Watching Boromir sleep, tucked in his bedroll, his noble features relaxed, his chest rising and falling slowly, it came to strike Aragorn how very young he was, and how very young he thought him. There were times when they walked together that he almost forgot, for their bodies looked of an age, and Boromir carried himself well. There were other times, when he sat giving pointers while Boromir taught the hobbits their way about a blade, when he regarded the lot of them of an age and felt a fondness for them and for a youth that had passed from him years ago. As he found himself thinking this way a smile crept onto his lips and he thought wryly of how his dear friend, the ancient wizard Gandalf, must think the same of him when they traveled together.
'Look at Aragorn charging into that den of wargs by himself. I was that young once. Isn't it precious?'
Laughter found his lips, and he chuckled quietly, his head bowed in the moonlight. He was in an age of his own among the company, not yet a century old, and having long lost the rosy blush of his thirties and fourties.
'Look at Aragorn charging into that den of wargs by himself. I was that young once. Isn't it precious?'
Laughter found his lips, and he chuckled quietly, his head bowed in the moonlight. He was in an age of his own among the company, not yet a century old, and having long lost the rosy blush of his thirties and fourties.