raised eyebrows. Drank his ale and said, I didn’t expect that. 

What did my lord Éomer expect? 

War. Physical pain or discomfort of one sort or another. Lack of creature comforts. You grew up near the river Limlight. 

You say that as if it is somehow relevant? And I doubt drowning at sea could be described as pleasant. Though I’m given to understand that when a person drowns it’s not unlike falling asleep. 

Éomer drank of his ale. Pondered this for a long minute in that heavily silent way of his leaving Gríma stood there waiting. Then, finally, No, I suppose drowning wouldn’t be pleasant even if there’s a moment when you fall asleep. The time before that would be full of distress. 

Then he left and Gríma clutched his armful of papers full of numbers close to his chest and watched the horselord walk out of Meduseld into sunlight. 

Which is why Éomer is on his list of Issues at Edoras, alongside Gandalf Greyhame and Theoden’s Moments of Brutal Clarity. 

One man cannot control an entire chess set. It is not possible. What he is being asked to do is not possible. But, he reminds himself, it was his decision to be here. As Saruman points out with great regularity, I did not task you with this. You freely chose it. 

Which, Gríma thinks, is more or less the truth. So far as he can remember.  

A list of what he has done and will continue to do: manage the careful balance of power among the horse lords (important and petty alike); oversee actual running of a kingdom which means managing marshals of the mark which is not unlike herding cats; destabilize any coordinated response to Saruman’s efforts to claim lordship over Éomarc; undermine the authority of the Witan and other governing bodies; keep accounts in order while also disordering the accounts (headache inducing); continue the slow, careful spellbinding of Theoden-kuning and that alone takes a physical toll as all balocræft, drýcræft, galdorcræft and other spellworks do -- it goes on.  

Gods he is exhausted. 

He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. At the same time, he knows he has no choice but to keep going. As Saruman tells him with great authority, Others would be able to do it. It’s only that you, Gríma, aren’t trying hard enough. 

The wind turns, begins to blow from the east. A strange, unearthly howl upon it sending shivers up spine. Gríma, riding the two-day journey of Edoras to Isengard, shivers. 

He tries to organize thoughts. Put method to how his mind catalogues facts and events that would be understandable to someone who isn’t him. 

Gandalf Greyhame procured an audience with Theoden and what did the blasted man say? Gríma remembers the gist: Saruman is no longer an ally; Gríma your opinion isn’t necessary at this juncture. But, Saruman will want details and Gríma is loath to once again plead: I was busy; otherwise occupied; juggling five things at once; Gandalf is a wizard, I can’t control him on my own; forgive me, I will do better next time, be better next time. 

Saruman dislikes excuses. Names them laziness and weakness. 

Gríma grips the reigns harder, jaw clenches. He begins the process of conjuring up a speech that sounds close enough to Gandalf to pass as word-for-word. There have been enough setbacks and trouble out of Edoras of late. He is desperate to not be the source of more ill news. 

His stomach cramping he recalls he has not broken his morning fast. Because there wasn’t time for it because there isn’t time enough for anything. He feels run ragged. Stretched thin. Tired to the point where he feels external to his own body. A reckless, antsy feeling. He cannot wait for the Theoden-binding to be finished for that will be a loadstone removed from chest. 

Spellwork empties a person. You drag up energy and more energy and more energy you don’t have and you put it into curses and hexes and whispers then do it again and again and again. The endless cycle of cunningwork. 

Gods, when this is over Gríma plans to sleep for a fortnight. 

Shifting wind means rain. Despite mountains blocking most clouds crossing from sea to inland Éomarc, this September all are swimming. 

Gríma reigns in Sæwine, glances towards the thunderheads gathering over the open expanse of the Gap. They pile atop each other. The air becomes electric. Grima frowns up at the skies. He cannot help but feel unease. Which isn’t just the frisson in the air, how the aether could be cut with a knife. It isn’t the bold exposure one has when on the flats between Isengard and Helms Deep. The Gap of Éomarc can make a man feel naked. The eyes of heavens watching. 

No, this unease is entirely different. It comes with the wind, he thinks. It is the howling that slinks beneath skin. As uncanny as Orthanc is, he is eager to arrive and escape, temporarily, from the marauding elements.

A mile on, maybe two, and a screech slices air, cuts through the soul, makes the mind want to separate from body. 

Gríma has heard tales of this sound. He didn’t think blood would run so cold at it. 

Looking over his shoulder he spies nine black riders. Nazgûl. Unmistakably so. Closing his eyes he can feel Sæwine’s fear as well as his own. It overwhelms. His mind stutters. Becomes a terrible blankness.

In the far distance, the boldness of Orthanc stands out against skyline. 

Behind him and fast approaching, the inevitability of Mordor’s messengers. He knows Saruman will likely leave him to whatever fate he is to meet here. He also knows outrunning the Nazgûl to be a futile endeavour. His horse is too tired and already pushed too hard. 

To his right a Nazgûl rides up alongside him. With a clawed grip he is pulled from his horse with face hitting grass. Then, the sound of armoured figures dismounting. Gríma curls up with a preemptive whimper. 

It rains. 

A newly revealed sun slants across the land, long shafts of light bold and crass after the darkened clouds, the black magnificence of cleansing thunderheads. Gríma manages to unfurl himself. He lies in wet grass shaking. Cold. Sore. Hollow. He thinks he’s been stripped bare by the Nazgûl. His bones and their marrow have been removed and the Nazgûl drank of them as a means to gain wisdom. To accumulate his knowledge into themselves.

In truth, he simply told them what they wanted to know about Gandalf’s recent visit, Saruman’s plans, the location of some land far off called the Shire - the importance of which he didn't know. How could he not? He thought he knew what terror was but everything that makes him shrink away paled in comparison to the Witchking looming over him with sword in hand. 

Managing to pull himself upright he stands, whistles for his horse and in a few swift minutes Sæwine returns. The horse is jittery - who wouldn’t be jittery? Gríma is thinking and not thinking. The Nazgûl smell blood and cannot see; their grip is like falling over ice on a frozen pond, shards cutting palms you leave a trail of blood from hands and knees. 

Gríma presses his face into Sæwine’s mane, pets the horse’s soft nose. When the Nazgûl speak their words slither down your spine like snakes beneath skin leaving hoarfrost in their wake. He silently shakes. He tells himself to calm down. He tells himself not to overreact - he’s absolutely overreacting. What did they do to him? 

Absolutely nothing.

So far as he can remember.