A Heart for Falsehood Framed
by Soledad
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.
Author's notes:
Some time ago I've begun to write an AU-version of my Boromir-storyline for Isabeau's birthday (not that it would be finished by then, mind you), where he and Elladan would live happily ever after. Well, after much anguish and pain, of course.
I've written several new scenes for that story, and after having asked my most faithful readers' opinion, I decided to insert those scenes in the canon story. This is the tale of true importance, after all, and it deserves to have the better scenes as well. So, be prepared for more anguish.
For all the background trivia check out Chapter One.
Many, many thanks to all those who reviewed Chapter One – you really gave me inspiration, people!
Isabeau: thank you for allowing me to use Faramir's harp lessons – I just couldn't resist, with Elrohir being an excellent harp player the comparism was simply too hard to avoid.
Deborah: I promise, I will fix things between our star-crossed lovers – as far as it is possible. Actually, I planned it to do right here, for I never intended to do a three-parter, but the need to give Boromir some proof of Aragorn's heritage was more urgent; plus the Elves talked too much in that darn Council. But I'll do it in the final part, I swear!
Chapter Three: The Sword That Was BrokenI know not how I got over the Bridge blindly. It must have been pure instinct.
For blinded I was by the unshed tears that burnt in my eyes like fire.
Like on that long-gone day of my childhood when I visited the smiths in their workshop and stared at the glowing iron in fearful amazement.
I nearly lost my eyesight on that day.
Had one of the smiths not spotted me, I might be the only blind Elf in Imladris now.
Mayhap it would be better so; for were I blind, I had never noticed him, never fell for him – and he could not have broken my hart.
He called me a whore.
He accused me of sharing my bed – of sharing myself – with him only for Father's purposes and for Estel's sake.
I wish it were so. That would certainly be a lot less painful.
Valar, I never thought love could hurt this much.
I knew that losing Mother nearly made Father flee his body and seek relief in the Halls of Mandos – but they had been married and very much in love for two thousand years.
I only met him mere weeks ago. How could I have fallen for him so deeply?
He called me a whore.
He thinks I would deceive him.
He thinks Father would send his children in mortal Men's bed, in order to gain power and influence over the remains of fading Westernesse.
What a horrible father must his be if he can assume such thing from mine?
And that he would accuse me doing thus at Father's orders?
Does he truly think so lowly of me?
Or was he just lashing out in his pain, in his wounded pride and I happened to be there – at the wrong time, on the wrong place?
I cannot say.
'Tis true, we never spoke of love. I offered him solace and sought the same thing for myself.
And that was what I have found.
Naught else.
He loves me not, and I knew this and accepted this.
Why I had to fall in love with him, I cannot understand.
And yet there is naught I can do against my own, foolish heart.
I fell for him in our first night and I cannot undo this.
Nor do I wish to do so.
Love is beyond our reach to gain or to quench.
For love is as stong as death and passion is as harsh as the grave, or so the songs of mortal Men say.
I seem to go after my mortal ancestors even more than any one had thought – including myself.
And that is my curse.
Were I Elf enough, I could die of broken heart and heal my fëa(1) in Mandos' Halls. Yet I cling to his life with a mortal stubbornness, and not even Death itself could make me forget him.
Nor would I want to. Despite how muich he hurt me, I love him, and I always will. What we had was more than a simpe merry thryst in the hay. Our souls have mated as well, somewhen during our first night of beautiful, shared passion, and even if we shall never touch each other again – which is likely after what just happened – we are now bonded for eternity.
By the Lady's grace(2), he knows that not. Mortals bond themselves not in such way – 'tis very rare among them at best. So, at least he shall be able to forget and go on with his life.
If he survives what leas before him, that is.
For I can see the darkness deepening in his heart, and now that I cannot shield him any more, he is in greater peril than ever.
And when he falls into darkness, then so will I.
I cannot walk this Earth without him.
Not any more.
I might endure losing him as long as I know that he is still around. But once he is gone, there shall be naught that would tie me to Arda.
Passion is as harsh as the grave.
Valar, but it hurts.
How grateful I am that we shall be gone in mere hours. While we scout out the way til Lothlórien, I might recover a little. Time and distance shall heal the wounds – as well as they can be healed.
My brother is coming.
Of course he feels that I am deeply troubled, no matter how har I try to shield my feelings.
We always can feel each other's emotional turmoil and never let the other suffer if we can be of help.
But I cannot face him right now.
I cannot admit that he was right when he told me that I would get hurt, sooner or later, when I give my heart to this Man.
Of course he was right. But does it matter now? I have lost my heart and it shall be his, for ever.
''Go away, Elrohir'', I murmur, without looking at him. ''Leave me alone. You cannot help me. No-one can.''
He says something I hear but understand not; then he sits down beside me and lays an arom around my shoulder, holding me tightly.
And my tears finally begin to flow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After that short but very ugly fight with Elladan – if one could truly call it a fight, for Elladan did not even fought back, nor did he defend himself, simply endured being unjustly hurt and then left with quiet dignity, never uttering as much as a harsh word, only his clear eyes darkening with bewilderment and sorrow –, Boromir had little time to wall in guilt and self-hatred. Hardly had he somewhat collected himself, when Legolas appeared almost magically from the nearby trees and knocked softly on one of the pillars framing the arched entrance.
''The Lord Elrond requires to speak you before the Council sets on anew'', he said. ''He asked me to escort you to the old library.''
His deep emerald eyes searched Boromir's face worriedly, and the Man gave him a wry grin. With red, puffy eyes and reddened cheeks, he must have been quite a sight for those curious Elven eyes.
''Yet the time might not… suit you'', the Prince of Mirkwood added, already turning away. ''I shall tell Elrond that you are… otherwise occupied.''
''I fear that would give him the wrong idea'', Boromir muttered ruefully. ''Nay, I shall go with you, my Lord Prince, and face whatever the Master of the House has yet to tell me.''
Legolas accepted his decision without a comment, and they made the well-known way to Elrond's house in silence. Before they had reached the east wing, though, the Elf held on for a moment and said with quiet honesty:
''Whatever you might think of us, son of Denethor, and I fear naught of it is good at the moment, we are not your enemies. Try to keep an open mind, listen to your heart, not your fears… for if you surrender to the darkness, no-one shall be able to bring you back.''
With that, he disappeared into thin air again – or so it seemed –, leaving Boromir wondering whether Wood-Elves were unjustly accused of messing with magics.
But there were more pressing matters at the moment than Legolas' possible pastime wizardry, so he knocked on the heavy door (the first one, in truth, that he could remember having seen in Imladris), and entered a large, shadowy room that was Elrond's old library. Or so Legolas had said.
At the first sight, it reminded him of the secret archives of the Stewards in Minas Tirith, where no-one but the Lord Denethor was allowed access – not even his own sons, to Faramir's great displeasure. But this one was bigger – almost thrice at size –, and older, much older.
Scrolls and books, written in tongues probably not even Elrond himself could understand, filled the delicately carved shelves that reached from the marble-paved floor up to the shadowy heights of arched ceilings. Small writing desks and longer reading tables were scattered along the great hall, and here and there beautiful statues stood, carved in stone in the likeness of the heroes of half-forgotten Elvish lays.
Somewhat farther from the doors, near the fire, three men were seated around a small table: Elrond himself, Isildur's supposed Heir and Mithrandir, who seemed the most upset of them all. Boromir still could not fully understand what Mithrandir's role might be in this game, but, as his father often quoted: Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.
And, on more than one occasion, the Lord Denethor added: And this Mithrandir is the worst of all. I do not care for Curunír – for though he might be called the White, there is darkness in his heart, and locked doors and closed windows in his mind, and dark rooms behind them; and Radagast, the Brown is a fool. But Mithrandir never ceases to stray around like a rabid dog and meddle in the affairs of Elves and Men – and naught has ever turned out good from all his meddlings.
Faramir, for his part, had never agreed with their father's opinion concerning the old wizard, for he admired Mithrandir and was glad if given the chance to learn from him. Yet Boromir could not help guessing whether it might be, in truth, not Elrond but the wizard himself who guided the pathways of fate from the background.
Sure, he always showed the face of a friend, but again, so did Curunír and now the Orc-hosts of Isengard were roaming the Mark, threatening the very gates of Rohan, and Théodred and Éomer were fighting desperately to keep the fords against them, while the King of the Mark was fading under a strange spell and the Lady Éowyn left alone to try keeping the House of Éorl from collapsing.
He did reveal naught of these thoughts, of course, forcing his hand back from clutching tightly Éowyn's clasp upon his throat. Among all this madness, his word given to that brave woman was the only thing he still could hold on to. He let his hand fall along his side again, greeted Elrond with due curtesy and asked for the purpose of this separate meeting.
''We wish to speak with you about the more… private matter of Aragorn's ancestry'', the Lord of Imladris responded gravely. ''I admit that it was not one of my wisest decisions to keep you in the dark about him. Legolas has warned me several times, ever since your arrival, yet I did not found the time proper, not before the Council where every secret was meant to be laid open.''
''You should have listened to him'', Mithrandir said. ''Legolas has an almost uncanny gift to read in other people's hearts.''
''I readily admit my error'', Elrond said, but his words were aimed at Boromir, not the wizard, ''and I intend to make up for my wrongdoing right here, right now. We all understand that you would need more proof ere you would accept Aragorn's claim – it has been so long that the line of the Northern Kings seemingly got lost. But ever since the death of King Arvedui in the Bay of Frochel his son and their sons' sons have lived in hidden places in the North, waiting for their time to return.''
Elrond paused, took a heavy, leather-bound volume from a nearby shelf and laid it open before Boromir upon the small table. The slightly crackled leaves got a slightly yellowish colour from high age and were written upon and upon with the beautiful, ancient Tengwar runes, used only by the high lords of the Noldor and only for ceremonial matters. Therefore, the tongue in which it was written had to be Quenya, Boromir concluded. He understood very little of the Ancient Tongue of the Eldar, but he could figure out as much that it was some sort of list, with short comments to each name listed there.
''These are the Annals of Northern Kings and Rulers, written here, in my house'', Elrond said, ''and by the hand of my people, during long generations of Men's lives. For after Arvedui, the North-Kingdom ended, the Dúnedain were now few, and all the peoples of Eriador diminished. Yet the line of the Kings was continued by the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, of whom Aranarth son of Arvedui was the first. Arhael, his son, was fostered in Imladris, and so were all the sons of the Chieftains after him; and, as I have already told you once, there were also kept the heirlooms of their house: the Ring of Barahir, the shards of Narsil, the Star of Elendil and the sceptre of Annúminas.''
He touched Boromir's arm lightly, leading him to one of the statues, the figure of a fair but sad maiden, who kept the shards of Elendil's sword upon her lap.
Drawn to the broken blade almost against his will, Boromir reached out and took the hilt in his hand. It fitted beautifully, as if he was meant to wield it. He was raised to rule over the last city of Númenorean Kings, after all.
''The shards of Narsil'', he murmured, believing it truly for the first time. ''The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand…''
He caressed the shard with his free hand with respect and admiration, ere he realized that he had just spoken the name of him who was never named in Minas Tirith. He shuddered involuntarily; his hand slipped, and the broken blade cut deep in his flesh.
''Still sharp'', he noticed absently, starring at his own blood, dripping slowly from the wounded finger upon the marble pavement. The bright red blood of Númenor wasting away, slowly but inevitably.
He shuddered again, his face hardening back to its usual tense alertness.
''But no more than a broken hilt it is.''
The sword fell when he tried to replace it on the statue. Aragorn stood with one smooth move, picked it up and returned it to its place.
''Not yet'', he agreed in a low voice. ''Too long it has rested. Fifteen Chieftains there were, until I was born, less than a year later than your own father. And I have had a hard life and a long. The leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys. I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhún and Harad where the stars are strange.''
Boromir only half-listened to him. The bleeding stopped; yet the other cut, the one in his very heart, was deeper. Now that he had given proof – for the Star of Elendil, the sceptre of Annúminas and the Ring of Barahir were well-known in Gondor, and he would have recognized them from the pictures he had been shown in his childhood even wthout help – he had to come to terms with the truth. And it was not easy.
He might not be as good around books as Faramir, but even he could see that the Annals were not fake, either. Which meant that the time of the Ruling Stewards had come to an end. The Heir of Denethor shall not take over the White City from his father as his sires did before him, back to Mardil Voronwë. For ere he could do that, Isildur's Heir shall come and take it from him.
Take everything from him.
''I have to give these things some thought'', he said abruptly and – not waiting for an answer – left.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Elrond looked after him, his usually calm face troubled.
''You still believe it was wise to call him to his meeting?'', he asked Aragorn. The future King of Gondor nodded.
''Now more than before. Legolas was right. It was an error to keep the truth from him – an error we might come to regret yet. He is an honourable man. He shall accept the changing of times. Yet we have mistrusted him, and that is something he shall not forget easily.''
But the wizard shook his head in doubt.
''Sometimes, Aragorn, being a man of honour might not be enough. He is driven by many forces that pull him toward opposite ways, and his sense of honour could be the downfall of him – of us all. Were we dealing with his brother, my sleep would be less troubled. But him – being raised to rule, not to serve – I know not what he is capable of.''
''His only concern is the safety of Minas Tirith, the White City that he loves with all his heart'', said Aragorn, ''and indeed, I am concerned about it, too. Thus we already have something in common. I intend to build upon that.''
''Then you might be building upon quicksand'', the wizard warned.''
''I know that, Gandalf'', Aragorn replied with a sight, calling his old friend by his common name for the first time; ''but whom should I trust if not the future Steward of my kingdom? I cannot hope to take my throne and rule the lands without his help.''
He stood and left the library to seek some solitude among the trees of one of the many gardens of Elrond's house.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) The Elven equivalent of the essence of any incarnate being. The physical part of an Elf's being (= his body) is called the hröa.
(2) Meaning Elbereth (or Varda), Queen of the Valier and patron of the Elves, to whom they usually pray.