Where he had fallen the tree roots had been digging into his back, but now he could barely feel them. There was a cold tide seeping through his veins, no holding it back.
He heard the whispered footfall of the elf, far off. Then his captain’s face began to swim in his gaze and he would hold that sight to the end. His king must know he gave his allegiance gladly and he was reaching for the sword, to swear on its blade.
It seemed that rain fell on his cheeks. The weight on his breast was so cold, so heavy, too heavy for breath. He could not find the blade, fingers groping blindly and suddenly he could bear no more and cried out, reared up, gasping, to a darkened and an empty hall…and knew they were his own tears.
Beyond the open doorway the old women stood like statues, huddled, and heard the man’s distress. Night after night, he lived again some agony.
The Beorning knew what dwelt, huddled within the darkest corner of their hall, a warrior surely beloved of the Valar to carry a bairn. It was not for them to say the word, but the man was haunted, flesh healing but unable to rest, and they knew that his returning strength would be needed ere long.
They had tried wakening him at the first whimper, had tried holding him tenderly as he arched and stiffened beneath their touch, before that last terrible cry. They had placed his bloodied clothing within reach of that groping hand, but nothing seemed to quiet his distress.
As nights saw him shivering, drenched in sweat, by day he lay amidst the meadow flowers, where they carried him, wrapped in warm furs, and dozed until the dusk fell once more and sharp grief would have split his heart in two, if’n he did not wake.
Once he asked what had become of his gear. The Beorning that had carried him home had wrapped him in the long cloak, but all else had been left within the elven boat to journey down the Anduin. He had bowed his head and thanked them once more, albeit in grave and sorrowful tones and that night he had not wakened, but seemed to weep without let, until the healers feared for the babe and roused him from sleep.
Now as they tended to the wounds, curious eyes saw the first swell of his belly and the women would feed him as carefully as any of their own.
As for Boromir he lived in a maze of memories that invaded every moment of his sleeping and sometimes in his waking hours they would flash before his gaze and surely they were his due, his punishment for his betrayal of the Fellowship. He would take the only path of honour left to him and live to suffer this if it meant his whole life, for he deserved no more, so he forced the food down although his stomach would rebel and he lifted his face to the sunlight in the meadow, although he would rather have been buried deep where none could see his shame.
As his flesh healed it seemed to him that the women did not stint in their care of him, rather treated him with great tenderness and he was doubly ashamed, for surely his nightmares disturbed the hall. He was healing, his body softening without the weight of weapons, but he would leave the Beorning as soon as he might, take the cursed thing from their sight and give them peace.
Where he had fallen the tree roots had been digging into his back, but now he could barely feel them. There was a cold tide seeping through his veins, no holding it back.
He heard the whispered footfall of the elf, far off. Then his captain’s face began to swim in his gaze and he would hold that sight to the end. His king must know he gave his allegiance gladly and he was reaching for the sword, to swear on its blade.
It seemed that now his king’s face was surrounded by a golden cloud. The weight on his breast was so heavy, too heavy for breath. He could not find the blade, fingers groping blindly and suddenly a hand clasped his own. His glove was gone and his king had fast hold of his hand, warm and strong so that a man could cling to it, though he were drowning in sorrow…he spoke his love’s name and this time he woke with cheeks wet but humbly grateful for a single moment of forgiveness.
He slept the remainder of that night in peace and all through the following day he dozed in the meadow nest of furs. The great black and gold bees that hummed about the clover seemed to come nearer to him that day and when first one and then another landed on his upturned face, he closed his eyes and let them wander as they would.
As Boromir lay down to sleep in the darkened hall he hardly dared hope for another vision of hope, but he asked simply that he not disturb his hosts again.
Once more he fell, stricken, pierced through with regret, shame and such a sense of loss that it would take the breath from him, but once more his love’s eyes met his amidst golden light and his hand clasped Boromir’s strongly. Then Aragorn’s image began to fade and as fear gripped him Boromir would have called out, but that the hand still clasped his own…except that it was more like a hobbit hand, or smaller… This time he awoke with a start, bewildered, his stomach rumbling, and saw with amazement that he had slept through to morning.
The hall was awake with murmuring and low laughter and an old, old, woman, who was his chief nurse and tormentor when he baulked at doing what the healers wished, was stood at the foot of his cot, with a steaming platter in hand.
He was still a little dazed as two women propped him up on his pillows, whilst a third opened his robe to make a cursory inspection of the healing wounds. Eventually, the old woman shooed them away and set the platter and a horn spoon on the low stool beside his cot. Boromir saw that it was no longer his usual fare of oat porridge swimming in honey, but there were eggs and strips of bacon too and what looked like wheat bread, spread with yellow butter. He took in a deep breath and looked up at the face, criss-crossed with wrinkles, in which the brightest dark eyes sparked with knowledge.
“You will eat all of that, my Lord,” she said and when he would have protested, she pulled back the coverlet, took his wrist and gently laid his hand upon his belly.
“You eat for the bairn too, my Lord,” she said firmly and turned away, ignoring the sudden stillness from the cot.
The women stood just beyond the partition listening for many minutes, but no sound came – neither laughter, nor weeping nor groans of despair. There was silence and at last they went about their business, but when the old nurse ventured to peer around the partition later that morning the plate was empty and the man lay sleeping. One hand was by his side, fist clenched tight and the other? The other lay across his belly, protecting the life within and it occurred to her now, that the warrior missed his sword.
Dream by Alex Quine
Summary: Boromir is haunted.
Rated: G
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1275 Read: 835
Published: 01 Nov 2009 Updated: 01 Nov 2009
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."