Aragorn looked at the White Tree everyday, engraved as it was on Boromir's vembraces that he wore on his wrists. He had traced the strong white thread that refused to fade despite the dirt that Aragorn had accumulated on his skin, his hair, his clothes; every inch of him was darkened by the dust of the road, yet the White Tree still remained bright. The old magic of Middle Earth was fading with the Elves, but this was the magic of Men - of sheer strength and indomitable will. Men who could look out to the darkness and fire of Mordor and still keep their faith in the White Tree that flew above them, a symbol embroidered with plain thread.
Boromir had told him once, his voice low but angry, that there was strength and honour in Men. Aragorn knew the truth of his words now, but he was already too late, for Boromir's life had slipped between his fingers, his King's hands - healer's hands - useless and clumsy when faced with orc poisons. Now he stood in front of the true White Tree, Boromir's vembraces cradled in those selfsame hands. The King of Gondor wondered, briefly, idly, without any hopes for the answer he already knew in his heart, if there was any possible forgiveness for him; for he had let Boromir die, and only through his death that he accepted his destiny. If he had not been running away, perhaps he would have been able to reach Boromir in time. Perhaps the call of the Horn of Gondor would have been sharper in his blood if he had accepted his pledge earlier.
There was no answer for him. Amongst the Dead Boromir did not walk; Aragorn hoped that the son of Gondor would be at peace. Would he be, he wondered. Was a then-false king's word enough for the Steward's son, ever so dutiful, to entrust his beloved kingdom to him? Aragorn did not know if he had fulfilled his promise to Boromir; he suspected that he would never know, not in this lifetime.
(The Elves had Valinor. What did Men have? Did great Men arrive at tall halls with bards who sang their stories and their honours, such that they would always be remembered? Boromir's name was already beginning to fade; the last Walker who was lost during the Quest; the hero of Men who died before his triumphant return. The silver trumpets would never announce his return again.
Aragorn reminded himself to tell the stories of Boromir's great deeds to the scribes.)
Even a King would die some day. Aragorn plucked a bud from the blooming tree and felt the silk of its petals in his hands. The life of Men were as short and fleeting as these flowers in the eyes of the Elves, but Aragorn did not fear the encroaching darkness. Many Men had raced headlong with him against the orc hordes despite death that waited, its scythe gleaming in the sun; many Elves had given their lives for Rohan in Helm's Deep. In these times of peace, Aragorn would be able to choose his time of death. He knew his own fortune.
The King heard the chatter of his people below. The sun was rising; the counsel would gather soon. Aragorn opened his hand and watched the bud fall down the seven levels, the newborn light casting it in soft golds and pinks. For the briefest of moments, he heard the sound of Boromir's voice, slipping away from him like the petal had.
He would keep these vembraces well, Aragorn decided. The thread would not fade; he hoped the leather would hold another hundred years or more. They were all that remained of Boromir. If Aragorn was to meet him again in that strange, unknown afterlife of men, he would be buried with them, the White Tree next to his heart.
He would ask, then. He would ask for Boromir's judgment, and for his forgiveness.
As the King he never was, to the Steward who should have been.
End
Summary: Aragorn looked at the White Tree everyday
Rated: PG
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 677 Read: 414
Published: 10 Nov 2012 Updated: 10 Nov 2012