In the Shadows

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. No infringement is meant.

Rating PG-13, for violence.

Warnings: Violence, angst. Oh, and not beta-ed. This is the raw version.

By Annabell

Author's note. According to Tolkien, Aragorn was born in the year 2931. Boromir was born in the year 2978, forty-seven years later. In this fic, Aragorn is 62, which is not old for him, and Boromir is 15.  In Appendix A of Return of the King, Tolkien mentions that while he was young, Aragorn spends some time in Mordor, scouting.  In the movie, Boromir indicates that he too has spent time in Mordor, (see the Council of Elrond scene). Using a blend of book and movie-verse, this fic is a what-if take on the first meeting of the future King of Gondor, and the Steward's son.

I think Sean Bean's portrayal of Boromir was magnificent. So I am basing Boromir in this fic on that, rather than the character in the book. And I do agree with Osheen and Shivvy, Aragorn and Faramir are put way too high on a pedestal. 

Part 2

Behind Enemy Lines

The night dragged by as if on the backs of snails. For endless hours the two of them sat in silence, listening for a sign that the enemy had discovered their pitiful hiding place. But though they could hear the shouts of the orcs far in the distance, none came near their cliff.  Aragorn scanned the night constantly, trying not to feel the cold. Beside him, the boy Boromir was huddled in Aragorn's cloak with his eyes closed. Aragorn might have thought him asleep except for the fact that every once in a while the boy's eyes would flare open and scan about him. Inwardly, he was impressed with the boy's patience and tolerance of his injuries, for Aragorn knew with certainty that they must be troubling him. 

Finally, though, it seemed the boy's patience wore thin.

"Would that this night would end," Boromir muttered, trying in vain to find a comfortable position on the ledge. As it was, there was just enough room, barely, for him and the Ranger to sit shoulder to shoulder, and that was all. He was aware of the Ranger beside him, giving him an amused glance and he flushed. Boromir knew that it was unseemly for a soldier to complain, let alone a lord's son, but at that time Boromir didn't care. He was hurt, cold and very thirsty. "Perhaps the Enemy has contrived a way to make a night that does not fail," he speculated, trying to distract himself from his aches and pains.

"This night is no shorter or longer than any other," Aragorn assured him, his soft voice conveying his amusement.

Glaring at the Ranger, Boromir struggled to envelope himself further into the borrowed cloak; his arms and legs were so cold that he could scarcely move. He hissed softly as pain stabbed his injured ribs and in his annoyance at his inability to get comfortable, he jerked the material harder than necessary.  He froze when Strider put a hand on his shoulder and held him in a firm grasp

"Don't move," Strider said in a hushed tone that nonetheless commanded such that it only added to Boromir's irritation. The man was just a ranger, even if he had saved Boromir's life. He was drawing a breath to retort when he heard a sound directly below them.

Leaning forward, Aragorn and Boromir stared intently at the base of the cliff from where they had climbed. At first, Boromir could see nothing in the darkness, yet he could sense something down there. As his eyes began to adjust, he thought he could detect a patch of black that seemed to be…moving.

"What is it?" Boromir whispered. He noticed that his heart was pounding so loudly he was sure that the thing down there must have heard it. He was shivering, but not due to the cold alone and there didn't seem to be enough air in his lungs. There was something fundamentally wrong about whatever it was down there, and though Boromir was not prone to flights of fancy, somehow he knew that it was much, much more perilous than a hundred companies of orcs.

Aragorn didn't answer, but his hand reached around slowly for his sword and grasped the hilt.  He didn't draw it, but he was poised, ready to attack in an instant. 

The black thing worked its way along the base of the cliff, inch by inch. Boromir could feel his muscles tensing so hard that he knew if something didn't happen soon, he was sure he would explode. Then something did happen. The black thing sniffed loudly once, twice, and then just seemed to fade into nothingness.   Boromir swallowed heavily, and was suddenly able to breathe again.  "What was that?" he asked again, only slightly ashamed of the quavering in his voice.

The Ranger did not reply. He scanned the area around them and (most disturbingly) overhead. The only things up there were the boiling black clouds. Finally he relaxed, though made no effort to remove his hand from his weapon. Boromir waited impatiently for an answer. When there seemed to be one not immediately forthcoming, he repeated it again and again was ignored.

Thoroughly irritated, the young soldier was contemplating shoving his companion off the ledge to see if the thing would come back when the Ranger sighed and leaned back. Closing his eyes, Aragorn "I cannot be sure," he said, "but I think it was a Nazgul."

Boromir looked at him blankly in the dark. "A what?"

"A Nazgul. One of Sauron's servants."

Biting his lip, Boromir's thoughts spun furiously. Never before had he encountered such a foe, one that could reduce a man almost to weeping with its mere presence.  Part of him quailed at the thought that the Enemy had such servants. How could Gondor hope to stand against foes such as those? Shaking his head, he berated himself for thinking like that; thoughts such as those were no way to wage a war. "There must be some way to kill such a fell beast," he mused.

"Its not a beast, and if there is a way, not even the Elves know of it," Aragorn said dryly.

Boromir snorted. "Elves, what good are they?" he asked bitterly, settling back into the alcove.

Raising an eyebrow, Aragorn looked at his companion. "They are of great good, and wisdom and power. Tell me, young Boromir, have the Elves offended you in some way that you would speak of them in such a manner?"

Eyes blazing, Boromir snarled. "You speak to me of how good the Elves are, yet it is the people of Gondor who are sacrificed so that the other races of Middle Earth remain free of Sauron's evil. Every day more and more of my people fall to the foul swords of Mordor's armies. Though we repay their actions tenfold, the armies of Mordor grows ever stronger. If the Elves are so good and powerful, why are they not here at Gondor's side, aiding her in her struggle? Instead, they hide in their woods, caring nothing of others, in safety bought by the blood of Gondor. Tell me not of the goodness of Elves." Boromir looked away, desperately trying to get himself back under control. His exhaustion and injuries were taking their relentless toll on him.

Aragorn was speechless at the bitterness of the youth. He knew that Boromir was overwrought, yet what he said echoed deep within his heart, for it was Aragorn's own people that Boromir was speaking of, yet this boy seemed to care about Gondor as if he himself were its king. He tried a different tack. "For countless ages, it has been Gondor's fate to contend with Mordor," he said.

"Aye, and we do it without complaint, and yet…" the boy trailed off, biting his lip.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked gently.

"I fear for my people," Boromir admitted with reluctance. "We are engaged in a war that I cannot see a way of winning."

Aragorn didn't answer. For long moments he considered the boy's words, and what they meant. The boy spoke as if Gondor's defeat were imminent. He considered the situation from the boy's point of view and understood, but there was little he could offer in the way of comfort except for the pitiful words, "Do not give up hope."

With a laugh that sounded closer to a sob, Boromir shook his head. "Hope? To where shall we look for hope? The other races will not fight at our side and there is no king to lead us. And I have heard telling that Gondor's only ally Rohan is coming under siege as well. It seems we are beset from all sides so that I cannot see any hope," he finished softly.

"Then why do you fight?" Aragorn asked curiously.

"What else is there to do?" Boromir asked in return, genuinely shocked. "Should we just lay down our swords and let Sauron slaughter us?  Nay, we are Men of Gondor. We still have our honor and courage, despite that which we face.  If it is death at the hands of Sauron, then we will face it knowing we did our duty.  As you said, it has ever been Gondor's fate to contend with Mordor. So we shall, with or without hope."  He looked up at the black clouds, frowning. Then another thought occurred to him.  "How is it that you know so much about that creature?" Boromir asked curiously, and then the beginnings of a suspicion were insinuating itself into his exhausted mind. He drew away from the Ranger, as much as he was able, which was not much.

As if reading his thoughts, Aragorn smirked at him. "If I were a servant of Sauron, I would have left you to the mercies of the orcs."

Flushing, Boromir nodded. "True. Yet you know much about them," he pointed out.

"I have dedicated my life to aiding in the defeat of Sauron," Aragorn said simply.

Boromir smiled. "Then we are brother with a common purpose. Have you ventured inside of Mordor, Strider?" he asked with some hesitation.

"Aye," Aragorn admitted reluctantly.

"Is it true?" Boromir asked, his voice failing just the slightest bit. "Is it true that the tower Barad-dur is being rebuilt?"

Aragorn winced as if in pain, but he could not lie to the youth. "Aye, it is true."

"Then our situation is as bad as it can get," Boromir said matter-of-factly as he let his head fall back on the rock wall, closing his eyes.

"Nay," Aragorn chuckled in spite of himself. "It can always get worse."

"How?" Boromir asked, not opening his eyes.

"It could be raining," the Ranger suggested.

As if on cue, the skies opened up above them. Icy sheets of acrid rain poured over them and through a soaked thatch of golden hair Boromir glared at Aragorn, who actually looked startled that the weather had so readily taken him up on his suggestion. "Never again try to comfort me," he growled.

TBC

End note: This is one of the hardest fics that I have tried to write, for the simple reason it will not tell me where it wants to go, yet it will not leave me alone. And I have no idea how to put those little accent peak-thingies over the u in Nazgul and Barad-dur. So…yeah.  Comments are very welcome. It may give me ideas.  Thank you for reading this.