Night has fallen. The White City is resting, its passageways deserted, its greatest warriors innocent in their sleep. High above them, the banner with its white tree and seven glowing stars twitches and curls in a playful breeze from the southern sea.
Quiet is the King's Palace, and dark. It is not a threatening darkness, extending from the corners and forming dreadful figures to haunt those who cannot find rest, but a calming one that gently strokes tired eyes to help them fall asleep. Tirion's pale crescent shines through high, curtainless windows, lighting spotless corridors just enough for the paintings along the walls to be distinguished in their silent watch.
A figure steps out of the shadow, gray cloak sweeping soundlessly across the floor, towards the end of the corridor. Confident steps halt abruptly before a particularly well-illuminated picture, placed just opposite a window.
The figure takes off his hood and Tirion's rays fall on the face of a man. It is noble and fair, with earnest gray eyes and prominent, straight features, framed by dark hair waving about his shoulders. The king of Gondor has come without his crown and sceptre, because he cannot bear them in the presence of this other man, the one who is now looking at him with cold, painted eyes.
For without this man, not only might he not be king, but there might be no king at all. There might be no kingdom. Without this man, he might have run away when the choice was to be made. Without this man, he might never have found the courage to face his destiny and fight the Darkness - and on an entirely different level, he would not be who he is today.
He is grateful, and sorry for what had to happen. However, the desperate feeling that burns so badly inside him, that drives him here every other night and twists his stomach as well as his mind, is guilt above all else.
Guilt towards his people, whom he has not shown the loyalty they deserve. The people of Gondor rely on their king, far too much, in his opinion. They admire the outstanding hero who saved them, and maybe that hero really is a part of him. But there is also another, a hidden part… one that craves solitude and quiet in every minute he spends in this palace; one that, when the fate of this world was placed in his reluctant hands, was tempted to choose freedom over responsibility.
Guilt towards this painted hero, to he who struggled to escape the power of evil and could not, in the end, resist its call, he who betrayed the Fellowship and nearly doomed all. But Aragorn knows better than to judge. Boromir acted out of despair and concern for the people he had lived to protect – the same people that Aragorn himself nearly abandoned.
Boromir dedicated his life to Gondor, but it was Aragorn's destiny to lead the land to peace and victory, earning the glory that comes with such tasks. The people of Gondor loved Boromir, but they apotheosise Aragorn, and he feels guilty.
The guilt goes deeper than that, though, it tears at his heart, because he knew at the time that the ring of evil was calling to his companion. He could have helped; maybe, had he not denied Boromir closeness and comradeship, the weakness of men need not have been proven yet again. But fear and rivalry caused him to close his eyes to the other man's sorrows and leave him, hurting and torn within, to deal with distress and temptation on his own.
Now, as Aragorn stares into the face of the man whom he has betrayed, a face he has seen twisted in desperation, pain, and, eventually, insanity, he recognizes himself in it.
On the brink of death, Boromir called him brother. It took Aragorn years to realize that this is what they truly were – brothers, mirror images, two sides of the same coin. They had their differences, of course, but only one truly matters now – the one that defines the divide.
It is very simple, and utterly final: One fell into the shadow, the other stands in the light.
Suddenly, he can bear the gaze of the lifeless eyes no longer. The king inclines his head, with a too-fast blink and a hushed whisper on his lips, before pulling his hood back over moonlit eyes and hurrying off to his private rooms.
Silence reclaims the building, soft and soothing. But it has only just reinstalled itself when a second cloaked figure approaches from the other end of the corridor.
The visitor's steps are hesitant; one could almost assume that he is afraid. It isn't the night he fears, for he has learned to love it, embrace it as an old friend during the many years it has served and lent him cover. The only darkness he fears is that inside him, and the pain of a wound that has never quite healed.
He would not let it heal, quite the contrary: In nights such as this, he comes here to tear it wide open, again and again, so it will not mend. The pain must not cease, for it is his only link to the beloved dead.
He heads towards the same painting, still caressed by soft silver light. However, he does not take off his hood or even so much as lift his gaze; the images that flood his mind are so much more vivid and colourful.
Why in lack of a grave he comes here out of all places to mourn, he does not know. It has become a dear ritual to him. Maybe it's because he somehow sensed that the place was already filled with another's grief when he first came across it. Or perhaps it's just because he cannot mourn with his wife slumbering beside him.
Éowyn… He truly loves her; Eru knows. But her presence is too comforting; it brings too much ease and even a hint of gratitude for his brother's death which he cannot allow himself in these hours of nightly mourning.
Faramir knows that he has stolen all of his blessings – his happiness, his entire life even – from his brother. If Boromir were still alive, it would all belong to him – the position, the glory, the king's approval, trust and closeness. Faramir has always been second, always hidden in the shadow of his superior brother, the brilliant hero. That was always the way it was meant to be, and he misses this concealing nimbus more than any sane man could possible understand. It feels wrong to be cloaked in such honors; like they will never truly be his.
And sometimes he wonders if even his greatest joy, his little family, was meant for another instead. Would not Boromir have been much better fitted for Éowyn? Would they not have made a perfect match? Had he, Faramir, not found so much of his brother in her?
However much he would love to dismiss these thoughts, Faramir can not close his eyes to the striking logic of it. It seems clear to him that he has gained everything he owns only by the price of his brother's death.
And yet, if there were a way, any way, to bring him back… He refuses to think about it, for the mere thought would trigger more pain at the impossibility of it. But deep down, in the dust-gathering corners of his heart, he knows: If there were ever a way, he'd give it all back in return for his brother. Whatever joy and happiness he has found in this new world, he would give it up for the one person who meant more to him than all of Ea combined. He would then certainly mourn forever over having been forced to make this sacrifice, unable to forget the terrible guilt for so much as a single moment; but even so, he'd do it every time.
But there is no option, no bringing the dead back to life… A pair of lost shooting stars fall from Faramir's eyes as he lets go, abandoning himself completely to his grief. His body shakes with silent sobs; his pale fingers claw at his hair and hide his face from the dead man's gaze. Yet he does not break down the way he used to in the first few years after Boromir's passing.
He stands, trembling and bending, but he stands, although these cold gray eyes will never comfort him again.
The third visitor is vastly different from the first two, dressed not in a wide cloak but a long-sleeved dress. Drawn away from her face by a black hair band, golden locks fall down the woman's slender back.
She floats closer, until she can make out the outlines of the painting. He does not notice her; he is lost in his grief.
Éowyn's features are still fair and cool, like a beautiful flower blossoming on a rock, fragile and strong at the same time. She has found more peace and love than she has ever hoped for; her wounds have had time to heal and the shadow of loss has been driven from her heart. Her days are bright; she has finally earned the freedom she longed for, to proceed with her life as she pleases, and the smile she gives generously to those who deserve it is heartfelt.
And yet her eyes betray worry tonight as they rest on Faramir's silhouette.
She knows of the gash in his heart and the ache in his soul. She knows of his guilt and perhaps she even knows of his conflict, though he has never spoken of it. The white lady has not come to spy on her husband or to witness his moment of weakness: she is well acquainted with the desire to mourn truly, deeply, alone and without comfort. Neither has suspicion kept her from sleeping tonight: for she is wise enough to know a faithful heart.
Faithful jewel … Éowyn never knew the man who bore that name, but it is anything but empty to her. His spirit seems present in her mind when she thinks of him, a mere phantom and yet more detailed than her memory of most whom she has met in person. The memories she has collected have almost become her own: Her husband's, her king's, the people's.
After the warrior's passing, Gondor's grief was great, and it remained visible in the people's faces despite the new-found happiness. In the way of the common people, they honored his memory by remembering each one of his victories, by telling half-forgotten tales and anecdotes. And they were more than willing to pass them on to a young woman unfamiliar with their hero's feats and antics.
At first, she listened only out of kindness and compassion; but the more stories she heard, the more she wanted to hear. She started asking questions, gathering all the pieces that she could, trying to fit them all together – an impossible task, she knew, for love and grief are equally quick to alter human memories. But the blurred image she came up with is still clear enough for her to recognize this fallen warrior as a kindred spirit.
Éowyn steps closer, eyes now fixed onto Boromir's indistinct features. They fascinate her; he fascinates her, and she wishes she could have known him.
She can't see clearly from where she is watching, but when she stands in front of the portrait, when she looks straight into those eyes, so stern, so piercing, she can see her own self within them. They may not reflect her face as any living eye would, but they do mirror her very soul. Those raw emotions she keeps locked away inside her, her most intimate fears and desires she sees in Boromir.
He would have understood her, of that she is certain. He would have understood what no one else ever has: the frustration, despair, and restlessness that were nearly driving her insane, because he, too, carried them inside him.
Even though they are separated by the elemental forces of life and death, Éowyn feels connected to him. It is but a shadow of the bond that they were meant to have, would have had, had it not been for the cruel twist of fate that brought about his doom.
She wonders what might have been if they had met, if he had not been taken from her before she ever had a chance to know him. She must admit that she cannot tell. What would have emerged of their similarity – would they have become friends, or lovers? Would she still have married Faramir or would her heart belong to his brother – or possibly be torn between both? Would her life be the same? Would she be the same?
She does not know; nor will she ever.
For Boromir, the Hero of Gondor, is dead, and all that remains of him are the memories of those who love him, and the marks he has left on their lives.