A/N: How many days left?
Whispering Winds[Becky C.]
The sound of Aragorn's voice was silk and broken with pity, and his hand trembled with the care of years as it cupped the side of Boromir's drained white face. How long had it been since the Halflings had been taken, or how long had he been lying there in the leaves and must of the generous earth beneath him? He watched Aragorn above him with sunken eyes.
"You cannot give me the torch," His King whispered, still gripping Boromir's gloved hand with sorrow and dying hope to his chest tightly, and tears that should not have been shed fell from his eyes and onto Boromir's cold cheek. "Do not give all you love into the hands of a ranger." Old words from months before in Imladris might have hurt Boromir, but his regret made him sick enough to let them graze his soul and not look back.
"The burden is too heavy for me," Boromir barely moved his lips, and it felt as if his entire body had sunken to the earth and was weighed down upon his chest. His words were quiet and the proud captain of Gondor was at lower than his knees, begging his King for mercy. "Take what I cannot, finish what I have started and protect what I have failed to."
"Stay to see the sun rise again, Boromir, and let us carry it together…" Aragorn's face was inches from his now, and he lightly kissed Boromir's brow and kept his lips upon it for a long while, as if the King's comfort would stop the pain. The pain on the outside had already ceased – the dying man was vaguely aware of the Dwarf and the Elf by his side, preparing to remove the third arrow as they had the first and second. He could not stay to see the sun rise. The sun would sink behind the hills of a dark horizon, and never again would he see it in the sky.
--- ---
"Will you be here to see the sun rise?" The boy, nine years old and gripping a small sword made of wood and smooth edges at the side of his mother's bed, did not want to cry. His eyes remained still and bitter as he regarded the quiet figure laid out before him, under blankets of blue silk and pale as the moon in a gray winter night. "And are you going to come eat dinner with us tonight?"
"I do not think I am able to, little one." She was beautiful even when she was tired, and her kind, pale eyes lingered on his austere little face. "I do not want to miss another dinner with my boys."
"Then get up and come with me." Boromir shifted his weight to his other foot, then scorned himself on the inside – his father tried to teach him how to stand and not shift as if he had something to hide. "If you keep your hands on my shoulders I am sure you could do it." Finduilas, his mother, gazed forward into the dim candle lit bedroom with no words to reply with. The boy's frown deepened, and he tried to stifle a snort of annoyance (something picked up from his father), but it caught her attention and he was once again faced with her eyes.
"You are angry with me."
"No, it's all right. I'll tell father you cannot come down. But we will expect you tomorrow." Boromir slowly turned and meant to head for the door, but soft slender fingers caught his bare forearm and with a nonexistent strength he was pulled back to the bedside. His mother smiled at him.
"Do not be angry with me, my brave little Boromir… " When she spoke this time her voice broke, and Boromir had to fight the urge to wipe his tears away. They now fell freely down his face, and she reached up with cold fingers and cupped the side of his face in her palm. "Brave is what you are. You know this."
"Father says I am."
Finduilas gave a bit of a sob. "And your father is right. You will be a great champion someday, my Boromir. Never forget who you are." Boromir could not hold himself back anymore. He lost control and let a several sobs escape his own lips, clutching his mother's hand with both of his and coming to kneel by the large bed, burying his face in the sheets. His little body shook with silent sobs, and Finduilas' other hand came to his back and held him as close to her as she could. "Why are you crying?"
"You are going to die," Boromir growled angrily, muffled by the material. "I know you are."
"Oh, is that what you are worried about?" her voice was a sweet as a laugh, and it made his heart lighten with a twinge of hope, but he did not lift his head. His mother's fingers found his light brown hair, and stroked it affectionately. Unlike all those times before, he did not push his mother's affection away. "I am not going to die."
"Then you will see the sun rise with me tomorrow?" he sniffled.
Finduilas was silent for a long while, and then she said softly. "No. No Boromir. My sun will set, and only yours and your brother's will rise."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you will have to watch the sun rise with your brother," she leaned over and kissed his temple with cold lips, and his chest sank again. "You love your brother. You have to protect him, Boromir."
"Stay to see the sun rise, mother." Boromir said through a voice thick with tears, and closed his eyes, not wanting to see anything, just to feel his mother's hand in his hair. "Promise me. I love you."
"I can't."
"Why do you want to leave?!" he demanded, and pulled away from her, sitting up straight but still by the bed. Finduilas was crying quietly.
"I am not going to leave you at all, Boromir," she told him, reaching out to touch his face affectionately again, but this time her breath faltered. "Or your brother…or your father. I will be with you every moment of every day, and love you even more." she smiled through her tears, as if she could now see blue skies and endless fields of green grass. The rain pattered on the window outside. "But I will miss you, my Boromir. I shall be homesick for you."
"Where are you going if you're not dying?"
Finduilas' eyes began dull, and dimmed by the second. Her voice was a ghost, now, shallow as she whispered, "I am going to the sea."
"Will you come back?" he asked, but only after voicing the innocent question did his innocence diminish. She had fooled him with her kind words and soft voice, her love and her kindness and the grayness of her eyes. Boromir once again felt sick with tears, and since his mother could no longer reach out to him he hesitantly wrapped warm fingers around her cold hand. For what was to be the last time, she looked at him. Honesty was all there was room for now, and despite the cold of her skin and the cold that lingered in the air, her smile was warm. Finduilas was not afraid.
"I will never return to Minas Tirith." she told him, and lightly stroked his brown hair, moving ever so lightly to kiss him when he began to cry again. When Finduilas lay back down on the sheets she was out of breath. "Don't cry, don't cry! I will see you again. I promise you that."
"When will I see you? And where, if you will not come back?"
Finduilas' fingers tightened weakly in his hands, and her tears dampened the pillow beneath her head. "Only time will tell when." She smiled at him, and inhaled deeply, releasing a sigh of sorrow, of joy, of nostalgia, and of love. "And we will meet again by the sea."
"Dinner is served, young Boromir, hurry you up and get down these stairs!" The keeper of the Steward's house shouted from down the stairs, and Boromir quickly glanced over his shoulder and sniffled, annoyed with the sudden interruption. He wanted to shout back, but did not want to hurt his mother's ears. He turned back to his mother.
"I have to go. Goodnight." he gave her hand a final squeeze, but her fingers were soft and limp and did not respond. Finduilas' face, fair and calm and quiet, was still, and her eyes remained set forward on something he could not see – a place so that seemed so wonderful nothing was worth looking back for. It was at that moment that something left Boromir, something that would never return. He sighed in a grievous resignation. His mother was gone.
Tears forced over the rims of his eyes and fell onto the sheets, and sobs rose from his chest but made no sound. The boy cared not for the door that was half open, or the stillness of the whispering winds outside the window of his mother and father's bedroom. Boromir lifted himself onto the soft mattress, beside his mother's empty body, and curled up. Her hand remained in his, clasped to his chest, and he cried. She would not speak. She would not move, or sing, or cradle him in her arms. He would never hear her voice again, and Boromir was alone.
--- ---
The memories faded with all the rest of his feelings, and he was aware of his body having been pulled up into a sitting position with strong arms around him, and a his face pressed into a comfortingly solid shoulder. Aragorn knew there was nothing more to do than let his friend bleed, and Boromir's heart slowed. It was tired, and wanted to rest. His blood seeped into Aragorn's clothing, this he knew, but could no longer speak.
"Go then, my dear friend, where they are calling." Aragorn whispered, but Boromir could still see only a comforting black darkness about him. "I will carry the torch, and with it bring a light of hope to our city. Minas Tirith will not fall." The arms of the King tightened around him, and he closed his eyes. In Aragorn he could trust, in Aragorn he could leave this world in hope. He could now rest, and he did.
The sounds of birds chattering, and the winds whispering all faded out into a simple sound – a sound of simplicity and peace, of grace and beauty, of blue skies and gulls crying with joy. The crashing of waves against the calm, fair shores of the West. The sea called him, and he went. ~
[1,812 words]