Straying into Dream
The days in Lothlorien should have been cheerful and free from the worries the Fellowship had been constantly shouldering since their parting from Elrond, but Boromir wandered listlessly about, forever tormented by the things he had learned about himself and the Ring in the company of Illisien. Now he understood that the man that he had seen in his dreams had been no stranger, but himself. Afresh in his mind he came aware of just how strong a hold the Ring had on him, and knew that he was loathe to loosen its grip. He saw his father's face in his mind's eye, and knew what great things the Ring could do for Gondor, he saw the careworn and dispirited armies of Men cheering as those of the Enemy perished forever into dark gloom, never to trouble Middle-earth again. He saw these things and trembled, deep within his soul.
The care and compassion from his companions brought him no remedy, nor did the fair faces and works of the Elves, though all about him lay splendor and beauty. Boromir long thought of the great white City where his father dwelt, ever under siege by the servants of the Dark Lord, the great warriors of Gondor dwindling day by day. He would bring them relief if he could; he had pledged that by his life or death he would throw back the enemies of the White Tower. But still he sorrowed, for he knew that he had not power enough in his sword to defeat them, and knew that without some miracle all hope for the peoples of Middle-earth was lost. Ever was the Ring on his mind, though he tried with all his might to cast those evil thoughts aside. Too clearly had he seen the road to his demise in his dreams, and to this one last shred of faith he clung, willing himself to forsake that path for another.
Time was progressing. Soon, the Fellowship would be passing from underneath the eaves of the Wood, and still Boromir felt no safer from his evil lust. He thought of himself with a deep disgust, gazing at his rough hands as if they were grotesque and villainous things. His mood was prone to evil undulations, sometimes his self-loathing growing into a fierce beast which clawed him unmercifully, sometimes his terror looming frighteningly over him, cowing him into some dark, dead corner of the wood. The Elves, with their unmeasurable wisdom which saw these things weighting the troubled Man, avoided him, lest his madness were to overtake them. Boromir himself saw little of his companions, his last hope that the same delirium did not poison their minds as it had his.
But the woods of Lothlorien were not wholly without their magicks. None could tread beneath the glinting silver leaves of the mallorns with evil tearing at their backs and be long affected whilst they dwelt there. Not even Boromir's demons could grind against his will totally, and after the first few days his madness left him, but he kept a grim clarity in his vision and his manner. None could entirely rouse him from his doom and gloom demeanor. The knowledge that soon he would have to face his uncontrollable longing on his own, with no ancient trees or Elf-magic to protect his friends laid heavily on every step. He wondered how long he could hold out after they left the boundaries of the Wood.
The night before they were to depart, Boromir lie awake in his bower, worry glancing his face. Aragorn had been to see him that day, and Boromir knew that the captain of the Fellowship had felt the anguish surrounding him, if he did not know exactly its cause. But Aragorn's gaze had not seemed kind and anxious, to Boromir it was a hard stare of one who suspected his evils. Ever the people here tormented them with their knowing looks, their taunting scrutiny, Galadriel, Illisien, Aragorn, all.
How dare they look at him as if he were filth, slimy filth of the same breed of that skulking creature which had taken the Ring before? He was next in line to be the Steward of Gondor, most powerful of Men in Middle-earth! It was they who were blinded by their weaknesses, not he; only Boromir knew the truth, only he saw the wonders of the Ring and did not fear them. Were they to end this foolish parade across the cursed, forsaken lands ringing his great county, were Boromir to take the Ring to his father, or even take it for himself, all this nonsense would cease. Never again would the Dark Lord weigh heavy on their minds, never again would the foul foot of an Orc take one step toward them in evil bidding.
Deep inside him Boromir felt his heart surging with unrestrained passion, with power. He sprang from his soft Elvish bed, his hands aching for his sword, aching to make an end to the absurd follies that had diseased the minds of the Fellowship. They were fools, all of them! Fools!
"Boromir?" A voice, light, startled. Had he spoken aloud? Echoing in the dim corners of his mind, he heard his harsh cries bellowing into the darkness, shattering his thinning will. What madness had overcome him? His heart bowed and fell silent again: the black beast had been stayed by that voice in the night. He turned, and upon the hill, framed in glowing glory between to broad mallorn trunks, stood Illisien. He struggled to see her as he had before, the mocking princess, the Elven witch, but found that he could not. She stood there, the moonlight gleaming off her long golden locks, the worry on her face plain to his heart.
"Boromir!" She cried again, running to him as he collapsed on the ground in tearing agony. He felt as if the great hand of Sauron himself were pressing on his breast, crushing his very heart. His breath would not come, his hands lay helpless at his sides, no cry for rescue could he utter. But she was there. With all her strength the Elven maid laid her hands on his face, and whispered her Elvish words, louder and louder until the Man could hear nothing else. All grew dark, no longer could he make out the mallorn leaves against the blackness of the sky, but she laid her hands on his eyes and all he could see was her lovely face. With a final desperate cry she touched her ageless lips to his and he felt life and breath return to him in a shattering blow. He lay gasping in her arms when finally the affliction stopped.
"I have not power to fully turn your heart from Sauron's grasp, Son of Gondor, not even my mistress Galadriel holds that might, but have peace for a little while. Do not leave this earth yet, when you still have great paths to tread." She cradled his head in her hands, feeling his agony rip deep inside her trembling heart. His anger, his pain, his shame and sorrow were hers for but a moment, one precious twinkling that this great man deserved at least. Tears she thought long lost to her in the deathless ages fell from her eyes, splashing pitifully on the man's face, waking him from all shadows and deceits for a moment, grasping at his heart like a child brokenhearted and abandoned.
"I cannot love you," he whispered, and she held him as she cried.
Slowly, Illisien stood, throwing off her Elvish circlet with a cry. With it she flung away the ancient dignity she had been graced with, feeling neither graced nor dignified. She saw now her gift, to haunt the dreams of men and infiltrate their hearts, had been a curse, and she condemned her mistress Galadriel for all the pain she felt. Her purpose broken, and with no fruits to show for her labors, what now did this maiden have to live for? Despair clung to her like dewdrops in the early morn, but she could not yet give up, while still perhaps there was a thread of hope to nourish.
She knelt down beside Boromir, and took his hand. Looking at her full in the face, she seemed both wild and fair, and he could hear her untamed heart beating fiercely in her breast.
"Listen to me, if yet you have, Boromir of Gondor," she said. "I know what it is you feel in your heart, I know for I have felt it myself, if but for a while. Still I feel it, like a shadow where no light can enter. I fear that no hand, good or ill, can turn this evil from you, but I will you to take heart. You may yet have dark tracks to trace, but know this that I have seen: in glory and in honor you shall pass, flaming like a star in the heavens. You shall clutch your sword until the end, and many of your enemies shall meet their downfall by your stroke. You will not have lived for nothing, Lord of Men, and ever shall you be remembered in the most favored place of men's spirits.
"One last gift I give to you, while my powers still permit," She touched his brow, and her bright face vanished from his sight. Ever his most sacred principles would hold intact.