By Mnemosyne
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Sad, sad, 'tis sad, for shame!
Summary: Mixture of Bookverse and Movieverse. Boromir's spirit is unable to rest easy. Featuring Goldberry, the River Daughter.
Rating: PG
Notes:
Hello again, everyone! I apologize for my absence - I was distracted by the siren call of other fandoms, as well as the demon drone of REAL LIFE. *choking* I want to thank EVERYONE who has so kindly reviewed my other LotR fics, especially "King of Men." You are all absolutely fantastic! I can't thank you enough for the sweet words you've left me. It makes me blush, I don't mind telling you.
*blush*
See? LOL! At your prompting, I've tried my hand at writing a more original piece, but it's still based on Sean Bean's classic portrayal of Boromir. What can I say - I live nary two hours outside of Boston. When you're that close to Beantown, you're bound to have a fondness for Beans. ;) LOL! I still haven't refreshed myself completely on the Bookverse, but I was always so fond of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry; I wanted to include them somehow. :-D I hope you enjoy this foray into Middle-Earth via Mnemosyne's imagination! If you review, please be kind and rewind. :-D Or… Hang on, that'll make sense if I think about it a bit… ;-)
It seemed he was adrift in a waking dream, surrounded only by the whispering of rushes and the breathy gurgles of sleepy fish. The water surrounding his funerary craft lapped at the edges, and it seemed he could hear the waves singing to him. May we come in and play, fair Master? Would you like to swim with us?
Part of Boromir wanted desperately to oblige, and join the merry waves as they tossed and teased their way down the River Anduín; but another part of him - the logical soldier - knew he could not do this. Vividly he remembered Amon Hen, sharp in his memory like the bite of a knife's edge. He knew he had died there, amongst the dirt and leafy debris of the forest floor. Yet clearly he remembered Aragorn's parting words - "Be at peace, Son of Gondor" - and the steep tipping of his elven boat over the frothy edge of Rauros Falls.
//I am dead….but I am not.//
It could not be. To live in the presence of one's own death was a contradiction. Even as he thought on these unsettling concepts, he was aware that he could see himself; clear as day, pale as iced milk, hands crossed across his sword hilt as if in prayer. He was aware of the slow journey of the tiny boat as it drifted down the river, on its silent passage to the sea, yet he was aware as if it were all a dream, and he would wake any moment to the vibrant call of silver trumpets from the pinnacle of the Tower of Ecthelion.
"Long you sleep, Man of Gondor. Will you not wake on such a glorious morning?"
Boromir opened his eyes. This alone was shocking enough to warrant amazement. But when he saw who was addressing him, kneeling by the boat, he could do little more than gape.
She was a vision of purity. For a moment he thought she might be a simple she-elf, but quickly abandoned that theory when he saw the sheer light and joy in her eyes. He had rarely seen an elf filled with such jubilation - their eyes were always weighted with the knowledge of too many years. This woman seemed to radiate celebration.
"Who…Who are you, fair lady?" he asked, surprised at the rough texture of his voice.
She smiled down at him, where he reclined in the elven boat. "I am Goldberry, the River Daughter. Dear man of the south, long have you slumbered! I warrant you dreamt of pleasant things, though your brow is heavy with worries and doubt. Come, what plagues you on such a fine morning, when the fishes are swimming and the clouds dance merrily across the blue sky!"
//What an enchanting creature…// Boromir thought as he gazed at her. "I…I am dead, my lady. Or I was…" He furrowed his brow, confused. "Though now… I am no longer sure."
Goldberry's smile was sweet as she reached a milk-white hand into the boat and wrapped it 'round his firm bicep. "Death and sleep are brothers, you know. They dine at each other's table every night, with guests aplenty, new each evening!" Gently she drew him into a sitting position, and reached her hand up to stroke his straggly hair. "They wait for you, though you are loathe to join them. Why do you tarry, Son of Gondor? What keeps you at my father's table?"
Somehow he had drifted onto the riverbank. Odd that he did not remember the bump, for surely there would have been one. "I have duties, fair Goldberry. Promises I must keep."
"Indeed, promises are important. They are unbreakable bonds." She nodded sagely, though her eyes still twinkled. "But what does one do when the keeper of one's promise has released you from its bond?"
Boromir blinked at her, confused. "What does this… Hold… " He looked around in amazement. "Lady, where is this? Surely we are no longer on the shores of Anduín!"
Goldberry beamed at him. "No, fair warrior, we are not. For this is the Old Forest, seat of my lord husband, Tom Bombadil."
"Who is Tom Bombadil?"
"He is."
Boromir frowned at her. "What do you mean?"
She laughed, and it sounded like clear water running over smooth pebbles. "To know his name is to know Tom Bombadil. He is the Master. But come." She stood, and Boromir saw that she was clothed in shimmering silver, sparkling like morning dew. "Do not worry your brow with paltry cares, Son of Gondor. You are weary, and in need of cheerier surroundings than these. Walk apace with me. The forest has not yet sunk into winter - there are warm patches to be found."
Boromir let her take his hand and draw him to his feet, guiding him easily out of the boat and onto the riverbank. "How did I come to be here, lady, so far a step from Rauros Falls? And overland at that!"
Laughing merrily, Goldberry looped her arm through his and led him away from the waters, a spring in her step. "Did I not say I was the River Daughter, Son of Gondor? All waters spill into each other - they rise with the fog, and spill with the rain."
Then she sang:
All waters that run -
Deep, cold and blue -
Dance merry as kinsman
To Goldberry's tune!
She said no more in explanation, and Boromir asked no more questions. He was too amazed by the movement of his legs, which had felt stiff as tree trunks as he rested in the boat, but now seemed spry as young reeds.
//I am alive.//
*************
The Old Forest had earned its title. Boromir could feel the pressure of aeons on his shoulders as he walked arm in arm with Goldberry, who moved nimbly over the rough forest tracks. The man of Gondor could feel the history of this place as he breathed its rich, woody air, and he was keenly aware of the fact that in this forest there lived trees who were older by far than the grandfather of his grandfather's grandfather.
"You are very quiet, Son of Gondor," Goldberry observed after they had been walking for some time. Whether it was hours or minutes, Boromir could not tell. "What occupies your thoughts?"
"I am thinking about life, fair lady."
"A deep concept for so fine a day. Why does it interest you thus?"
"I apologize, dear Goldberry. For I meant that I was meditating not on life, but the loss of it."
"Ah. So you occupy your thoughts with death? An even more troubling concept than life. Why do you think so much on this?"
They stopped walking, and Boromir looked around. He found that they had come to a glade, and the bright autumn sun streamed through the dark branches that covered the clearing like a canopy, casting sharp shadows on the leaf strewn ground. Goldberry gestured for him to sit on a mossy fallen trunk, and he obeyed. She joined him soon thereafter, and he was keenly aware of her clear eyes watching his profile.
"I think so much on these things, kind lady," he explained, "because they are near to me as blood and kin. Life is my blood, but death is my kinsman. He rides with me to every battle, and feasts with me at every victory celebration." Turning his head to gaze into her dancing eyes, Boromir continued. "I do not know what type of lady you might be, Goldberry, but I am Man. I am flesh and bone. I am made to die. And I think… I quite think… I think to my marrow that I DID die." Shaking his head, he looked away again, staring in troubled contemplation at the leaves beneath his feet.
"Yet you speak to me now, Man of Gondor," Goldberry said softly, and he saw her milk-pale hand rest over his own on his knee. "Your tongue makes the sounds, your lips form the words. Do the dead act in such ways?"
"Perhaps they would, if they had cause."
"What cause could be so great that it would prompt the dead to speak?"
"The cause of life."
"Life is the opposite of death, is it not? Then would not the dead take no notice of what happens in the world of the living?"
"All that is dead was once alive, dear lady. Life is precious, even to the corpse ten years buried."
"Then you believe the dead would rise if it meant they could, in some way, affect the course of the living. That the dead would speak if it meant that, somehow, they could preserve life?"
Boromir looked at her again. "Yes," he answered, rather shocked by the wonder in his voice. "I do believe that, in such a case, the dead would rise."
Smiling tenderly, Goldberry cupped his cheek in a smooth hand. "If such theories hold true," she said softly, with a voice like summer rain, "and if you had died, then why do you speak now, Son of Gondor? What cause of life has left you restless in your grave and kept you from the brothers' table?"
Boromir closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. The only women who had ever touched him so tenderly had been his mother and the ladies he had taken to his bed. But he felt no such longings as Goldberry stroked his cheek with her gentle fingertips. All he felt was wonder; awe. He did not know why he was divulging such deeply personal thoughts to this strange woman in this still stranger wood, but he knew that it was necessary.
"It is such a little thing," he whispered, and paid no mind to how broken his voice sounded. "So small… It should not be such a trial, to see it gone. It should not warrant such danger! So much death…"
"Death again." Her thumb stroked over one of his eyebrows, and he sighed, letting his head tilt forward. "Do you fear it so?"
"I am not afraid of death," he replied, voice slightly stronger.
"And yet you fear it for others. Why?"
"They do not deserve to die."
"But you do?"
Boromir paused before answering. "I tried to steal it," he whispered, softer even than before.
"Steal what, Son of the South?" Goldberry's voice was calming - soothing.
"The Ring."
"A ring? All this worry - this talk of death - over a ring?" She seemed amused by the idea.
"Not just any ring, my lady!" Boromir said quickly, raising his head and gazing at her with frenzied eyes. "THE Ring. The One Ring of Sauron! It rules all!"
Then Goldberry did something very unexpected.
She laughed.
"Did I not tell you my lord husband was the Master?" she asked, eyes dancing cheerfully. "And he has no need of jewelry. All the baubles he could hope for can be found in the fruits of the forest."
Boromir shook his head. "My lady, you do not understand. The Ring is a powerful object, dangerous to all who possess it. The man who wields it holds all the power of the world! It is a thing of evil, crafted only for destruction and domination!"
"Shhhhhh," Goldberry soothed, resting a slender finger over his lips. Boromir fell silent, entranced by her eyes. "I tell you again, Son of Gondor, my lord husband, Tom Bombadil, is Master. He lives here, amongst the oldest of the old, but he is everywhere. He is all things, and all things are him. And I tell you, dear frightened soldier, that my lord husband fears not this Ring. The ring is not a part of him, nor he a part of the ring. It is a thing from an outside realm - an interloper that will soon outlast any welcome it once had." She gave him a dazzling smile, white and entrancing as a waterfall. "Let your mind rest easy, for Tom Bombadil and the River Daughter are unafraid."
Boromir nodded dazedly, unblinking. "Your husband is a brave man," he murmured, eyes never straying from her gaze, "Only brave men and fools are unafraid of the Ring. And I would not believe that Goldberry, the River Daughter, would ever marry a fool."
She laughed again, eyes dancing like sunlight on the river. "Indeed she wouldn't!" she cried merrily.
"And I presume…she could never find it in her heart to love another man, as she does her lord Tom Bombadil?" Boromir did not know why he had said it, but before he could stop himself, the words had been uttered.
Goldberry smiled gently, and stroked his hair. "I love all men," she murmured, "just as I love all the birds and beasts, and the sweet running of the streams in springtime." Leaning forward, she pressed her soft lips to his forehead, tender as a dew-kissed rose petal. Boromir let his eyes drift shut, and listened as she spoke to him.
"Rest easy, Son of Gondor," she whispered against his forehead. "Do not let your heart be wearied by the fears of the life you left at Amon Hen. Your friends are well, though they miss you terribly. But know this - your death has prompted them to do great things. Your spirit lives on in them - they will remember you always."
She drew back, and Boromir opened his eyes to gaze at her in wonder. "How do you know these things, lady? And what of my city? Can you tell me of my people?"
"All water is one to the River Daughter. Your friends have shed their tears over the great Anduín, and it has told me their stories." Smiling, she shook her head. "I cannot tell you of your city, fair warrior of Gondor, save to say that last it was washed by rain, it was well."
"And…Frodo?" He dared not hope she could tell him of the Hobbit's fate. "How fares Frodo?"
Her smile was sorely needed comfort to his fear-ridden soul. "He is in good company," she soothed. "What more can we ask, save that when we travel a perilous road, we are not alone?"
"Indeed…," he murmured, looking down. A part of him that he hadn't known was tense seemed to have loosened as she spoke to him. Frodo was well, his city was well, the friends he had made with the Fellowship were well… A clenching in his stomach and an ache in his chest seemed to melt away with Goldberry's reassurances. //I will rest easy tonight,// he thought gratefully.
A long moment passed, during which time neither one spoke. Finally, Goldberry broke the silence. "The day is waning, warrior, and your journey is still long," she said pleasantly. "It is time you were on your way."
Boromir felt a tug on his heart. "Lady, cannot I stay here, with you?"
She laughed gently, and touched his brow. "My lord husband would welcome the company of one so fine of spirit as you, man of the south. But the brothers await you at their nightly feast! You would not be so rude as to decline their invitation?"
Boromir suddenly became aware of the quiet lapping of water behind him, and he quickly looked around. The forest glade had disappeared, and they were once again on the riverbank. The boat of Lothlorien rocked faintly in the gentle current, tethered by an unseen line.
Turning back to Goldberry, he gave her a puzzled look. "Our meeting has been…strange, dear lady." Slowly, as though his face were not sure of the mechanics of the action, he smiled. "But a pleasanter meeting I have not had in many a year."
"Fare you well on your journey, son of Gondor," Goldberry told him with a brilliant smile. "You have the soul of an adventurer. Believe me when I say that the adventure you are about to meet will be the grandest and most glorious you have ever encountered."
Boromir nodded as she helped him back into the ornate boat, and he stretched out on his back.
Kneeling beside the craft, Goldberry pressed his sword back into his hands, and he circled his fingers around the familiar hilt. "I could sleep," he murmured, his eyes growing suddenly heavy. He forced them to stay open as he gazed up at her.
"That is the first brother, summoning you to the feast," Goldberry assured him. "Soon the second brother will join him. Indeed, he has been there all along. You just refused to see him."
"That was…very rude of me…" Boromir mused dreamily, eyes slowly closing.
"He bears you no ill will," Goldberry replied, and he could tell she was still smiling, that same beautiful smile she always seemed to wear. "Many who first meet him try to look away. But he welcomes all to his banquet with open arms, even those who have tried their best to shun him."
"Mmmm," Boromir mumbled, too tired to speak.
"Shhhh," Goldberry whispered, and he felt her presence lean over him, followed by the familiar touch of her lips to his forehead. "Sleep, Boromir, Son of Gondor. Sleep and fear not for those you leave behind. Those who have supped with Tom Bombadil and the River Daughter need never fear of harm."
Boromir could not summon the strength to reply. He felt Goldberry push the boat back into the main body of the river, where it was caught up by the current and carried away, towards the sea.
He had only the time to wonder how she had known his name, before the world went black, and he faded into the ether with the scent of roasting mutton and the sound of merry celebration rising from the newfound dark to meet his cold, pale ears.
THE END
***************
Tada! That concludes this unusual trip into Middle-Earth. Just to clear up one or two things, for those who might be confused. Yes, Boromir died at Amon Hen. Goldberry was not talking to Boromir's body so much as she was talking to his soul. So for those of you who were worried that the River Daughter was sashaying around the forest with a corpse, never fear. ;-) LOL! How does she know that Frodo is with Sam? Well, he saved the adorable gardener from drowning, right? Works for me! And while I don't recall Goldberry ever overtly displaying any supernatural powers - such as the "teleportation" she used in this story - I figure that when we're dealing with issues of ghosts, spirits, and wandering souls, all bets are off. LOL! I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know if you liked it. Thank you, and good evening!