For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
caras_galadhon: In Embers (Aragorn/Boromir; PG-13)
Dec. 18th, 2012 01:34 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
caraloup.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
lotr_sesaFor caras_galadhon: Happy Holidays! :)
Title: In Embers
Author: Cara J. Loup
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none that I can think of, though apologies may be in order...
Summary: Boromir looks into the fire.
A/N: Heartfelt thanks are due to the writer of the prompt for providing me with a flush of inspiration (and I hope she’ll forgive me for sticking rather narrowly to canon!); to Sean Bean, Dwimordene and an aftercomer named Barahir who all paved the way for this story.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction written without any commercial interest whatsoever. No infringement on copyrights held by the Tolkien Estate intended or assumed.
* * *
In Embers
A sharp wind whistled down the mountain flanks. From the heights now wrapped in cloud, it brought the bite of snow, the clean chill that remained ever fresh as daybreak. Boromir breathed it in deep. After so many nights of trudging through the coarse folds of this country, he longed to get up into the mountains. Even in the gloom, their cleft shanks stood out pale and sharp. No matter how difficult the climb, it would take them to wide regions of the sun, where the sky’s own breath glittered on the snowfields. At long last, it would grant them a view of the lands beyond and reveal the Great River in flashes of broken silver.
Grit and gravel crunched beneath his boots as Boromir leaned into the wind. Only at the last moment did he notice the lighter tread drawing up from behind. Then Aragorn fell into step beside him. Boromir acknowledged him with a short dip of his head. While the halflings might chatter away during the first stage of each march, Aragorn was not given to idle talk. For a mile or more they walked in silence, the blasts of cold wind in their faces. Time enough for Boromir to mark the ranger’s easy, tireless stride against his own heavy tread. It could not be helped. The weight of leather and mail, of his shield and arms might be a burden on his body, but he carried them as a goad to endurance. As a needful memory of all he had left behind, in the teeth of war. And even so burdened he could have managed a better pace than the one they now kept, for the halflings’ sake. It dragged on his mood, that the peaks gnawing the southern edge of the sky had seemed unchanged for days. Thirteen in all had gone, since they left Imladris.
“Must stealth also make us slow?” he asked at length. “We could have brought horses to take us to the bottom of the pass.”
Aragorn sent him a mild sidelong glance. In all likelihood, the thought had not once grazed his mind. They called him ‘Strider’ in the Westlands after all.
“We should miss many useful signs if we travelled at greater speed,” he answered, “however much we may desire it.”
Boromir hunched up his shoulders. The common tracking skills of a huntsman, such as he possessed, were no match for Aragorn, who knew how to read even the messages that the wind brought. The faintest trail left upon hard ground or among the thorn-brush that clad the foothills gave him news of many things, though some belonged to bygone seasons.
“Without horses,” he added, “we make smaller targets for our enemies’ eyes.”
“The men of Gondor,” Boromir countered, “never made a habit of shrinking from their foes, nor of hiding from danger.”
“Neither do I.” Another man might have taken offence, but Aragorn’s tone was unchanged, and calm as the hills’ shade.
“Nor did I mean to say so,” Boromir answered gruffly. He knew well enough that a battle-seasoned man walked beside him. Toughened by many lean years, Aragorn ate and slept sparely, and only on rare chances did the watchfulness slip from his face. That he was swift and deadly in a fight, Boromir read in his poise, in the deftness of every move, and the faded scars glimpsed once, as they washed in a pebbled stream, had confirmed his guess.
“This is a time of hard choices, Boromir, and some may go against the very grain of our will and desire.” Aragorn’s voice had altered. Even as it grew soft, it bared intent like steel. “But this, too, must be borne.”
When Boromir met his eyes, they were shadowed by a mood so close to compassion that his skin began to crawl. He willed himself not to look away.
You have no comfort to offer me, he might have returned, but some movement ahead drew Aragorn’s glance and spared him the effort.
From a low ridge that crossed their path, Gandalf beckoned for the ranger to join him, his battered cloak flapping in the wind, dark against a pale rim of day in the east.
As Aragorn strode away, Boromir watched after him with narrowed eyes. Isildur’s heir, hidden long in the North. Every day since their march began, Boromir had taken his measure and set it against the long history of the Kings.
A guarded man was Aragorn, with keen grey eyes and sternly cut features that bespoke the legacy of Númenor – but such traces were bred into most noble houses of Gondor. That he carried the sword of Isildur could not be doubted, yet it took more to make a King. After nigh fiftyscore years that the throne had stood abandoned, much more would be required than a high lineage and its time-worn tokens.
What it was that would prove the true King, Boromir could not say. The Lord Steward, his father, might have plucked an answer from the vaults of his shrewd mind, or from ancient lore. A sign there must be, likely known to none but the guardians of the Kingdom and kept a close secret. At times Boromir felt it prickle on the limits of his mind, traced out in shadow like an eagle passing high overhead, always beyond his grasp.
Impatient, he quickened his stride. Faramir, with his taste for trials of the mind, might have passed these empty days teasing riddles and dim notions apart till they surrendered their meaning. But Boromir owned no such gift to ease the weariness of their long, slow crawl.
Even if the King returns, he thought, what will he find? Razed walls and charred bodies trampled into the mud, faceless under blackened crusts of blood, under the beaks of feeding crows...
Boromir set his teeth and touched his sword-hilt to dispel these ravening notions of doom. Too often since the fall of the last bridge they tore into his sleep; they must not overcome his waking hours. Many leagues to the south, Minas Tirith still held out, defiant in her white glory.
Soon after, Gandalf called a brief halt. A heather-grown dell gave shelter from the wind, and the halflings were quick to gather their rations from the pony’s saddle bags. Their light voices wove through the pause and rose like sparrows to the morning’s dull gleam. Taking little food as usual, Legolas sprang up shortly to scout the country ahead.
With the break of day, the Misty Mountains stretched out long shadows that would hide their progress for several hours more. Let the halflings take their well-earned rest before the next march; for himself, Boromir knew yet no need for repose.
His shield set against the truss of blankets, he paced under the mountains’ shadow. Too many years, his will had been trained to command and now chafed with unrest. Yet for good cause had he exiled himself, to bow to the council of strangers – if needs be. A weather-burnt ranger and a wizard in grey rags: the pair stood apart by some rough boulders on the dell’s southward rim.
Though the wind carried mere snatches of their exchange, Boromir guessed much from the gestures and glances passing between them. They were debating the Company’s further course, and the taut set of Aragorn’s face suggested a disagreement. But why would that be? If the Gap of Rohan was barred to them, the only road they could attempt led across the mountains, and the Redhorn Gate lay yet far to the south.
Slowly, so they had time to notice his approach, Boromir stepped towards them.
“...though it is a dark and secret way,” he heard Gandalf, untroubled, seeking only to persuade.
“Only despair will choose such a road for us.” Aragorn’s voice was low and tight. Over the wizard’s shoulder, Boromir watched his face. For the first time, fear stole through the ranger’s glance, quickly subdued. Not fear for his own life, but the dread of doom laid on another.
Boromir turned his gaze away. This shadow he knew too well, and how to keep it locked within, lest careless words should bring it nearer the truth. For a split moment, he might have been tempted to offer comfort to Aragorn, had he known any for himself.
He stalked off, driven by a wave of anger. If this is indeed Isildur’s heir, why will he not lead the Company? Why not enforce his choice, whatever it may be?
A harsh gale tore at Boromir’s cloak. Little by little, the cold breathed through mail, leather and cloth and settled against his skin. The glimpse of darkness in Aragorn’s eyes had wakened hard memories and delivered them too close.
Doom is near at hand. Faramir’s dream spoke truly, more so than he knew. And it was well that he should not know.
Boromir pulled his cloak tight about himself. When Faramir first told him the dream and echoed these very words, a chill had run through him and sunk in deep. He could not let his brother step forth to face it, alone. When he had claimed the errand before their father, pain had flashed in Faramir’s eyes, from the blow of trust betrayed. And the doubt, unspoken, that it might be pride pricking his brother. But not so.
If doom falls then shall it take me first. That was his errand, the need Boromir had first owned when a sleepless fear crossed the river and swept through the ruins of Osgiliath, with a blackness deeper than night.
In memory, he lingered a while longer with his brother, on the day that saw their narrow escape, when the last bridge was cast into churning waters. Chilled and drained, they had pulled themselves from the river. On the far bank, the midsummer twilight caught in Faramir’s eyes and left them bright, the one bright thing in a murk of fumes and torn mud. As they looked back on Osgiliath together, the ancient heart of Gondor now seized by their enemy, fury and grief stormed through Boromir’s chest and shook him with a cry that belonged to wounded beast more than man. Yet beside him Faramir stood silent, his fine-boned features calm as iron. Armoured in the will to understand, to pierce these shadows with a probing mind, not force.
The better heir to your white rod, Father, thought Boromir, once the force of Gondor fails.
The Lord Denethor would disagree, he knew, and never while he lived would Denethor’s heir voice such notions of defeat. But he had tasted it in the river-waters that day, a bitter parting that could not be escaped. He had chosen to step towards it, unbent, when he took the northward road.
Better me than you, little brother. More Boromir could not say when they parted, when Faramir clasped him with a passion that had the power to rend his heart and bare the one fear he could not master. Death held no sway over him. Like any warrior raised to pride and honour, he wished only to shape his own memory well, when the time came. To carve his name in the fierce and final strokes of death. Yet I shall not live to see yours.
A rustle at his back split Boromir’s thought. He swung about, his hand ready for his sword.
Aragorn stopped at arm’s length. The wind streamed his hair across his face. “We must be on our way. Soon the clouds will break.”
A brief glance at the sky showed Boromir no change in the weather. Drear and swollen, clouds beset the mountain range as they had for days.
“You take too little rest,” said Aragorn in quieter tones. “Do not wear yourself out ere the graver trials begin.”
Boromir shrugged. “I have known worse than covering weary leagues on scant rations.”
“That,” Aragorn returned, “I do not doubt. Yet more than the body’s rest may be at stake.”
A proud retort caught between Boromir’s teeth when he met the ranger’s eye. In the dip of a heartbeat, he knew that Aragorn read the minds of men, with the gift that his brother also possessed. With the same gentle, unyielding will.
Chin raised, he met the keen gaze appraising him. Are you beaten yet, Boromir? Do your dreams show you burnt meadows and black rubble, a raped wasteland where once life rose in shining ranks? Have you fled from near defeat because your hope for Gondor failed?
Once Boromir might have answered such questions with quick disdain. Hope was not part of a soldier’s trade and belonged to those left behind strong doors and sheltering walls. Yet now he craved it like a spark in the deepest winter, when the cold eats even the memory of fire.
What do you know of Gondor? he asked in silence. Memory opened wide, to the swell of green hills and white crags beyond, cutting their share from the skies. To the broad band of Anduin, lacing his call through the songs that trailed slender barges downstream, on the golden flood of morning. Day bloomed on the White Tower that stood forth like a spear, unbreakable.
“I shall rest,” he said finally, “when Gondor is free of her enemies.” Or death takes me.
A rapid start fled across Aragorn’s face, and for a moment it seemed he might answer back sharply. Instead, his gaze gathered Boromir close, against an error that he saw as if cast in lightning but could not undo, there and gone, returning to the dark.
With a terse nod, Aragorn turned on his heel. He followed.
* * *
The snow touched Boromir’s face like a welcome. It swirled round him in thin flakes and danced up against the wind-ripped dark that poured down Caradhras. The climb filled him with an eagerness he had not known in years.
Can we go all the way to the top and sail away on a cloud? Faramir’s voice came to him from long ago, full of laughter and high as a goatboy’s when they made their first climb together. Mindolluin’s eastern flanks had streamed purple and blue, their edges cut with gold.
As many times as they returned – daring the snowline like a dormant beast – the marvel of it was never lost on Faramir. The freedom of untried paths, and the great stillness in the air when they looked across the seven beacon hills. Soon now, those desperate fires must be lit, a glimmering chain against nightfall.
The snow fell vigorously and hung a white tippet about Gandalf’s shoulders. Boromir kept his eyes out for clefts and gullies beneath the fresh, treacherous cover. More than once, he steered the halflings away from a certain fall. Frost clung to his face like a mask, while under cured leather and linens sweat streamed on his skin. No matter. Toiling up the slope strained his limbs with the healthy effort he had missed too long.
In two or three marches, they could reach the Redhorn Gate. He imagined it a parting in the sodden fogs, a tall gate that opened to nothing, only vast gulfs of air mirrored in ice.
“Wait, Boromir!” Aragorn’s voice was close and roughened by the cold.
Boromir met his eyes through the pale clouds of their breathing. He had pushed ahead, shielding the little folk from the snow-bearing gales. Ere Aragorn could speak again, all their companions drew to a wordless halt. Leaning on his axe, Gimli spat a curse through his teeth. Coarse blasts eddied about them.
What of it? Boromir was about to ask. The snows had met them sooner than expected, but the spiteful turn in the weather ought not to sap their resolve. What were they stopping for?
Then a black wind rushed them and carried the howls of the dying. The sound bit to the marrow, cruel as a warning from the Redhorn’s buried roots.
Warning indeed. A tremor ran through the ground and coursed up Boromir’s legs. With a crash like thunder, rocks broke loose from the heights, and all through it the wind sang with feral glee. They could walk no further tonight.
They took what shelter they could, as near to the lee as the harsh crags allowed. Under the leaning cliff, Boromir stacked up the faggots the Company had carried uphill on his advice. It might come to a choice between fire and death, Gandalf had cautioned them – gazing, as always, too sharply ahead.
While the halflings folded themselves small under cloaks and blankets, Boromir paced off the margins of their narrow retreat. When they set out again, all landmarks that might yet be noted would be buried in snow. The trough beneath the slope was a welter of broken shale that kept falling, and icy gales answered with the wolf-calls of the carrion field. Once again, he strode through memories, thick as the snowfall that Caradhras hurled down. Strapped to the axle of a single day.
The day that rent Gondor at the heart. The day they were overrun by a black tide from the Nameless Land, till there seemed no more room to swing his blade, and no place to set his feet that did not run with the blood of men under his command. Osgiliath had become a slaughterhouse for dull and bloody labour. If it had not been for Faramir, fighting desperately at his shoulder, he might have kept on mindless till he was dragged down by the weight of the dead. But he heard his brother’s rasping breath, closer than the screams, than the thud and crack of iron to bone, and the river’s edge lay within reach.
If I can save but one, it will be worth all the loss.
Then came the moment when his breath stopped. But another man’s shoulder took the arrow that would have pierced Faramir’s throat, and even as Boromir’s chest heaved with a sore craving for air, the river closed over their heads.
Luck had held that day – by a bare thread. He could not count on it again.
Before him, the cliff loomed as a bulwark against night, tall and unshakeable. Within, he was bent about the sight of his brother’s face, clear as the evening light on the high shore. He had held Faramir when he retched after his first battle, as no one had held him. He had sat in silence when his brother lifted a bright glance off his books, gazing out far to sights he couldn’t imagine. He dreamed himself back to the days when they cantered upriver at first light, shouting across the wind.
The pony’s soft whicker pulled him from it. Frost-drips fretting its mane, the poor beast stood shielding the halflings from the worst of the storm. Staring helpless with liquid dark eyes, while the snow rose above its hocks. Boromir passed a soothing hand across the pony’s whithers and looked down at the bearer of Isildur’s bane, huddled up under wool and fur. Snow gathered on the limp curls that had slipped free of his hood and did not melt. A bare thread of breath rose pale from his mouth.
No larger than children, the halflings were least equipped for the hazards of this journey, and their bodies had not been hardened to either want or war. But they set their teeth on all complaints, and if one spoke up, it was on behalf of a friend’s need, not his own. For all their pampered softness, they owned the cheer and sound nerve of Lossarnach’s mountain-lads. Upon the craggy knees of Caradhras, they’d still found breath to wish these snowloads away to their homeland.
Boromir drew up his shoulders against another fierce blast. Pity stirred him as he watched Frodo shiver and shift nearer the body of his servant. What fate brought such a hard charge upon you?
A riddle no less baffling than the dreamed rhyme, that such a slight, strange creature should carry the doom of Men. Boromir saw it again in his mind, the flare of gold caught into a perfect circle, proud and impervious. A thing of beauty, cast off by the savage power that sought their destruction.
What if there is hope in this thing, hope that the bones of our city shall not be broken? The thought slid over the edge of his grief and rubbed it raw.
He had set out to meet doom with a clear mind, mayhap to bring it down on himself as the tallest watchtower draws lightning when the storm breaks. Yet the nearness of this thing blurred the shapes of light and dark and etched every thought with a fiery rim. He could almost picture it in his palm, a burning coal that seared him even as he held fast. What if I was brought near for this very purpose?
When he looked up again, he met the clear eyes of Frodo’s servant, watching sharply as though he had spoken aloud.
“The snow is piling up,” Boromir muttered and averted his glance. “It will reach over your heads soon if the storm does not slacken.”
Sam made a tired motion as if to rise, but Boromir stayed him with a gesture. His gloves were sewn from calfskin lined with rabbit, and the cold did not seep through when he shovelled the snow aside with his hands. He set his shield in a drift on their right, as a brace against the wind.
That done, he straightened and waved the halfling’s thanks aside with a smile. When he turned, Aragorn walked out of the snow-swirls and set a hand on his shoulder.
“Let them sleep while they may,” he said, his face drawn with misgivings. “Come.”
The blizzard was beginning to slacken at last, Boromir noticed as they stepped aside. Now the wind rushed down steady from the east and shed its burden into a thickening quiet.
“We will not reach the Redhorn Gate, nor shall we cross the mountains,” said Aragorn in calm tones of fact.
“You and I could,” Boromir countered.
“Maybe.” Aragorn let his shoulders drop: what did it matter, when the halflings would never manage the climb?
Over the campfire, he had often nursed their spirits with tales, his voice soft and full, and at whiles they startled him to laughter that belonged to wide woodlands under the sun. To a different life.
“We have barely tried this hurdle,” Boromir insisted. “Unless an evil will indeed drove the storm, the morning may bring new counsel.”
“Boromir...” Aragorn waited till their eyes locked. A faint gleam breathed off the snow and showed his face still and watchful. “The morning will bring hard counsel and no change for the better.”
Boromir heard the note of warning and took it with open defiance. “I will admit defeat when it is upon me.”
Even as Aragorn’s glance hardened, memory turned spikes of scorn against him, raising a slow burn under his skin. Or shall I stand again to the last, too long and late, blind at heart?
“Pride,” said Aragorn, “cannot save us.” His voice lowered. “You have known defeat before, Boromir.”
In that moment, power hung about him, above judgement or appeal, and a will to danger like a flame that took Boromir by surprise. He felt in himself a weakness, a failing that opened under Aragorn’s scrutiny.
Lead me, show me where to turn when the darkness falls. The strangest thrill caught in the pit of his stomach. Shelter me.
Boromir set his shoulders and stepped to the edge of the cliff where the snow whistled hail-sharp through black gulfs. Never in the years of his manhood had he felt the desire to lean on another, to be drawn close under the shield of a greater strength. That would not change now.
He raised a hand to bat frost-grains out of his beard. Slow and stiff, his own movement warned him that the cold was settling in deep, draining him more than he knew. How much worse then for the little folk, wearied to the limits of endurance – and how much more perilous.
With abrupt resolve, he turned again to Aragorn. “We must start a fire now, or it will be the death of the halflings. I will speak to Gandalf.”
He went back to Frodo and lifted him out of the snow.
* * *
Out of darkness, his glance trailed sparks adrift on a breath of flame. A great heaviness bound his limbs. He had been guarding the entrance to the small cave where the halflings had taken refuge, he remembered. Twisting and sputtering, the fire blew heat into the recess.
From the wavering circle around it, Aragorn’s face bent towards him. Their other companions must be out on watch.
“You will freeze to your death if you remain like this.” Aragorn spoke to him as a captain to a young soldier of the mountain watch.
An icy prickle of shame swept Boromir. Mere boys growing up under the White Mountains knew the warnings as well as mother’s milk. And here he lay on a bed of frost, sprawled and spent under its ragged shroud. He tried to push himself upright, but his limbs shuddered like water.
“Wait.” With a firm grip of his shoulder, Aragorn crouched beside him. “Do not move yet. Your blood must first be warmed.”
Between shallow breaths, Boromir brought out a weak mumble. When Aragorn laid a hand to his face, his skin felt stiff as wood, but even as the touch was withdrawn, faint warmth rose towards it. Aragorn lost no time. He loosed first the clasp of Boromir’s cloak, then the mail collar from his throat. It slid away with a soft chink, the sound of ice shifting towards a kinder mood. With both hands, Aragorn brushed the snow-crust off his chest while frost melted on his own shoulders and ran to glitters in the flamelight. Boromir watched in awkward silence as the laces of his jerkin were unstrung. Under cold leather and stiffened cloth, he smelled like a horse driven hard across leagues.
What of it? he asked himself. Between men on tough duty, shame mattered none, not when the lives and the needs of many hung in the balance. It was a knowledge they shared, he knew by the look in the ranger’s eye, searching his skin for signs of frostbite and his flesh for the life-pulse.
He gave himself over to it, let Aragorn do his work and moved in accord with his hands. Long fingers peeled off stifling layers and stripped a cold weight off his body, with such ease that he scarce knew the difference between their touch and the fire’s draught. At the bottom of his throat, his skin pulsed defenceless in the frosty air.
Then Aragorn laid his hand against the knot of a scar above his right breast. A stray arrow had caught him there, its killing thrust slowed by a leather corselet, but the time for tending injuries had been short and his flesh knit unevenly. Half-forgotten, it pricked under Aragorn’s touch that lingered beyond any measure of necessity. His roughened palm was warm as blood.
A troubled shiver ran through Boromir as he met the ranger’s glance, guarded now with a different intent. The moment caught and locked, on the edge of changing their course. Boromir’s breath went out sharply.
Men at war oft took their pleasures with companions on the road, and many formed brotherhoods that lasted lifelong – however long or short that might be. At whiles, he had tasted such comforts himself, before his rank and duties set him apart. The Captain-General of Gondor should not be known to favour a single man.
Yet here his rank mattered little, and his duties awaited on the far side of unknown perils. He raised a hand and clasped it round Aragorn’s neck.
New vigour coursed through his limbs when Aragorn eased down beside him, a fire-shadow stretched out along his skin. With a short draw of breath, Boromir turned towards him, the chill of a belt-buckle pressing into his stomach. He tugged roughly on the clasps that fastened Aragorn’s surcoat, on the laces of his tunic till his hand found a heartbeat steadier than his own.
Before he could do more, Aragorn was above him. His hair swung in a dark curtain round Boromir’s face, brushing the side of his throat. In the twilight space between them, the want he’d denied moved suddenly too near – then Aragorn’s mouth sealed his and forced life into him as though he owned it.
Boromir’s hands clenched to fists on his shoulders. Between the breath of ice on his bared skin and the heat running through it, he was unsettled, strung taut by a need that forged ahead too soon. He gasped for air. He felt too sharply the weight of another man’s body crushed into him, demanding surrender. Had he truly thought to find relief in this?
He carried death within, the wingbeats of too many lives wasted to be remembered, no more than flitting sparks on a black draught.
As if he knew, Aragorn stilled and took his face between his hands. “You stand upon the brink, Boromir.” A hard certainty carried through his gentle tone. “Must I claim you away from this, so that you will live?”
Boromir caught his breath and mustered the only answer he knew. “Another claim was laid on me long ago.”
“Gondor,” Aragorn shaped the name in murmurs and held him down with his own body. “Gondor claims you.”
A scalding thrill ran cold across Boromir’s skin. With it came the first sense of a shell cracking, between the rough blows of his heartbeat to the wall of his chest and the want that hollowed him out.
He drew Aragorn’s mouth down on his own, resolved to regain mastery of himself. But when he strove against Aragorn’s confident grip, he found himself matched in strength and will. The truth of it raced in his blood and rose to his head like wine. Sweat slickened his skin through this heated grappling, and the fight within strained him beyond relief. A groan spilled from his mouth, strange and broken.
Above them loomed the mountain, in the vastness of night that hung suspended from knife-edged cliffs. Snow fell softly and vanished in the fire’s outer glow. When he clutched Aragorn’s shoulders, he sought more than a hold, more than he could name. Firelight blew round the other man’s frame, setting his face in darkness.
“Aragorn...” He felt dazed and fevered, uncertain now whether he spoke or answered within, to a murmur on the other side of his mind.
I shall not yield.
You must. There are times when yielding alone can save all that is worth saving. Aragorn’s glance bore down on him and spared him nothing. Did love not teach you this?
A strong hand caressed the side of his face, gathering calm in the middle of a storm. On the rise of a harsh breath, Boromir felt the jab under his breastbone. Despair lodged there, poised against the will to endure till it thinned to a thread.
I cannot, he answered as one who sees his life in embers. It will break me.
* * *
“Awaken, Boromir!” Aragorn crouched before him and seized his shoulders with a force that bespoke his alarm. “Boromir, you must keep up the watch!”
It might have been the voice of his forefathers down from Mardil the Faithful, calling on the Warden of the White Tower with a taunt that whipped him awake. And yet this voice stirred more within, a memory yet unnamed. He had sagged against the cliff, snow gathering in his lap, and could for a moment not feel his legs. There was no crevice in the rock where he had dreamed it, and the fire had dwindled to smouldering cinders.
“Do not give in to the lull and the dreams this cold brings,” Aragorn added softly. His fingers dug into Boromir’s arms. “They are bound to lead you astray.”
Yet such dreams brushed truth as near as the body came to death, or so the upland folk of Morthond claimed. Boromir could not work his sluggish tongue round this reply and within a breath was glad of it. He remembered.
From the dregs of his dream, a slow wave spread through him, warming his face with awareness, not shame. Naught shamed him but that he had fallen asleep on watch.
Their companions were huddled in a circle around the dying fire, heads bowed under hoods daubed with snow. Only Gandalf sent a wakeful glance across. With slow effort, Boromir pulled up his stiff legs, relieved when Aragorn let go and settled down beside him.
Beyond their circle, the snow had piled to high drifts. Scant outlines jabbed lightless through these shrouds, and the dark hung unbroken over all. Boromir fought to quench the shivers that seized his middle. Torn from unwanted sleep, he felt naked to this raw land.
We shall not reach the Redhorn Gate. When last they spoke, Aragorn had not been afraid to admit the truth.
“You were right. We cannot continue on this path.” Boromir turned sideways and spoke for his hearing alone, in a voice still rough with sleep. “’Tis true, too, I have known defeat...” Bloodflow returned to his limbs with a heated prickling that he felt from afar. “When we fought at Osgiliath, my brother would have called the retreat sooner than I did. He would have sought to avoid the waste of lives.”
Aragorn’s glance searched him with keen intent. “Why did you not sound the retreat?”
I would not cede an inch of ground to the Enemy, Boromir might have answered the day before. Now he did not. “The men under my command... many fled before the terror that walked abroad and those who remained–” He stopped ere his voice could falter. “Dead. Or dying. I could not leave them. I belonged to them, in victory as in defeat.”
“Yet you were not the sole survivor,” said Aragorn. From hearing the tale once, in Rivendell, it seemed cut into his memory.
“My brother escaped with me,” Boromir told him nonetheless, “and two others. No more.”
“You had to choose between the dead and the living.”
Boromir bent his head. Yet the power loosed upon us claimed both, till we were all living dead. In the silence that fell, a sense of the nameless terror returned, a dark shadow under the moon clouding everything that lived.
He was startled when Aragorn spoke again, in soft tones that recalled a different purpose.
“Once, when I climbed the slopes of Mindolluin,” he said, “I lost my way. I was snow-dazzled and hardly knew which way lay up or down.”
This Boromir could imagine with ease. “What saved you?”
“I do not know.” Aragorn paused, and his gaze wandered across the remains of their fire. “I was born to a path long chosen for me, and raised to set all my will to it. Upon the mountain, I was lost to myself and yet knew no fear.”
His voice seemed adrift on the memory and took Boromir within sight of those dazzling slopes, ablaze in proud colour. Here a man might surrender himself to the greater powers of rock and wind and yet feel no loss.
We are small under the wing of doom. Boromir released a long breath. Still we choose as we can...
“No man should climb Mindolluin alone,” he said slowly. “When was it that your travels took you to Gondor?”
“Long ago. Before you were born, Boromir.” A smile hovered in the corners of Aragorn’s mouth and touched his eyes also.
Unsurprised, Boromir returned it.
By the harsh daylight that scraped the mountain flanks, he had watched a ragged wanderer, a mind sharpened to danger through harrying years. Isildur’s heir maybe, but not yet put to the test. A truth unproved.
In the wilderness of his dreams, he had known the man’s heart and strength with his skin. Embers that lent no more warmth but still traced Aragorn in their waning light.
“Day will break soon.” In one swift movement, Aragorn rose. “Now let us see what we can do.”
When he held out his hand, Boromir took it.
A chill light bloomed faint above the snow and caught in Aragorn’s glance as they stood side by side.
And here, Boromir knew, he looked upon the face of a King. Something stretched in his chest, raw and furtive. Hope, he thought with a leap of breath. Though dawn crept up in bleary greys, it brought him a moment’s peace.
* * * * *
caras_galadhon: Happy Holidays! :) Title: In Embers
Author: Cara J. Loup
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none that I can think of, though apologies may be in order...
Summary: Boromir looks into the fire.
A/N: Heartfelt thanks are due to the writer of the prompt for providing me with a flush of inspiration (and I hope she’ll forgive me for sticking rather narrowly to canon!); to Sean Bean, Dwimordene and an aftercomer named Barahir who all paved the way for this story.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction written without any commercial interest whatsoever. No infringement on copyrights held by the Tolkien Estate intended or assumed.
A sharp wind whistled down the mountain flanks. From the heights now wrapped in cloud, it brought the bite of snow, the clean chill that remained ever fresh as daybreak. Boromir breathed it in deep. After so many nights of trudging through the coarse folds of this country, he longed to get up into the mountains. Even in the gloom, their cleft shanks stood out pale and sharp. No matter how difficult the climb, it would take them to wide regions of the sun, where the sky’s own breath glittered on the snowfields. At long last, it would grant them a view of the lands beyond and reveal the Great River in flashes of broken silver.
Grit and gravel crunched beneath his boots as Boromir leaned into the wind. Only at the last moment did he notice the lighter tread drawing up from behind. Then Aragorn fell into step beside him. Boromir acknowledged him with a short dip of his head. While the halflings might chatter away during the first stage of each march, Aragorn was not given to idle talk. For a mile or more they walked in silence, the blasts of cold wind in their faces. Time enough for Boromir to mark the ranger’s easy, tireless stride against his own heavy tread. It could not be helped. The weight of leather and mail, of his shield and arms might be a burden on his body, but he carried them as a goad to endurance. As a needful memory of all he had left behind, in the teeth of war. And even so burdened he could have managed a better pace than the one they now kept, for the halflings’ sake. It dragged on his mood, that the peaks gnawing the southern edge of the sky had seemed unchanged for days. Thirteen in all had gone, since they left Imladris.
“Must stealth also make us slow?” he asked at length. “We could have brought horses to take us to the bottom of the pass.”
Aragorn sent him a mild sidelong glance. In all likelihood, the thought had not once grazed his mind. They called him ‘Strider’ in the Westlands after all.
“We should miss many useful signs if we travelled at greater speed,” he answered, “however much we may desire it.”
Boromir hunched up his shoulders. The common tracking skills of a huntsman, such as he possessed, were no match for Aragorn, who knew how to read even the messages that the wind brought. The faintest trail left upon hard ground or among the thorn-brush that clad the foothills gave him news of many things, though some belonged to bygone seasons.
“Without horses,” he added, “we make smaller targets for our enemies’ eyes.”
“The men of Gondor,” Boromir countered, “never made a habit of shrinking from their foes, nor of hiding from danger.”
“Neither do I.” Another man might have taken offence, but Aragorn’s tone was unchanged, and calm as the hills’ shade.
“Nor did I mean to say so,” Boromir answered gruffly. He knew well enough that a battle-seasoned man walked beside him. Toughened by many lean years, Aragorn ate and slept sparely, and only on rare chances did the watchfulness slip from his face. That he was swift and deadly in a fight, Boromir read in his poise, in the deftness of every move, and the faded scars glimpsed once, as they washed in a pebbled stream, had confirmed his guess.
“This is a time of hard choices, Boromir, and some may go against the very grain of our will and desire.” Aragorn’s voice had altered. Even as it grew soft, it bared intent like steel. “But this, too, must be borne.”
When Boromir met his eyes, they were shadowed by a mood so close to compassion that his skin began to crawl. He willed himself not to look away.
You have no comfort to offer me, he might have returned, but some movement ahead drew Aragorn’s glance and spared him the effort.
From a low ridge that crossed their path, Gandalf beckoned for the ranger to join him, his battered cloak flapping in the wind, dark against a pale rim of day in the east.
As Aragorn strode away, Boromir watched after him with narrowed eyes. Isildur’s heir, hidden long in the North. Every day since their march began, Boromir had taken his measure and set it against the long history of the Kings.
A guarded man was Aragorn, with keen grey eyes and sternly cut features that bespoke the legacy of Númenor – but such traces were bred into most noble houses of Gondor. That he carried the sword of Isildur could not be doubted, yet it took more to make a King. After nigh fiftyscore years that the throne had stood abandoned, much more would be required than a high lineage and its time-worn tokens.
What it was that would prove the true King, Boromir could not say. The Lord Steward, his father, might have plucked an answer from the vaults of his shrewd mind, or from ancient lore. A sign there must be, likely known to none but the guardians of the Kingdom and kept a close secret. At times Boromir felt it prickle on the limits of his mind, traced out in shadow like an eagle passing high overhead, always beyond his grasp.
Impatient, he quickened his stride. Faramir, with his taste for trials of the mind, might have passed these empty days teasing riddles and dim notions apart till they surrendered their meaning. But Boromir owned no such gift to ease the weariness of their long, slow crawl.
Even if the King returns, he thought, what will he find? Razed walls and charred bodies trampled into the mud, faceless under blackened crusts of blood, under the beaks of feeding crows...
Boromir set his teeth and touched his sword-hilt to dispel these ravening notions of doom. Too often since the fall of the last bridge they tore into his sleep; they must not overcome his waking hours. Many leagues to the south, Minas Tirith still held out, defiant in her white glory.
Soon after, Gandalf called a brief halt. A heather-grown dell gave shelter from the wind, and the halflings were quick to gather their rations from the pony’s saddle bags. Their light voices wove through the pause and rose like sparrows to the morning’s dull gleam. Taking little food as usual, Legolas sprang up shortly to scout the country ahead.
With the break of day, the Misty Mountains stretched out long shadows that would hide their progress for several hours more. Let the halflings take their well-earned rest before the next march; for himself, Boromir knew yet no need for repose.
His shield set against the truss of blankets, he paced under the mountains’ shadow. Too many years, his will had been trained to command and now chafed with unrest. Yet for good cause had he exiled himself, to bow to the council of strangers – if needs be. A weather-burnt ranger and a wizard in grey rags: the pair stood apart by some rough boulders on the dell’s southward rim.
Though the wind carried mere snatches of their exchange, Boromir guessed much from the gestures and glances passing between them. They were debating the Company’s further course, and the taut set of Aragorn’s face suggested a disagreement. But why would that be? If the Gap of Rohan was barred to them, the only road they could attempt led across the mountains, and the Redhorn Gate lay yet far to the south.
Slowly, so they had time to notice his approach, Boromir stepped towards them.
“...though it is a dark and secret way,” he heard Gandalf, untroubled, seeking only to persuade.
“Only despair will choose such a road for us.” Aragorn’s voice was low and tight. Over the wizard’s shoulder, Boromir watched his face. For the first time, fear stole through the ranger’s glance, quickly subdued. Not fear for his own life, but the dread of doom laid on another.
Boromir turned his gaze away. This shadow he knew too well, and how to keep it locked within, lest careless words should bring it nearer the truth. For a split moment, he might have been tempted to offer comfort to Aragorn, had he known any for himself.
He stalked off, driven by a wave of anger. If this is indeed Isildur’s heir, why will he not lead the Company? Why not enforce his choice, whatever it may be?
A harsh gale tore at Boromir’s cloak. Little by little, the cold breathed through mail, leather and cloth and settled against his skin. The glimpse of darkness in Aragorn’s eyes had wakened hard memories and delivered them too close.
Doom is near at hand. Faramir’s dream spoke truly, more so than he knew. And it was well that he should not know.
Boromir pulled his cloak tight about himself. When Faramir first told him the dream and echoed these very words, a chill had run through him and sunk in deep. He could not let his brother step forth to face it, alone. When he had claimed the errand before their father, pain had flashed in Faramir’s eyes, from the blow of trust betrayed. And the doubt, unspoken, that it might be pride pricking his brother. But not so.
If doom falls then shall it take me first. That was his errand, the need Boromir had first owned when a sleepless fear crossed the river and swept through the ruins of Osgiliath, with a blackness deeper than night.
In memory, he lingered a while longer with his brother, on the day that saw their narrow escape, when the last bridge was cast into churning waters. Chilled and drained, they had pulled themselves from the river. On the far bank, the midsummer twilight caught in Faramir’s eyes and left them bright, the one bright thing in a murk of fumes and torn mud. As they looked back on Osgiliath together, the ancient heart of Gondor now seized by their enemy, fury and grief stormed through Boromir’s chest and shook him with a cry that belonged to wounded beast more than man. Yet beside him Faramir stood silent, his fine-boned features calm as iron. Armoured in the will to understand, to pierce these shadows with a probing mind, not force.
The better heir to your white rod, Father, thought Boromir, once the force of Gondor fails.
The Lord Denethor would disagree, he knew, and never while he lived would Denethor’s heir voice such notions of defeat. But he had tasted it in the river-waters that day, a bitter parting that could not be escaped. He had chosen to step towards it, unbent, when he took the northward road.
Better me than you, little brother. More Boromir could not say when they parted, when Faramir clasped him with a passion that had the power to rend his heart and bare the one fear he could not master. Death held no sway over him. Like any warrior raised to pride and honour, he wished only to shape his own memory well, when the time came. To carve his name in the fierce and final strokes of death. Yet I shall not live to see yours.
A rustle at his back split Boromir’s thought. He swung about, his hand ready for his sword.
Aragorn stopped at arm’s length. The wind streamed his hair across his face. “We must be on our way. Soon the clouds will break.”
A brief glance at the sky showed Boromir no change in the weather. Drear and swollen, clouds beset the mountain range as they had for days.
“You take too little rest,” said Aragorn in quieter tones. “Do not wear yourself out ere the graver trials begin.”
Boromir shrugged. “I have known worse than covering weary leagues on scant rations.”
“That,” Aragorn returned, “I do not doubt. Yet more than the body’s rest may be at stake.”
A proud retort caught between Boromir’s teeth when he met the ranger’s eye. In the dip of a heartbeat, he knew that Aragorn read the minds of men, with the gift that his brother also possessed. With the same gentle, unyielding will.
Chin raised, he met the keen gaze appraising him. Are you beaten yet, Boromir? Do your dreams show you burnt meadows and black rubble, a raped wasteland where once life rose in shining ranks? Have you fled from near defeat because your hope for Gondor failed?
Once Boromir might have answered such questions with quick disdain. Hope was not part of a soldier’s trade and belonged to those left behind strong doors and sheltering walls. Yet now he craved it like a spark in the deepest winter, when the cold eats even the memory of fire.
What do you know of Gondor? he asked in silence. Memory opened wide, to the swell of green hills and white crags beyond, cutting their share from the skies. To the broad band of Anduin, lacing his call through the songs that trailed slender barges downstream, on the golden flood of morning. Day bloomed on the White Tower that stood forth like a spear, unbreakable.
“I shall rest,” he said finally, “when Gondor is free of her enemies.” Or death takes me.
A rapid start fled across Aragorn’s face, and for a moment it seemed he might answer back sharply. Instead, his gaze gathered Boromir close, against an error that he saw as if cast in lightning but could not undo, there and gone, returning to the dark.
With a terse nod, Aragorn turned on his heel. He followed.
The snow touched Boromir’s face like a welcome. It swirled round him in thin flakes and danced up against the wind-ripped dark that poured down Caradhras. The climb filled him with an eagerness he had not known in years.
Can we go all the way to the top and sail away on a cloud? Faramir’s voice came to him from long ago, full of laughter and high as a goatboy’s when they made their first climb together. Mindolluin’s eastern flanks had streamed purple and blue, their edges cut with gold.
As many times as they returned – daring the snowline like a dormant beast – the marvel of it was never lost on Faramir. The freedom of untried paths, and the great stillness in the air when they looked across the seven beacon hills. Soon now, those desperate fires must be lit, a glimmering chain against nightfall.
The snow fell vigorously and hung a white tippet about Gandalf’s shoulders. Boromir kept his eyes out for clefts and gullies beneath the fresh, treacherous cover. More than once, he steered the halflings away from a certain fall. Frost clung to his face like a mask, while under cured leather and linens sweat streamed on his skin. No matter. Toiling up the slope strained his limbs with the healthy effort he had missed too long.
In two or three marches, they could reach the Redhorn Gate. He imagined it a parting in the sodden fogs, a tall gate that opened to nothing, only vast gulfs of air mirrored in ice.
“Wait, Boromir!” Aragorn’s voice was close and roughened by the cold.
Boromir met his eyes through the pale clouds of their breathing. He had pushed ahead, shielding the little folk from the snow-bearing gales. Ere Aragorn could speak again, all their companions drew to a wordless halt. Leaning on his axe, Gimli spat a curse through his teeth. Coarse blasts eddied about them.
What of it? Boromir was about to ask. The snows had met them sooner than expected, but the spiteful turn in the weather ought not to sap their resolve. What were they stopping for?
Then a black wind rushed them and carried the howls of the dying. The sound bit to the marrow, cruel as a warning from the Redhorn’s buried roots.
Warning indeed. A tremor ran through the ground and coursed up Boromir’s legs. With a crash like thunder, rocks broke loose from the heights, and all through it the wind sang with feral glee. They could walk no further tonight.
They took what shelter they could, as near to the lee as the harsh crags allowed. Under the leaning cliff, Boromir stacked up the faggots the Company had carried uphill on his advice. It might come to a choice between fire and death, Gandalf had cautioned them – gazing, as always, too sharply ahead.
While the halflings folded themselves small under cloaks and blankets, Boromir paced off the margins of their narrow retreat. When they set out again, all landmarks that might yet be noted would be buried in snow. The trough beneath the slope was a welter of broken shale that kept falling, and icy gales answered with the wolf-calls of the carrion field. Once again, he strode through memories, thick as the snowfall that Caradhras hurled down. Strapped to the axle of a single day.
The day that rent Gondor at the heart. The day they were overrun by a black tide from the Nameless Land, till there seemed no more room to swing his blade, and no place to set his feet that did not run with the blood of men under his command. Osgiliath had become a slaughterhouse for dull and bloody labour. If it had not been for Faramir, fighting desperately at his shoulder, he might have kept on mindless till he was dragged down by the weight of the dead. But he heard his brother’s rasping breath, closer than the screams, than the thud and crack of iron to bone, and the river’s edge lay within reach.
If I can save but one, it will be worth all the loss.
Then came the moment when his breath stopped. But another man’s shoulder took the arrow that would have pierced Faramir’s throat, and even as Boromir’s chest heaved with a sore craving for air, the river closed over their heads.
Luck had held that day – by a bare thread. He could not count on it again.
Before him, the cliff loomed as a bulwark against night, tall and unshakeable. Within, he was bent about the sight of his brother’s face, clear as the evening light on the high shore. He had held Faramir when he retched after his first battle, as no one had held him. He had sat in silence when his brother lifted a bright glance off his books, gazing out far to sights he couldn’t imagine. He dreamed himself back to the days when they cantered upriver at first light, shouting across the wind.
The pony’s soft whicker pulled him from it. Frost-drips fretting its mane, the poor beast stood shielding the halflings from the worst of the storm. Staring helpless with liquid dark eyes, while the snow rose above its hocks. Boromir passed a soothing hand across the pony’s whithers and looked down at the bearer of Isildur’s bane, huddled up under wool and fur. Snow gathered on the limp curls that had slipped free of his hood and did not melt. A bare thread of breath rose pale from his mouth.
No larger than children, the halflings were least equipped for the hazards of this journey, and their bodies had not been hardened to either want or war. But they set their teeth on all complaints, and if one spoke up, it was on behalf of a friend’s need, not his own. For all their pampered softness, they owned the cheer and sound nerve of Lossarnach’s mountain-lads. Upon the craggy knees of Caradhras, they’d still found breath to wish these snowloads away to their homeland.
Boromir drew up his shoulders against another fierce blast. Pity stirred him as he watched Frodo shiver and shift nearer the body of his servant. What fate brought such a hard charge upon you?
A riddle no less baffling than the dreamed rhyme, that such a slight, strange creature should carry the doom of Men. Boromir saw it again in his mind, the flare of gold caught into a perfect circle, proud and impervious. A thing of beauty, cast off by the savage power that sought their destruction.
What if there is hope in this thing, hope that the bones of our city shall not be broken? The thought slid over the edge of his grief and rubbed it raw.
He had set out to meet doom with a clear mind, mayhap to bring it down on himself as the tallest watchtower draws lightning when the storm breaks. Yet the nearness of this thing blurred the shapes of light and dark and etched every thought with a fiery rim. He could almost picture it in his palm, a burning coal that seared him even as he held fast. What if I was brought near for this very purpose?
When he looked up again, he met the clear eyes of Frodo’s servant, watching sharply as though he had spoken aloud.
“The snow is piling up,” Boromir muttered and averted his glance. “It will reach over your heads soon if the storm does not slacken.”
Sam made a tired motion as if to rise, but Boromir stayed him with a gesture. His gloves were sewn from calfskin lined with rabbit, and the cold did not seep through when he shovelled the snow aside with his hands. He set his shield in a drift on their right, as a brace against the wind.
That done, he straightened and waved the halfling’s thanks aside with a smile. When he turned, Aragorn walked out of the snow-swirls and set a hand on his shoulder.
“Let them sleep while they may,” he said, his face drawn with misgivings. “Come.”
The blizzard was beginning to slacken at last, Boromir noticed as they stepped aside. Now the wind rushed down steady from the east and shed its burden into a thickening quiet.
“We will not reach the Redhorn Gate, nor shall we cross the mountains,” said Aragorn in calm tones of fact.
“You and I could,” Boromir countered.
“Maybe.” Aragorn let his shoulders drop: what did it matter, when the halflings would never manage the climb?
Over the campfire, he had often nursed their spirits with tales, his voice soft and full, and at whiles they startled him to laughter that belonged to wide woodlands under the sun. To a different life.
“We have barely tried this hurdle,” Boromir insisted. “Unless an evil will indeed drove the storm, the morning may bring new counsel.”
“Boromir...” Aragorn waited till their eyes locked. A faint gleam breathed off the snow and showed his face still and watchful. “The morning will bring hard counsel and no change for the better.”
Boromir heard the note of warning and took it with open defiance. “I will admit defeat when it is upon me.”
Even as Aragorn’s glance hardened, memory turned spikes of scorn against him, raising a slow burn under his skin. Or shall I stand again to the last, too long and late, blind at heart?
“Pride,” said Aragorn, “cannot save us.” His voice lowered. “You have known defeat before, Boromir.”
In that moment, power hung about him, above judgement or appeal, and a will to danger like a flame that took Boromir by surprise. He felt in himself a weakness, a failing that opened under Aragorn’s scrutiny.
Lead me, show me where to turn when the darkness falls. The strangest thrill caught in the pit of his stomach. Shelter me.
Boromir set his shoulders and stepped to the edge of the cliff where the snow whistled hail-sharp through black gulfs. Never in the years of his manhood had he felt the desire to lean on another, to be drawn close under the shield of a greater strength. That would not change now.
He raised a hand to bat frost-grains out of his beard. Slow and stiff, his own movement warned him that the cold was settling in deep, draining him more than he knew. How much worse then for the little folk, wearied to the limits of endurance – and how much more perilous.
With abrupt resolve, he turned again to Aragorn. “We must start a fire now, or it will be the death of the halflings. I will speak to Gandalf.”
He went back to Frodo and lifted him out of the snow.
Out of darkness, his glance trailed sparks adrift on a breath of flame. A great heaviness bound his limbs. He had been guarding the entrance to the small cave where the halflings had taken refuge, he remembered. Twisting and sputtering, the fire blew heat into the recess.
From the wavering circle around it, Aragorn’s face bent towards him. Their other companions must be out on watch.
“You will freeze to your death if you remain like this.” Aragorn spoke to him as a captain to a young soldier of the mountain watch.
An icy prickle of shame swept Boromir. Mere boys growing up under the White Mountains knew the warnings as well as mother’s milk. And here he lay on a bed of frost, sprawled and spent under its ragged shroud. He tried to push himself upright, but his limbs shuddered like water.
“Wait.” With a firm grip of his shoulder, Aragorn crouched beside him. “Do not move yet. Your blood must first be warmed.”
Between shallow breaths, Boromir brought out a weak mumble. When Aragorn laid a hand to his face, his skin felt stiff as wood, but even as the touch was withdrawn, faint warmth rose towards it. Aragorn lost no time. He loosed first the clasp of Boromir’s cloak, then the mail collar from his throat. It slid away with a soft chink, the sound of ice shifting towards a kinder mood. With both hands, Aragorn brushed the snow-crust off his chest while frost melted on his own shoulders and ran to glitters in the flamelight. Boromir watched in awkward silence as the laces of his jerkin were unstrung. Under cold leather and stiffened cloth, he smelled like a horse driven hard across leagues.
What of it? he asked himself. Between men on tough duty, shame mattered none, not when the lives and the needs of many hung in the balance. It was a knowledge they shared, he knew by the look in the ranger’s eye, searching his skin for signs of frostbite and his flesh for the life-pulse.
He gave himself over to it, let Aragorn do his work and moved in accord with his hands. Long fingers peeled off stifling layers and stripped a cold weight off his body, with such ease that he scarce knew the difference between their touch and the fire’s draught. At the bottom of his throat, his skin pulsed defenceless in the frosty air.
Then Aragorn laid his hand against the knot of a scar above his right breast. A stray arrow had caught him there, its killing thrust slowed by a leather corselet, but the time for tending injuries had been short and his flesh knit unevenly. Half-forgotten, it pricked under Aragorn’s touch that lingered beyond any measure of necessity. His roughened palm was warm as blood.
A troubled shiver ran through Boromir as he met the ranger’s glance, guarded now with a different intent. The moment caught and locked, on the edge of changing their course. Boromir’s breath went out sharply.
Men at war oft took their pleasures with companions on the road, and many formed brotherhoods that lasted lifelong – however long or short that might be. At whiles, he had tasted such comforts himself, before his rank and duties set him apart. The Captain-General of Gondor should not be known to favour a single man.
Yet here his rank mattered little, and his duties awaited on the far side of unknown perils. He raised a hand and clasped it round Aragorn’s neck.
New vigour coursed through his limbs when Aragorn eased down beside him, a fire-shadow stretched out along his skin. With a short draw of breath, Boromir turned towards him, the chill of a belt-buckle pressing into his stomach. He tugged roughly on the clasps that fastened Aragorn’s surcoat, on the laces of his tunic till his hand found a heartbeat steadier than his own.
Before he could do more, Aragorn was above him. His hair swung in a dark curtain round Boromir’s face, brushing the side of his throat. In the twilight space between them, the want he’d denied moved suddenly too near – then Aragorn’s mouth sealed his and forced life into him as though he owned it.
Boromir’s hands clenched to fists on his shoulders. Between the breath of ice on his bared skin and the heat running through it, he was unsettled, strung taut by a need that forged ahead too soon. He gasped for air. He felt too sharply the weight of another man’s body crushed into him, demanding surrender. Had he truly thought to find relief in this?
He carried death within, the wingbeats of too many lives wasted to be remembered, no more than flitting sparks on a black draught.
As if he knew, Aragorn stilled and took his face between his hands. “You stand upon the brink, Boromir.” A hard certainty carried through his gentle tone. “Must I claim you away from this, so that you will live?”
Boromir caught his breath and mustered the only answer he knew. “Another claim was laid on me long ago.”
“Gondor,” Aragorn shaped the name in murmurs and held him down with his own body. “Gondor claims you.”
A scalding thrill ran cold across Boromir’s skin. With it came the first sense of a shell cracking, between the rough blows of his heartbeat to the wall of his chest and the want that hollowed him out.
He drew Aragorn’s mouth down on his own, resolved to regain mastery of himself. But when he strove against Aragorn’s confident grip, he found himself matched in strength and will. The truth of it raced in his blood and rose to his head like wine. Sweat slickened his skin through this heated grappling, and the fight within strained him beyond relief. A groan spilled from his mouth, strange and broken.
Above them loomed the mountain, in the vastness of night that hung suspended from knife-edged cliffs. Snow fell softly and vanished in the fire’s outer glow. When he clutched Aragorn’s shoulders, he sought more than a hold, more than he could name. Firelight blew round the other man’s frame, setting his face in darkness.
“Aragorn...” He felt dazed and fevered, uncertain now whether he spoke or answered within, to a murmur on the other side of his mind.
I shall not yield.
You must. There are times when yielding alone can save all that is worth saving. Aragorn’s glance bore down on him and spared him nothing. Did love not teach you this?
A strong hand caressed the side of his face, gathering calm in the middle of a storm. On the rise of a harsh breath, Boromir felt the jab under his breastbone. Despair lodged there, poised against the will to endure till it thinned to a thread.
I cannot, he answered as one who sees his life in embers. It will break me.
“Awaken, Boromir!” Aragorn crouched before him and seized his shoulders with a force that bespoke his alarm. “Boromir, you must keep up the watch!”
It might have been the voice of his forefathers down from Mardil the Faithful, calling on the Warden of the White Tower with a taunt that whipped him awake. And yet this voice stirred more within, a memory yet unnamed. He had sagged against the cliff, snow gathering in his lap, and could for a moment not feel his legs. There was no crevice in the rock where he had dreamed it, and the fire had dwindled to smouldering cinders.
“Do not give in to the lull and the dreams this cold brings,” Aragorn added softly. His fingers dug into Boromir’s arms. “They are bound to lead you astray.”
Yet such dreams brushed truth as near as the body came to death, or so the upland folk of Morthond claimed. Boromir could not work his sluggish tongue round this reply and within a breath was glad of it. He remembered.
From the dregs of his dream, a slow wave spread through him, warming his face with awareness, not shame. Naught shamed him but that he had fallen asleep on watch.
Their companions were huddled in a circle around the dying fire, heads bowed under hoods daubed with snow. Only Gandalf sent a wakeful glance across. With slow effort, Boromir pulled up his stiff legs, relieved when Aragorn let go and settled down beside him.
Beyond their circle, the snow had piled to high drifts. Scant outlines jabbed lightless through these shrouds, and the dark hung unbroken over all. Boromir fought to quench the shivers that seized his middle. Torn from unwanted sleep, he felt naked to this raw land.
We shall not reach the Redhorn Gate. When last they spoke, Aragorn had not been afraid to admit the truth.
“You were right. We cannot continue on this path.” Boromir turned sideways and spoke for his hearing alone, in a voice still rough with sleep. “’Tis true, too, I have known defeat...” Bloodflow returned to his limbs with a heated prickling that he felt from afar. “When we fought at Osgiliath, my brother would have called the retreat sooner than I did. He would have sought to avoid the waste of lives.”
Aragorn’s glance searched him with keen intent. “Why did you not sound the retreat?”
I would not cede an inch of ground to the Enemy, Boromir might have answered the day before. Now he did not. “The men under my command... many fled before the terror that walked abroad and those who remained–” He stopped ere his voice could falter. “Dead. Or dying. I could not leave them. I belonged to them, in victory as in defeat.”
“Yet you were not the sole survivor,” said Aragorn. From hearing the tale once, in Rivendell, it seemed cut into his memory.
“My brother escaped with me,” Boromir told him nonetheless, “and two others. No more.”
“You had to choose between the dead and the living.”
Boromir bent his head. Yet the power loosed upon us claimed both, till we were all living dead. In the silence that fell, a sense of the nameless terror returned, a dark shadow under the moon clouding everything that lived.
He was startled when Aragorn spoke again, in soft tones that recalled a different purpose.
“Once, when I climbed the slopes of Mindolluin,” he said, “I lost my way. I was snow-dazzled and hardly knew which way lay up or down.”
This Boromir could imagine with ease. “What saved you?”
“I do not know.” Aragorn paused, and his gaze wandered across the remains of their fire. “I was born to a path long chosen for me, and raised to set all my will to it. Upon the mountain, I was lost to myself and yet knew no fear.”
His voice seemed adrift on the memory and took Boromir within sight of those dazzling slopes, ablaze in proud colour. Here a man might surrender himself to the greater powers of rock and wind and yet feel no loss.
We are small under the wing of doom. Boromir released a long breath. Still we choose as we can...
“No man should climb Mindolluin alone,” he said slowly. “When was it that your travels took you to Gondor?”
“Long ago. Before you were born, Boromir.” A smile hovered in the corners of Aragorn’s mouth and touched his eyes also.
Unsurprised, Boromir returned it.
By the harsh daylight that scraped the mountain flanks, he had watched a ragged wanderer, a mind sharpened to danger through harrying years. Isildur’s heir maybe, but not yet put to the test. A truth unproved.
In the wilderness of his dreams, he had known the man’s heart and strength with his skin. Embers that lent no more warmth but still traced Aragorn in their waning light.
“Day will break soon.” In one swift movement, Aragorn rose. “Now let us see what we can do.”
When he held out his hand, Boromir took it.
A chill light bloomed faint above the snow and caught in Aragorn’s glance as they stood side by side.
And here, Boromir knew, he looked upon the face of a King. Something stretched in his chest, raw and furtive. Hope, he thought with a leap of breath. Though dawn crept up in bleary greys, it brought him a moment’s peace.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-12-26 10:02 am (UTC)The level of detail in this story is astounding as well. This is utterly, utterly lush, absolutely rich in textures and images.
And oh, poor Boromir, so very fatalistic, so very doomed. He broke my heart repeatedly here, and this--
I cannot, he answered as one who sees his life in embers. It will break me.
--and this--
“The men under my command... many fled before the terror that walked abroad and those who remained–” He stopped ere his voice could falter. “Dead. Or dying. I could not leave them. I belonged to them, in victory as in defeat.”
--brought tears to my eyes.
I love how complex you've made his allegiance to Gondor, how tight a hold it has on him, and the consequences, for good or ill, that comes from that connection. I love that his reflections on Denethor show respect for his father and understanding of his skills as a leader, rather than the broken man he will become. The reflections on Boromir's life with Faramir alternately made me smile and squeezed my heart tight; Boromir's love for his brother is crystal clear in this tale, as well as his need to protect him (and really, everyone under his care).
Aragorn feels simultaneously very compassionate and distant, which is especially fitting in terms of book!canon, but you add an extra dimension here through Boromir's dream of their intimacy. It has that beautiful subtly out-of-step feel to it before you realize it's a dream, yet there's a profound sense of the loss of something real when you reveal that it is, in fact, a dream.
This story is an utterly beautiful crystal: I'm entranced by the variations on cold and heat, the various facets, and the way it reflects and multiplies the questions and themes at the root of Tolkien's works. Gorgeous, Cara. Thank you so, so, SO much! ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-12-26 03:51 pm (UTC)This is stunning. Absolutely so.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-26 11:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-26 04:07 pm (UTC)I picture Boromir as someone with a strong affinity for the mountains, which is where the different facets of experiencing the cold that you mentioned come from. Despite his inner troubles, it was a great delight for me to discover this harsh environment through his eyes. I'm delighted this aspect in particular appealed to you!
As for Aragorn, I do think he appreciates Boromir's qualities - as well as his personal plight - more than is yet apparent, at such an early stage of their journey. The book doesn't show much interaction between them (more's the pity!), but the lament he sings at Boromir's burial reveals an amazing amount of insight, esteem and empathy that must have grown over time. To my mind, the dream does not just arise from Boromir's inner conflict but also acknowledges a connection that only these two men can share.
Anyway, thanks again for your comments - they totally made my day! :)
no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 05:42 pm (UTC)This was one of the longer stories in this exchange and yet it felt over too soon. So much depth of feeling, so many gorgeous images and moments to dwell on. The interactions between Aragorn and Boromir felt so right for the characters and where they were on this journey. And that ending, Boromir seeing hope within Aragorn; absolutely perfect.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-28 10:48 pm (UTC)As I wrote this, I felt that Boromir's interactions with Aragorn were subliminally shaped and defined by Boromir's attachment to Faramir (who's far more like Aragorn than his brother in many ways). I'm glad the result felt convincing to you - thanks again for the lovely compliments!
no subject
Date: 2012-12-28 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-28 10:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-30 05:25 pm (UTC)I also love how in fact, Boromir took this task upon himself not out of pride but to protect Faramir, who he realised would be needed in Gondor more than he. I was reminded of what Gandalf tells Pippin on their way to Minas Tirith: that the blood of Númenor runs strong in Denethor and Faramir, but not so much in Boromir. I like Boromir’s clear insight into this, especially since we don’t get much insight into his character from Tolkien, although it also casts a shadow over him to know that he is losing his place in the future of the country and people whom he loves so much and would do everything for to protect them.
he might have kept on mindless till he was dragged down by the weight of the dead
That was when the tears set in. You describe the utter despair so well that he must have felt watching his men fall.
And his interaction with Aragorn . . . there is this sense of pride and defiance, and yet, just with a few words and sentences, you coax out his hesitant desire to accept Aragorn’s leadership – and more. It’s not often that I’ve seen Boromir so in character, but with the perfect balance between pride and doubt and vulnerability. And your Aragorn’s voice is wonderful as well, gentle but steely, and with an authority even Boromir can’t shake off.
That last little paragraph is all the sadder, knowing what fate awaits Boromir.
Thank you for sharing this gem with us.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-06 12:20 am (UTC)Anyway, I'm totally delighted that you found Boromir so in character! Thanks for taking the time to leave feedback, it's deeply appreciated. :)
re: In Embers
Date: 2013-01-06 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-08 03:40 am (UTC)And I guess I've never before felt so strongly what you're saying right at the end: How I wish Boromir's path could have been different... I'm still profoundly grateful that this prompt landed in my lap and gave me the chance to focus completely on him (yes, after long and inexcusable oversight ;). Sometimes these things just seem to happen at the right time! It was endlessly fascinating to me - not to mention a huge challenge - to try and grasp Boromir's particular experience of love, power, and failure, and to envision how Aragorn may have affected the (im)balance of it all.
Thank you again for these wonderful comments!