The water was cold, a chill that seeped into Boromir’s bones, but he noticed little of it. He swung his sword and stumbled backwards as one of the Watcher’s long arms swiped at him. Boromir could barely see beyond the splashing water, but he felt resistance against the edge of his sword and he sliced, blind but his aim was still true, and the Watcher’s arm fell away.
“Strider!” Frodo screamed, and Boromir immediately turned towards the voice. All at once, he had a glimpse of his so-called King, Aragorn’s dirty hair plastered onto his face, his jaw tight as his teeth gritted together, swinging his sword hard to cut swathes through the Watcher’s arms. One particular swing was well-aimed, the arm holding Frodo up sliced through, muscles loosening-
Frodo called for Aragorn, but Boromir was closer. He knew that Frodo trusted him not, so he waited two seconds for Aragorn to step up to catch him- but Aragorn was slow, too slow, and Frodo dropped down into Boromir’s arms and he held the hobbit close, his sword still unsheathed and aimed against those slick, long arms.
“Into the mines!” Gandalf shouted, and Boromir turned sharply and shouted Legolas’s name as the Fellowship tumbled inside.
Aragorn had a hand on his shoulder. Despite the cold, despite Frodo’s weight, despite their desperate situation, all of Boromir’s senses seemed to have narrowed straight down to the light pressure of the touch.
In that moment, he knew that he was a fool.
***
The Elves who welcomed him told him that Lord Elrond’s abode was named the Last Homely House, but it was hard-learned diplomacy and politeness that kept Boromir from snorting in derision at the name. This was no home, for its halls were great and vast, made of dark stone that seemed to swallow the light itself. His footsteps echoed sharply with every single step he took, and each footfall sounded like the thundering of hoofs in this unnatural quiet. Boromir could bare keep a hand off of his sword, so great was his wariness.
Not for a first time he thought he might have made a mistake; that his brother would have been a much better choice for this quest than he. But his father’s decision had been made. Boromir shook the thoughts out of his mind as he turned the corner, and his eyes were caught suddenly by a flash of light.
He walked towards it, finding himself in a small alcove. There was a painting on the wall, and though Faramir was surely far more versed in the olden tales than he, Boromir immediately recognised the scene as Elendil’s battle with the Enemy himself.
A time when the strength of Men had songs written about them; when Elves had the courage to ride forth against the Enemy instead of hiding themselves in this valley while Men shed blood in battle.
Boromir’s lips would have twisted, but he felt a gaze upon his back. He turned around immediately, and his eyes widened, for seated there was not an unbearded Elf with a too-youthful face and old eyes, but what looked like a Man. All of a sudden he felt a strong kinship towards this Man, for they were two mortals living in the realm of the undying. One glance at those fingers told Boromir that they were the callused pads of a warrior, and surely, a Man like that would know death.
Perhaps he could understand the darkness that had lingered in Boromir’s heart, refusing to be dislodged, ever since he had won the battle for Osgiliath.
He could barely recall what he said, but it was not a fault of his memory that he could not recall this Man’s name. He was not trusted even for a name, he knew immediately. He would have frowned, but Narsil’s shards called his attentions forth, and for a few moments he could dismiss that heavy gaze against his neck.
Even as he left the alcove, his blood staining Narsil’s broken edge red, he could still feel those stark blue eyes on his neck. It took effort to resist the temptation of turning around and demanding by what right this Man had to look at him so and judge him unworthy.
It mattered little, he told himself, for this Man meant little. Boromir would never see him again.
That was not the first mistake he made in Imladris. Merely one of many.
***
The water was cold and now the mines were dark. They had settled down for the night, where Boromir knew not, for Gandalf had extinguished the light in his staff. Even if they could see, Boromir would not know where they were, so there was no use in trying.
But even in the dark he could feel Aragorn’s presence, lingering at his right elbow. The Man who had the gall to call himself Gondor’s King was leaning against the doorway of the room, looking outwards. The darkness gave him courage and he let his eyes drink his fill.
Like this, Aragorn looked nothing like a King. His hair was sweat-soaked and plastered to his face with dirt from the river outside the mine and their long travels crusted to each strands. His beard looked as if it had not been trimmed for the whole of his life, and his fingers were callused and his knuckles broken from constant fighting, whether it was against orcs or wargs or even the cold itself.
He looked like a dirty, careworn Ranger. He looked nothing like a King.
But what did Boromir know of Kings? He knew Theoden, King of Rohan, but Theoden led in his army at its head, and his fingers had been stained with blood and dirt aplenty. He knew his father, King in all but name of Gondor, and in his youth Denethor had rode with his armies before, and he was not always confined to the White Tower and the chains of ruling as he was now.
What knew Boromir of Kings? Those he knew were rarely grand like the stories that Faramir loved to read to him, for theirs was a time of war and in war there was little glory and shine. He was a Steward’s son, but his line guarded a throne that had not been filled for near a thousand years, and Boromir had little time to imagine what the King of Gondor should be like.
Aragorn turned, and Boromir jerked his head away like he was a child. He could hear the hobbits having a soft conversation, and in concentrating on their indistinct voices he missed the scrape of Aragorn’s boots against the ground.
“You seem troubled.”
Boromir swallowed back a gasp when he saw that Aragorn sat not a foot away from him, looking at him with dark eyes.
“In a place like this,” he waved a hand, his voice barely above a hiss, “those who aren’t troubled are surely fools or children.”
“The hobbits seem at ease,” Aragorn said, mildly. “None of them are fools or children. Not even Pippin, no matter how young he looks or how carelessly he speaks.”
Boromir bristled, “You speak of that as if I don’t know it.”
Aragorn started, and there seemed a retort ready on his tongue, but before he could speak Gandalf called for their attention. Immediately, Boromir turned away, following the wizard. Again he could feel Aragorn’s gaze upon his back, but it had been days since Imladris, and Boromir had long mastered the ability to ignore the soft, prickling heat.
***
“You cannot wield it, no one can!”
What right does a Ranger have to sit in the Council of Elrond?
Boromir barely heard the words. There were so many and they spoke so much, endless words that wasted his time while darkness consumed the South, inch by inch. There was a voice that spoke within him, whispering that perhaps when he returned home he would find a barren wasteland, a second Mordor where Minas Tirith had once stood, for he had dallied too long with the Elves.
He kept his eyes on the Ranger, the one almost-familiar face amongst the Elves and the Dwarves of this Council, and he thought that with just those words and that voice—despised though it might be—the whispers were starting to fade, and the darkness let its tendrils loosen from his heart.
“What would a Ranger know of this matter?” he fired back, and the shadows seemed to tighten with every word that escaped his lips. He ignored them, narrowing his eyes.
The young Elf, so young that he looked a child, stood suddenly and berated him in front of the Council and told him that he owed allegiance to this Ranger. What kind of Man, Boromir thought viciously, allowed an Elf to speak in his place? To defend him, as if he had lost his own tongue?
“This,” his contempt showed true, “is Isildur’s heir?”
The Elf spoke again, but Boromir did not listen. His voice was like the birds chirping in the distance, for suddenly there was a roar, a great roar of whispers, clamouring in his mind.
“Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no King.”
As he spoke he knew that the words were true, and if not he would make them truth. Like Pelendur had refused Arvedui, he would refuse this ‘Aragorn’ as well, for what he saw standing before him was a Ranger Elven-bred, and no King of Gondor at all.
He stepped back and dropped into his chair, and across the Elves seated between them he met Aragorn’s eyes. In a single moment, when their gazes caught, the whispers silenced themselves and the shadows faded—but Gandalf spoke again and Boromir tore his eyes away from the pretender, and felt the claws of the shadows nearly pierce through his heart. A look towards Aragorn would ease it, he knew, but Boromir did not dare to turn.
He would endure, he thought. He had done so since Osgiliath, and he would learn to do so again.
***
The only warmth came from battle and the pumping of his blood in his veins, it seemed, for again there was no more time to feel the chill. He minded it not, for in battle he could focus on the sound of his heart and drown out the whispers of the Ring—he knew it now to be the Ring, for though his skin did not touch it, he knew well the shape of its chain, and the exact shade of its gold was branded at the back of his eyelids.
There was no time to think of it in battle. The cave troll headed for Frodo and he reached for a chain, and at the corner of his eyes he saw Aragorn right beside him. Their fingers brushed each other as they pulled at it, diverting the troll, but Boromir had only a moment’s pause because he felt himself slammed straight into the wall, all air in his lungs gone.
He did not know for how long he was insensate, but when he opened his eyes there was an orc in front of him, then a knife in that orc’s throat. He turned to meet Aragorn’s eyes for a briefest moment before he dived back into the fray- and his movements came quicker, sharper despite the pain in his head and the stars that were determined to dance in front of his eyes.
Then they were running, running and running until Boromir wasn’t even sure that they were still in the mines or they had gone through several mountains at this point, because there was just so much ground they had covered. The whispers were getting louder, but Boromir could resist them with ease, for he was in his element. Though he knew little about creatures like the Balrog—and now for the first time he thought that Faramir would have served better on this quest than he—he knew how to run, and he knew how to fight.
But it was only a momentary ease, for Gandalf was falling into the abyss. Boromir held Frodo in his arms—
Take me. Take me from the hobbit’s neck. Drop the Ringbearer down the chasm where he seems so willing to go, Son of Gondor, and become the Ringbearer yourself! You know how to wield me, you know you can, and your White City will be saved—
Aragorn stood in front of him, frozen, and the Ring’s voice was so easy to dismiss that he wondered why it still remained. It was a fleeting thought, for the Ranger was frozen and Boromir could see the glint of arrows in the distance.
“Aragorn!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the Mines and he was running out of Moria, towards the sun. He could hear Aragorn’s footsteps behind him, and he knew by the stumbling sound that the Ranger was little different from the small hobbit he held in his arms. He too was immobilised by grief, and Boromir wondered, sudden and sharp, who would lead them now.
Not he, he knew. Though his pride said that he could, the Ring’s urging told him that he could not. Where could he lead them?
Like Frodo, he did not know the way.
***
The sound of Aragorn’s sword being cleaned was loud and jarring amongst the sobs and quiet gasps.
Boromir knew not what to do, for though he mourned he had known Gandalf far too little and bore him only casual affection. There was a part of his heart that twisted in his chest for the Wizard who had always been part of his childhood, another one lost to the darkness of Mordor, but it was the hobbits’ grief and the sight of Gimli falling to his knees that made the breath choke in his throat and his mind to empty.
The Ring told him that he could find a way out of here; that he could bring Gandalf back, if he had the courage. But Frodo had wandered away, out of his grasp, and Aragorn was a mere few feet away. Boromir could not see him behind eyelids that he had not noticed he had closed, but he could feel his presence, and he took quiet comfort from it.
“Legolas,” Aragorn’s voice broke through the wordless unsilence, and Boromir’s head snapped around.
“Give them a moment, for pity’s sake,” he snapped, his helplessness turned into anger.
“By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs! We must reach the woods of Lothlorien.”
But Boromir paid little attention to his words. His eyes were fixed upon Aragorn, on those hands that were steady and though Aragorn’s eyes were bright still there was a strong purpose in them. His grief was well-hidden, and there was naught of the Man that lingered in the Mines, his body ready to leap after his lost friend even as his mind pulled it back. Boromir stared, for like the sun breaking beyond the clouds, he saw.
“Come, Boromir, Legolas. Gimli! Get them up!”
His hands and feet worked without his permission, and Boromir moved like one of the clockwork machines he had seen in his youth, before the threat of Mordor and his life as a soldier had strangled all such pursuits. Mind turning, his eyes seemed born anew when he looked upon Aragorn, and even as he started running once more, feeling the cold bite into his skin, he could not tear his gaze away.
Throughout his Quest he had seen Aragorn’s strength. In the Mines it was Aragorn who had saved his life when the goblin had sought to take it. But Boromir had been running all this while, running not just with his feet but with his thoughts as well, and the longer he kept Aragorn within his sight the longer he realised that the Ring did not speak to him while he looked upon him.
Back then, while they were still headed for the Gap of Rohan, Aragorn had told them small stories of his youth in Imladris, where he was named Estel. Faramir was a scholar born, and he knew Sindarin far better than his older brother, but Boromir still knew the meaning of the word.
Hope.
Boromir had not known such a thing for a long time. For too long hope had been stifled by the dark skies that constantly covered the East, and the Lidless Eye that watched Mordor; it had been stifled by the sights of the Men he had grown up with and had commanded both dying in his arms, their blood soaking into rivers and soils, their throats opened and blood in their mouths. His father had wished for him to go to Rivendell in search for hope, for the dreams that plagued Boromir and Faramir both, for they were desperate enough that any aid, even a broken sword, would be welcome.
“’Tis only a short way more,” Aragorn said, and Boromir looked around him and saw that there were trees a distance away. Tall trees, taller than any he had ever seen, and these lands were alien to him—but he minded it not, for Aragorn stood before him.
“Aye,” he said. He had to swallow back the words: Aye, my Captain.
For Aragorn was his Captain. Gandalf was gone and Aragorn led them now, and Boromir found his feet and his mind in complete accord. The whispers had almost faded now; there was new breath in his lungs and though his body was exhausted, his eyes were still clear.
His mission was clear. He had no Ring to bring him to his Father, Boromir knew. Yet his father might not have sent the wrong brother after all. It was a King that Boromir would return with, a King who would lead their people to victory. A King who would bring hope so greatly needed in their city, and like the sun breaking out from beneath thunderclouds, he would chase away the shadows that laid its claws over Minas Tirith as easily as he had chased them from Boromir’s heart.
In Lothlorien, he would go to Aragorn, he thought. He would tell him of the whispers he heard; he would tell him of the beauty of Minas Tirith and the duties that haunted his every step. Aragorn had little wish to be King, but how would he not wish to serve Gondor? How could he not?
Boromir walked with renewed strength, his eyes fixed upon Aragorn.
He had purpose; he had hope.
Summary: In the darkness of the Mines of Moria, where Men can barely see each other, Boromir falls in love.
Rated: PG
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 3130 Read: 438
Published: 23 Aug 2012 Updated: 23 Aug 2012