((Yet another chapter! I wanted to post it tonight so everyone could read it conveniently---unfortunately, I'm very tired tonight, so I might have missed some critical edits. If there are any kinks, I'll have them worked out by tomorrow night. Translations for Sindarin are included. Love you guys!!!!))
It had never occurred to Boromir that one day he might have to remind himself to breathe. As he felt his lungs begin to ache from want of air, he considered whether or not another intake was worth the trouble. Slowly, he weighed the pros and cons, almost decided against it. Then, just as his vision began to black out, he changed his mind. His chest rose sharply, and after giving his body a moment to recover Boromir went on his way down the halls of the palace.
Aragorn had called him to the throne room, but he was in no rush to be there. He happened to know there was nothing urgent to attend. There never was. Not that he considered important, anyway. There was very little that he considered of any import. His goals were attained.
The war was over. The ring was destroyed. Everyone was happy, whole, complete.
Well, almost everyone.
Boromir couldn't remember the last time he had slept. Oh, it wasn't the nightmares of the battles he had led. Those were simple enough to forget. After leaving Kara, the death of his men evoked no response in him save for a gentle pity. Nor was it the memory of inflicting so much death, or experiencing so much fear. No, the war was over. He was considered a war hero, brave and unyielding. Monuments to him were up everywhere. His admirers would never guess that he had gone into each of his battles praying for death. Each time he stood in the dusty aftermath of a conflict with little more than scratches, he dropped his head back and cursed the sky, agony swelling up in his heart afresh.
Now the fighting was done, the dead buried, their families consoled. The One Ring was gone, destroyed in the cracks of Doom. Aragorn was the new king, Arwen at his side. There didn't seem to be much place for him, Boromir mused quietly as he stared at a portrait of his father hanging in the halls. He was an advisor, little more. He came when called, associated with those whose company he could tolerate, then retreated to his room or to the garden.
That blessed hour would not come for some time yet, and now the throne room was upon him. Nodding curtly to the two doormen, Boromir slipped in and stood behind those waiting to see the king. Aragorn finished speaking to the mason, then, looking up, saw Boromir.
"Lord Boromir! Why linger in the shadows? Come sit down!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn frowned gently at Boromir as he approached the seats near the throne and took the most concealed one. The dim torches illuminated the pained light in the warrior-turned-hermit's eyes. It was always there now, and it worried Aragorn. He had been surprised indeed that the many dangerous battles his friend had plunged himself into had not resulted in death.
Aragorn, in some strange way, blamed himself for the way Boromir now behaved. He had not thought his love for Kara had been sincere, thought it a simple flight of fancy. Boromir had seemed capricious and undedicated back then---a million years ago. Now he was different. He was solid, thoughtful, and wise, looking beyond the moment he had once clung to so desperately. Admittedly, now that the brash edge was taken off, Boromir made a skilled advisor. Still, at times Aragorn missed that prideful and foolish side of him, the arrogant faith in himself and his people. That part of Boromir had been appealing in some annoying way. But that part of him had drained from his spirit and mingled with the blood on the ground that horrible day...
The death of Kara had affected them all. Without realizing it, they had come to find a solace in her simplicity and love of life. More than that, they had put their hope in the strange events surrounding her, and the mark she bore on her breast. It had broken Aragorn's heart to tell the little ones on the day they had reunited. Merry and Pippin were shocked. Frodo and Sam guessed the moment they mentioned Kara. Aragorn did hate to see hobbits grieve.
But no one was taking it harder than was Boromir. Understandably so. Aragorn watched the last of his callers depart, reflecting on how he would react should something horrible befall Arwen. The mere thought was enough to make him shudder.
At last, he turned to Boromir, his voice quiet.
"How are you doing, old friend?" Boromir shook himself, as one waking from a dream.
"I still live. I would not trust any further information about my well being." A watery smile. Aragorn sat forward, fighting a cringe at his friend's expression.
"Where a heart beats, hope lives. In any case, I have a surprise for you." Boromir's eyes flickered briefly with interest. Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the throne room door flying open. In poured what seemed like a massive number of two-foot-tall, dark-haired creatures. In reality, there were only four.
"Aragorn! Have these palace guards executed messily! Letting such a fierce army through their ranks! For shame!" Pippin cried out, his little legs carrying him quickly to the throne. Aragorn reached down and patted the low shoulder fondly.
"I shall attend to it immediately. Come in, good halflings!" As if they needed his invitation, the three remaining hobbits skittered in. Frodo and Sam stayed together. Aragorn smiled at the two. Their friendship was the stuff of legends. Merry's cheerful round face made its way immediately over to Boromir.
"And how many battles have you caused, little rogue?" Boromir finally spoke, a rare note of joviality in his voice. Merry grinned.
"We'll discuss that later. We've had a long journey, and we want our supper." Aragorn stood.
"Supper is waiting in the hall. We shall be glad to feed you...providing, of course, we are allowed a description of Sam's wife."
Sam, of course, blushed deeply.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Boromir slipped out into the night, pulling in a lungful of the clean air. The hobbits and Aragorn had finally retired with much coaxing from Arwen. She had tried convincing Boromir to sleep as well, but knew enough not to push after his first firm declination.
The garden welcomed him again. Most nights he stayed awake and watched the sunrise. He found the only time memories of the past didn't hurt was when he fixed his eyes directly east, never allowing them to wander, until the last star disappeared. Then, he would tense in anticipation until the sun broke its way over the hills.
In that brief moment in time, that one heartbeat, Kara lived again. Her gentle face smiled at him, her dark eyes searching his, pooled with the emotions she felt so deeply and hid so carefully.
Then the moment would pass. Afterward, always right afterward, a cold longing would sweep over him, forcing tears from his eyes. The memory of her voice, her touch, her smell, always faded, and he felt the brutality of her murder all over again.
This morning was no different. Boromir found himself bracing against the pain as the stars began to fade. His body was numb from the early morning chill, but his heart still burned. He nearly swore he felt blisters on his soul. With a deep sigh, he prepared to turn his face eastward.
But something stopped him. A soft sound to his left. It was familiar, yet somehow unwelcome. It was the sound of another human. Not a voice, exactly...Boromir strained his ears to hear. It was the sound of crying. Someone was walking nearby and weeping quietly. Boromir found himself compelled to see who it was.
Quietly, he slipped his way through the bushes and stopped just short of the hedge. His eyes scanned the garden quickly for the source of the noise. Quietly now, Boromir. Don't let anyone see you. The corner of his eye caught movement, and he glanced toward it.
It wasn't...no, it couldn't be. It must be a trick of his eyes. Some cruel imp playing games with his mind. An illusion of the moonlight.
But why, oh why did it have to take HER form?
The longer Boromir stared, the less able he was to believe he was imagining things. It was Kara. She was pale, drawn, and looking too thin to be healthy, but Kara nonetheless. There was no mistaking her form. She was crying, walking unsteadily through the garden paths. Barefoot. It was definitely Kara.
Boromir found himself frozen in place, unable to move, no matter how he wanted to step out of the shadows and touch the specter that wandered through the night.
Kara drew closer, her footfalls making no sound, until at last she stood about four yards away from Boromir's hiding place. The stars shone down on her faintly, making her look all too white. Wrapping her arms around herself, Kara faced away from the glaring light of the moon and bowed her head. Placing one foot in front of another soundlessly, she slipped around the corner of the wall and was out of sight.
Boromir finally found it within himself to move, and scrambled after the apparition. Rounding the corner she had turned, he found nothing but an endless expanse of garden, with no other signs of life.
Boromir slowed to a stop and blinked. His hands were shaking, unsteady. The bitter taste of bile clawed at the back of his throat. He couldn't bear to be alone. Slowly, he turned and headed into the palace. His feet made their own way toward Aragorn and Arwen's room. His hand shook violently, making him almost unable to knock on the door. The sound was little more than a weak tap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn grunted and stirred at the sound of a tapping on the door. It was, he assumed, one of the hobbits. Perhaps they had become lost. Arwen patted his arm.
"I'll take care of it." Aragorn smiled. It seemed reasonable, since elves never really slept, that she should take care of night callers. Still, he felt a slight guilt. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pulled on his dressing gown and slippers. He heard the door creak open, some soft words, then a summons from Arwen.
"Aragorn! It's Boromir." There was an almost panicked edge to her voice.
Aragorn ran into the front segment of their chambers. Boromir stood at the door, white as a sheet in the dim candlelight.
"Boromir, what is the matter?" Boromir shook his head.
"I....I just wanted to make sure."
"Of what?"
"That all was well."
"Boromir?" Arwen reached up and clasped Boromir's shoulder, shaking him gently. The dazed expression on Boromir's face broke, and he smiled wryly.
"I'm sorry...I've just...had a great fright." He seemed to be searching for words. "I think I saw something that was not there." Aragorn nodded in understanding. His twisted expression said it all.
"It's understandable, old friend. You've been eating little, sleeping less, and missing her every time you turn around."
Between friends, mostly ones with long and harrowing histories, a mere look is enough to communicate deep emotions that no words can indicate. Arwen, Aragorn, and Boromir were such friends, and in that moment all of them were shaken by the pain Boromir felt.
Wordlessly, and with a sad smile, Boromir turned and walked slowly out of the room, out the door, and down the hall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fandro had been on duty all night. He was ready to go home, but his duties dictated that he stand here until the stroke of twelve, ever-vigilant. Nothing much ever happened, but the odd person had been known to slip in and he had incapacitated more than one vagrant trying to asassinate the king.
So it was with a general air of unsurprised anger that Fandro observed a shadow moving in the corner of his eye. Whipping toward the noise, he shouted,
"Who goes there?" The shadow rustled.
"Where is Lord Boromir?" Fandro blinked. The voice was nonthreatening, desperate, and decidedly feminine. If anyone else had been enquired after, Fandro would have thought this was a girl of the professional persuasion come for an appointment of the carnal nature. As it was, Fandro bristled with irritation and brought himself up to full height.
"What concern is it of yours where Lord Boromir is? Why should you know if he is dead or alive?"
"...Is he dead?" The voice suddenly became menacing. Fandro took a more defensive posture, not uttering a word. Again, the voice inquired,
"Is....he....dead?" Fandro remained silent.
Suddenly, he found the world rocking from a blow to the head. The figure in front of him was small, but too indistinct to be clearly made out. Before he could react, a foot came up and rammed into his solar plexus.
Quickly, a knife to his throat and a hand over his eyes. The hand was small, but the dagger pressed firmly. Fandro felt a trickle of blood run down his neck.
"If you do not tell me right this moment if the Lord Boromir lives, I will make you wish you had never met me." Fandro sighed. Obviously this was a dangerous person. Why did people like this always think he was going to tell them the truth?
"The Lord Boromir is dead. He died a week ago."
Could it be---or did he imagine it? The dagger blade quivered breifly. The voice did not speak for a moment, and when it did speak, it broke.
"Do you know who I am?"
"No."
"Good." Fandro heard a dull thud, then slithered to the ground. His last impression before he lost consciousness was that of a dark figure with a glimmer of silver on its chest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kara slipped past the doorframe, shutting the heavy oak quietly behind her. It was dark, too dark for her to see anything, but she could sense that the room had not been entered in quite a while. After a bit of bumbling around, she found a candle and managed to light it. The dim glow cast on the room was enough to make her blood run cold, then white-hot.
Everything was placed as if he had just walked out of the room. Though dust covered some surfaces thickly, others looked recently used. Some of his drawers were open, papers poking out of them. Quill and ink stood ready to be used, as though the writer had just put them aside for a moment. A pair of leather gloves was thrown haphazardly onto a chair. The bedclothes were rumpled; a dip in the mattress evident where he had last slept...or tried to sleep. The sheets were twisted as if someone had been tossing and turning beneath them.
Kara's traveling pack slid to the floor, hitting with a puff of dirt. The smell of earth, accumulated through long traveling, wafted up from the bag. The candle in her hand began to tremble. Quickly, she placed it on the nightstand, nudging aside some old letters and a pipe. Her knees were beginning to give way, and so she did the only thing she knew to do.
Kara slipped into the bed, trembling fingers grasping onto the pillow. It still smelled like him. Warm tears soaked the mattress as Kara curled up in the hollow made by Boromir's body. Desperately, she clutched his pillow to her chest. Silent, strained sobs rocked her in a violent lullaby. She tried to think, tried to breathe, tried to do anything to let herself know she was still alive. She felt beaten. Even as the sobs died away she twitched with the pain of unseen blows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Boromir shuffled down the halls, trailing his fingers along the icy stones to either side of him. He would return to his room, try to sleep. He felt exhausted.
As he came within sight of his room, he stopped. The lock had been picked. The ruddy glow of a candle emanated from underneath the door. Boromir pulled a knife out of his belt and crept toward it with caution. Slowly, cautiously he edged his way into the door. His eyes darted around the room, then came to rest on the only other sign of life within.
His heart stopped. The thick blankets all but swallowed a small trembling form. The sound of quiet weeping, muffled in the pillows, floated up from the mound of wrinkled bedding.
"Who are you?" Boromir attempted to demand. No sound came from his throat. Cautiously, he took a few more steps toward the bed. Poking out from under the blankets, he could just see a lock of hair. It was coppery red.
"C...Calad Aur? Pedo na nin, Calad Aur.*" Boromir drew on his scanty store of Sindarin. He knew of no one else that would respond to being addressed in this manner.
The mound gave a shudder. A strained, raspy voice, made beautiful by its familiarity, emanated from the bed.
"Boromir? Nin mell pen?"
Boromir reached out and drew back the blankets. Two luminous eyes locked onto his, shining faintly in the pale, drawn face.
"Kara."
As if that word had broken through some unseen restraint, Kara flew at him, ramming him in the chest and nearly knocking him over. Boromir caught his balance quickly, hanging on to her so tightly he doubted she could breathe. Her grip on him did not lessen, however. He buried his face in her hair. Kara's muffled sobbing had taken on a desperately joyful note. Boromir sank down on the bed, pulling her with him. Her smell made him dizzy. For some odd reason, what was left of his brain started analyzing her scent. Something between warm bread and roses, overwhelmingly sweet and comforting.
"I thought you were dead, Kara. We all did."
"...I think I was. It's hard to tell about these things. How long has it been?"
"Too long." Kara nuzzled into his chest, directly over his heart. Boromir sighed softly.
"Please tell me I'm not dreaming." Boromir felt Kara pull away. He looked down at her face. The paleness was gone, and her features had relaxed into an expression that reminded him of her rural heritage, practical and active.
"If this were a dream, would your apparition do this?" Kara's hand flew up and slapped Boromir across the face. The blow was too gentle to hurt, but it gave the entire situation a sudden air of reality. Boromir looked back down at Kara. She was smiling gently, her eyes large and liquid. Boromir chuckled, then looked at her curiously.
"But...but how are you here now if you were dead?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
((Translation:
Pedo na nin = Speak to me.
Nin mell pen = My dear one))
It had never occurred to Boromir that one day he might have to remind himself to breathe. As he felt his lungs begin to ache from want of air, he considered whether or not another intake was worth the trouble. Slowly, he weighed the pros and cons, almost decided against it. Then, just as his vision began to black out, he changed his mind. His chest rose sharply, and after giving his body a moment to recover Boromir went on his way down the halls of the palace.
Aragorn had called him to the throne room, but he was in no rush to be there. He happened to know there was nothing urgent to attend. There never was. Not that he considered important, anyway. There was very little that he considered of any import. His goals were attained.
The war was over. The ring was destroyed. Everyone was happy, whole, complete.
Well, almost everyone.
Boromir couldn't remember the last time he had slept. Oh, it wasn't the nightmares of the battles he had led. Those were simple enough to forget. After leaving Kara, the death of his men evoked no response in him save for a gentle pity. Nor was it the memory of inflicting so much death, or experiencing so much fear. No, the war was over. He was considered a war hero, brave and unyielding. Monuments to him were up everywhere. His admirers would never guess that he had gone into each of his battles praying for death. Each time he stood in the dusty aftermath of a conflict with little more than scratches, he dropped his head back and cursed the sky, agony swelling up in his heart afresh.
Now the fighting was done, the dead buried, their families consoled. The One Ring was gone, destroyed in the cracks of Doom. Aragorn was the new king, Arwen at his side. There didn't seem to be much place for him, Boromir mused quietly as he stared at a portrait of his father hanging in the halls. He was an advisor, little more. He came when called, associated with those whose company he could tolerate, then retreated to his room or to the garden.
That blessed hour would not come for some time yet, and now the throne room was upon him. Nodding curtly to the two doormen, Boromir slipped in and stood behind those waiting to see the king. Aragorn finished speaking to the mason, then, looking up, saw Boromir.
"Lord Boromir! Why linger in the shadows? Come sit down!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn frowned gently at Boromir as he approached the seats near the throne and took the most concealed one. The dim torches illuminated the pained light in the warrior-turned-hermit's eyes. It was always there now, and it worried Aragorn. He had been surprised indeed that the many dangerous battles his friend had plunged himself into had not resulted in death.
Aragorn, in some strange way, blamed himself for the way Boromir now behaved. He had not thought his love for Kara had been sincere, thought it a simple flight of fancy. Boromir had seemed capricious and undedicated back then---a million years ago. Now he was different. He was solid, thoughtful, and wise, looking beyond the moment he had once clung to so desperately. Admittedly, now that the brash edge was taken off, Boromir made a skilled advisor. Still, at times Aragorn missed that prideful and foolish side of him, the arrogant faith in himself and his people. That part of Boromir had been appealing in some annoying way. But that part of him had drained from his spirit and mingled with the blood on the ground that horrible day...
The death of Kara had affected them all. Without realizing it, they had come to find a solace in her simplicity and love of life. More than that, they had put their hope in the strange events surrounding her, and the mark she bore on her breast. It had broken Aragorn's heart to tell the little ones on the day they had reunited. Merry and Pippin were shocked. Frodo and Sam guessed the moment they mentioned Kara. Aragorn did hate to see hobbits grieve.
But no one was taking it harder than was Boromir. Understandably so. Aragorn watched the last of his callers depart, reflecting on how he would react should something horrible befall Arwen. The mere thought was enough to make him shudder.
At last, he turned to Boromir, his voice quiet.
"How are you doing, old friend?" Boromir shook himself, as one waking from a dream.
"I still live. I would not trust any further information about my well being." A watery smile. Aragorn sat forward, fighting a cringe at his friend's expression.
"Where a heart beats, hope lives. In any case, I have a surprise for you." Boromir's eyes flickered briefly with interest. Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the throne room door flying open. In poured what seemed like a massive number of two-foot-tall, dark-haired creatures. In reality, there were only four.
"Aragorn! Have these palace guards executed messily! Letting such a fierce army through their ranks! For shame!" Pippin cried out, his little legs carrying him quickly to the throne. Aragorn reached down and patted the low shoulder fondly.
"I shall attend to it immediately. Come in, good halflings!" As if they needed his invitation, the three remaining hobbits skittered in. Frodo and Sam stayed together. Aragorn smiled at the two. Their friendship was the stuff of legends. Merry's cheerful round face made its way immediately over to Boromir.
"And how many battles have you caused, little rogue?" Boromir finally spoke, a rare note of joviality in his voice. Merry grinned.
"We'll discuss that later. We've had a long journey, and we want our supper." Aragorn stood.
"Supper is waiting in the hall. We shall be glad to feed you...providing, of course, we are allowed a description of Sam's wife."
Sam, of course, blushed deeply.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Boromir slipped out into the night, pulling in a lungful of the clean air. The hobbits and Aragorn had finally retired with much coaxing from Arwen. She had tried convincing Boromir to sleep as well, but knew enough not to push after his first firm declination.
The garden welcomed him again. Most nights he stayed awake and watched the sunrise. He found the only time memories of the past didn't hurt was when he fixed his eyes directly east, never allowing them to wander, until the last star disappeared. Then, he would tense in anticipation until the sun broke its way over the hills.
In that brief moment in time, that one heartbeat, Kara lived again. Her gentle face smiled at him, her dark eyes searching his, pooled with the emotions she felt so deeply and hid so carefully.
Then the moment would pass. Afterward, always right afterward, a cold longing would sweep over him, forcing tears from his eyes. The memory of her voice, her touch, her smell, always faded, and he felt the brutality of her murder all over again.
This morning was no different. Boromir found himself bracing against the pain as the stars began to fade. His body was numb from the early morning chill, but his heart still burned. He nearly swore he felt blisters on his soul. With a deep sigh, he prepared to turn his face eastward.
But something stopped him. A soft sound to his left. It was familiar, yet somehow unwelcome. It was the sound of another human. Not a voice, exactly...Boromir strained his ears to hear. It was the sound of crying. Someone was walking nearby and weeping quietly. Boromir found himself compelled to see who it was.
Quietly, he slipped his way through the bushes and stopped just short of the hedge. His eyes scanned the garden quickly for the source of the noise. Quietly now, Boromir. Don't let anyone see you. The corner of his eye caught movement, and he glanced toward it.
It wasn't...no, it couldn't be. It must be a trick of his eyes. Some cruel imp playing games with his mind. An illusion of the moonlight.
But why, oh why did it have to take HER form?
The longer Boromir stared, the less able he was to believe he was imagining things. It was Kara. She was pale, drawn, and looking too thin to be healthy, but Kara nonetheless. There was no mistaking her form. She was crying, walking unsteadily through the garden paths. Barefoot. It was definitely Kara.
Boromir found himself frozen in place, unable to move, no matter how he wanted to step out of the shadows and touch the specter that wandered through the night.
Kara drew closer, her footfalls making no sound, until at last she stood about four yards away from Boromir's hiding place. The stars shone down on her faintly, making her look all too white. Wrapping her arms around herself, Kara faced away from the glaring light of the moon and bowed her head. Placing one foot in front of another soundlessly, she slipped around the corner of the wall and was out of sight.
Boromir finally found it within himself to move, and scrambled after the apparition. Rounding the corner she had turned, he found nothing but an endless expanse of garden, with no other signs of life.
Boromir slowed to a stop and blinked. His hands were shaking, unsteady. The bitter taste of bile clawed at the back of his throat. He couldn't bear to be alone. Slowly, he turned and headed into the palace. His feet made their own way toward Aragorn and Arwen's room. His hand shook violently, making him almost unable to knock on the door. The sound was little more than a weak tap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn grunted and stirred at the sound of a tapping on the door. It was, he assumed, one of the hobbits. Perhaps they had become lost. Arwen patted his arm.
"I'll take care of it." Aragorn smiled. It seemed reasonable, since elves never really slept, that she should take care of night callers. Still, he felt a slight guilt. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pulled on his dressing gown and slippers. He heard the door creak open, some soft words, then a summons from Arwen.
"Aragorn! It's Boromir." There was an almost panicked edge to her voice.
Aragorn ran into the front segment of their chambers. Boromir stood at the door, white as a sheet in the dim candlelight.
"Boromir, what is the matter?" Boromir shook his head.
"I....I just wanted to make sure."
"Of what?"
"That all was well."
"Boromir?" Arwen reached up and clasped Boromir's shoulder, shaking him gently. The dazed expression on Boromir's face broke, and he smiled wryly.
"I'm sorry...I've just...had a great fright." He seemed to be searching for words. "I think I saw something that was not there." Aragorn nodded in understanding. His twisted expression said it all.
"It's understandable, old friend. You've been eating little, sleeping less, and missing her every time you turn around."
Between friends, mostly ones with long and harrowing histories, a mere look is enough to communicate deep emotions that no words can indicate. Arwen, Aragorn, and Boromir were such friends, and in that moment all of them were shaken by the pain Boromir felt.
Wordlessly, and with a sad smile, Boromir turned and walked slowly out of the room, out the door, and down the hall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fandro had been on duty all night. He was ready to go home, but his duties dictated that he stand here until the stroke of twelve, ever-vigilant. Nothing much ever happened, but the odd person had been known to slip in and he had incapacitated more than one vagrant trying to asassinate the king.
So it was with a general air of unsurprised anger that Fandro observed a shadow moving in the corner of his eye. Whipping toward the noise, he shouted,
"Who goes there?" The shadow rustled.
"Where is Lord Boromir?" Fandro blinked. The voice was nonthreatening, desperate, and decidedly feminine. If anyone else had been enquired after, Fandro would have thought this was a girl of the professional persuasion come for an appointment of the carnal nature. As it was, Fandro bristled with irritation and brought himself up to full height.
"What concern is it of yours where Lord Boromir is? Why should you know if he is dead or alive?"
"...Is he dead?" The voice suddenly became menacing. Fandro took a more defensive posture, not uttering a word. Again, the voice inquired,
"Is....he....dead?" Fandro remained silent.
Suddenly, he found the world rocking from a blow to the head. The figure in front of him was small, but too indistinct to be clearly made out. Before he could react, a foot came up and rammed into his solar plexus.
Quickly, a knife to his throat and a hand over his eyes. The hand was small, but the dagger pressed firmly. Fandro felt a trickle of blood run down his neck.
"If you do not tell me right this moment if the Lord Boromir lives, I will make you wish you had never met me." Fandro sighed. Obviously this was a dangerous person. Why did people like this always think he was going to tell them the truth?
"The Lord Boromir is dead. He died a week ago."
Could it be---or did he imagine it? The dagger blade quivered breifly. The voice did not speak for a moment, and when it did speak, it broke.
"Do you know who I am?"
"No."
"Good." Fandro heard a dull thud, then slithered to the ground. His last impression before he lost consciousness was that of a dark figure with a glimmer of silver on its chest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kara slipped past the doorframe, shutting the heavy oak quietly behind her. It was dark, too dark for her to see anything, but she could sense that the room had not been entered in quite a while. After a bit of bumbling around, she found a candle and managed to light it. The dim glow cast on the room was enough to make her blood run cold, then white-hot.
Everything was placed as if he had just walked out of the room. Though dust covered some surfaces thickly, others looked recently used. Some of his drawers were open, papers poking out of them. Quill and ink stood ready to be used, as though the writer had just put them aside for a moment. A pair of leather gloves was thrown haphazardly onto a chair. The bedclothes were rumpled; a dip in the mattress evident where he had last slept...or tried to sleep. The sheets were twisted as if someone had been tossing and turning beneath them.
Kara's traveling pack slid to the floor, hitting with a puff of dirt. The smell of earth, accumulated through long traveling, wafted up from the bag. The candle in her hand began to tremble. Quickly, she placed it on the nightstand, nudging aside some old letters and a pipe. Her knees were beginning to give way, and so she did the only thing she knew to do.
Kara slipped into the bed, trembling fingers grasping onto the pillow. It still smelled like him. Warm tears soaked the mattress as Kara curled up in the hollow made by Boromir's body. Desperately, she clutched his pillow to her chest. Silent, strained sobs rocked her in a violent lullaby. She tried to think, tried to breathe, tried to do anything to let herself know she was still alive. She felt beaten. Even as the sobs died away she twitched with the pain of unseen blows.
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Boromir shuffled down the halls, trailing his fingers along the icy stones to either side of him. He would return to his room, try to sleep. He felt exhausted.
As he came within sight of his room, he stopped. The lock had been picked. The ruddy glow of a candle emanated from underneath the door. Boromir pulled a knife out of his belt and crept toward it with caution. Slowly, cautiously he edged his way into the door. His eyes darted around the room, then came to rest on the only other sign of life within.
His heart stopped. The thick blankets all but swallowed a small trembling form. The sound of quiet weeping, muffled in the pillows, floated up from the mound of wrinkled bedding.
"Who are you?" Boromir attempted to demand. No sound came from his throat. Cautiously, he took a few more steps toward the bed. Poking out from under the blankets, he could just see a lock of hair. It was coppery red.
"C...Calad Aur? Pedo na nin, Calad Aur.*" Boromir drew on his scanty store of Sindarin. He knew of no one else that would respond to being addressed in this manner.
The mound gave a shudder. A strained, raspy voice, made beautiful by its familiarity, emanated from the bed.
"Boromir? Nin mell pen?"
Boromir reached out and drew back the blankets. Two luminous eyes locked onto his, shining faintly in the pale, drawn face.
"Kara."
As if that word had broken through some unseen restraint, Kara flew at him, ramming him in the chest and nearly knocking him over. Boromir caught his balance quickly, hanging on to her so tightly he doubted she could breathe. Her grip on him did not lessen, however. He buried his face in her hair. Kara's muffled sobbing had taken on a desperately joyful note. Boromir sank down on the bed, pulling her with him. Her smell made him dizzy. For some odd reason, what was left of his brain started analyzing her scent. Something between warm bread and roses, overwhelmingly sweet and comforting.
"I thought you were dead, Kara. We all did."
"...I think I was. It's hard to tell about these things. How long has it been?"
"Too long." Kara nuzzled into his chest, directly over his heart. Boromir sighed softly.
"Please tell me I'm not dreaming." Boromir felt Kara pull away. He looked down at her face. The paleness was gone, and her features had relaxed into an expression that reminded him of her rural heritage, practical and active.
"If this were a dream, would your apparition do this?" Kara's hand flew up and slapped Boromir across the face. The blow was too gentle to hurt, but it gave the entire situation a sudden air of reality. Boromir looked back down at Kara. She was smiling gently, her eyes large and liquid. Boromir chuckled, then looked at her curiously.
"But...but how are you here now if you were dead?
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((Translation:
Pedo na nin = Speak to me.
Nin mell pen = My dear one))