Journey of a Gondorian
By Nomad Princess
Summary: If Boromir had a journal, this is what it might look like.
Author's Note: Ok, so this isn't really what I think it would have looked like, if I were strictly following Tolkien's story line, but I can't help but deviate at least a little. I am very familiar with LotR, but, being an imperfect human being I will make mistakes here and there. If you catch anything glaring (storyline, grammar, spelling) please let me know so I can fix it.
Disclaimer: If you're reading this story, you ought to know who owns LotR - and it ain't me, unfortunately.
Warnings: I reserve the right to let this story go (pretty much) anywhere it wants to. So AU and OC are strong possibilities. The only thing I can guarantee will not be in this story is slash.
Reviews are cherished. Praise, when due, is gladly received. Concrit, when necessary, is wisely heeded. Flames, which are never deserved (no matter how 'bad' the story), are used to cook my dinner.
Prelude
A fierce wind beat upon the towers of Gondor. It whistled through the corridors, to which it gained entry by creeping through the many shuttered windows. The biting cold it inflicted on all it crossed paths with was only enhanced by the wild moaning and whimpering it bore.
Aragorn, king of the White City, was shut in his library, seated before a blazing fire. His hearing, sharpened by many years spent with the elves and his fellow rangers, caught the eerie sound of voices rushing past the door as they were carried by the cold winter breeze. Looking down at the book in his hands, he shivered involuntarily.
Arwen, seated across from her husband, looked up from her embroidery. Her blue eyes narrowed slightly with concern as she noticed the expression on Aragorn's face.
"What is it, my lord?" She asked gently, her voice as smooth as silk. "What troubles you so?"
With a sigh, the man looked up as well. His grey eyes held a strange, haunted look as he gazed back at his lovely wife.
"It has been three years now," he said quietly. "Three years since the end of the War, since the finding of this book. Yet I do not feel right to read it."
"It is not necessary for you to read it," Arwen leaned forward to place her soft hand on the man's arm.
"I promised Faramir that I would read it. I must read it!" Aragorn shook his head doubtfully. "It is my fault he died, Arwen. I should have been there to save him. I should have been more supportive of him from the beginning, then mayhap he would not have attempted to steal the Ring."
"I thought you were over those feelings, my lord," Arwen murmured as she moved to her knees before the king. "You did as you swore you would, and protected the ring-bearer. It was as Boromir would have desired."
"It is those voices," he said, staring at the book he held. "They seem to accuse me - they are like the voice of Saruman, were he yet alive."
For several moments the couple sat without speaking. The constant crackling of the fire seemed to soothe the king's nerves, though the wind howled louder than ever. Arwen had never seen her husband so out of sorts; it made her somewhat uncomfortable to see him so upset over such a trivial matter. It was she who spoke first.
"Let me read it to you for awhile, my king," she reached for the book. "Mayhap if I begin it will be easier after awhile."
Gladly did Aragorn surrender the volume to his wife. Tenderly she lifted the stained leather cover and turned the first page. Still kneeling before him, she began to read in a most luscious voice.
AN: Yup, it's a short start. I know Aragorn is out of character here, but I think the bad weather is mostly to blame.