As if in a dream she came to him, pressed her lithe, ancient body to his strong back. Her sweet arms around him and warm, she held him close, her cheek to his, as she had when he was a child, and still when a young man, rocking him gently, easing his fears. He found his strength in her, strength in her immortal, unchanging love for him, strength to press on, to do what he must. And she whispered in his ear, as she had done those long years ago, her breath warm as honey on his skin, you are beloved, brother. Is that not enough?

And like a dream, she vanished.

The quest, he had thought, would be his salvation. Away again, a kingdom waiting to be claimed and a world to be saved. With the end-game approaching, how could he have time to long for what was denied him? But longing needs no space of time; it lives in the cracks, slips around thoughts like quicksilver. The undertow of the current, tugging the unwary swimmer out to sea.

And into his mind Galadriel had laced visions of his future if they succeeded. Showed him a shieldmaiden of Rohan at his side, beautiful as a snowy dawn, and no doubt the woman loved him. Showed him his children - strong and wise and powerful, the kingdoms of the West united and at peace. And with those bittersweet visions had come visions of Arwen's inevitable sorrow and regret if she had requited Aragorn's love, watching him grow old, watching him die, grief-stricken and alone. Galadriel had made it clear there would be no such fate for her grand-daughter. Not if he bore the reforged sword, not if he were king of the reunited lands, not if Elrond approved the match - Arwen did not love him, but even if she had, Galadriel would not see Arwen Undómiel in grief; would not see the light of the Evenstar fade. Not for Aragorn. Not for any Man, beloved of the Elves though he might be.

But if the lady of Lothlórien had thought to turn his heart from Arwen, she had failed, for hidden in Galadriel's refusal was the promise that Arwen might, one day, turn to him, and not as a sister. Beneath everything, that hope, that promise. For if there were no chance, why would Galadriel press him to abandon his love? As if he could. Why would she so oppose a match that her grand-daughter did not wish for? Could not sisterly love be transformed, as his childish love had transformed into the love of a man?

Galadriel feared it, and her fear gave him hope.

The woods of Lothlórien were cool, and smelled of earth and fresh growing things, sweet flowers and timelessness. Unchanging, tender and stern at once, like the Lady's eyes. The deep blue of the night was velvet and silk against Boromir's skin and he walked through the forest as if through the shadows of a memory not his own, his footsteps muffled in the mist. Never had he seen a place like this, in all his years; never had he felt such quietude, such stillness. The whisper of the Lady in his mind had been the touch of swan's down, cushioning him, if only for a moment, from the press and snatch of the thing that Frodo carried. For the first time since the council in Imladris, he had felt that he might see his home again, and the very notion had brought sudden tears to his eyes. No message had she for him, no counsel, no direction; just this: his city whole, his brother at his side. The terror of that night so many months ago had eased with her touch, the terror of his city falling, burning, as Osgiliath had, and he remembered only the solid form of Faramir with him, and the knowledge that the men who had died had done so defending all that they loved. There was peace in that, was there not? And in the knowledge that Gondor - that Minas Tirith - was not yet lost.

"Brother, would that you were by my side now," he murmured softly. "You would know how to love this place, where I am only a supplicant."

For he knew the Lady had read what was in his heart, and she had refused him. The Ring could not be used, even if it meant the fall of Gondor, the fall of the West. And Boromir both believed her, and did not.

And out of the mist, a form took shape. For the briefest of moments, Boromir fancied that it was Faramir indeed, come in answer to his summons as his brother always did.

Then he recognized the Ranger. A poor substitute for Faramir, he thought, but here in the velvet dark his heart softened towards the other, who seemed forlorn, even surrounded by the beauty of the woods, and the gentleness that dwelt there. Boromir was not accustomed to seeing the Ranger thus - indeed, was not accustomed to seeing anyone seem so alone. Grief, yes, was always close at hand in Gondor, with the servants of the Dark Lord so near, and so cruel. And fear, yes, and pain, though joy and mirth as well, however dark the age. But this mood, he was accustomed to only on his brother's face, and it had been with much effort and practice that he had learned the tricks to bring the other out of it.

The Ranger seemed so alone. Perhaps, he thought, a friendship could be reborn which had been lost in the dark of Moria.

"Aragorn," he said, stepping forward, and the other glanced around to find him, which was in itself strange enough, for he had assumed the Ranger had known of his presence, as he seemed to always know each leaf and branch and creature nearby. "I begin to see why you stayed so long with the Elves," he said, hoping to find some common ground. Aragorn loved the Elves, this much he had learned. "This place has enchantment. I know not how a man could leave if there were not a task as pressing as the one we undertake."

"The Elves possess enchantment indeed, my friend," said Aragorn. "Do not linger too long, or they will ensnare you as well," and though Aragorn was smiling as if at some jest, Boromir thought he detected bitterness in the tone of his companion's words.

"What is this?" asked Boromir gently. "Are you troubled tonight, here in this place where all cares seem only the whisper of a moment?"

Aragorn shook his head, smiling, though Boromir thought the smile was less of mirth and more of regret. "Some moments may last a lifetime, my friend," he said.

Boromir took another step forward, and said, "Perhaps, but more may be created to overshadow it, if one moment is too painful." He kept his voice gentle, as if he spoke to a skittish mount, and went on, "Come, I think you have been to this refuge before. Show me your Lothlórien. Put away your sorrow for a time."

Aragorn's smile faded, and he said softly, "Boromir, when the Lady looked into your eyes, what did you see?"

Startled to be asked what seemed so intimate a question, Boromir bit back a sudden sharp reply. Perhaps it did not seem so impertinent to the Ranger, who had spent so long with the Elves. After a moment, he said, "I saw little. My city, my brother. Peace." He glanced at Aragorn quizzically. "Is - did the Lady put this shadow on your heart?"

Shaking his head, Aragorn replied, "I cannot tell you," but Boromir was unsure whether the other meant he did not know, or would not say. After a moment Aragorn sighed. "I thank you for your offer of companionship, Boromir, but I fear I am no fit companion for anyone this night. Forgive me; I would be alone." And with the barest nod of his head, he vanished into the mists from which he had emerged.

Boromir made a small sound. "Rangers," he murmured irritably. "And not so altogether unlike Faramir after all, perhaps."

As they steered the boats away from Lothlórien, Boromir felt with each passing mile his need for the Ring grow stronger. It puzzled him, for Minas Tirith had had as great a need for such a weapon while he lingered with the Elves as she did now, and never in Lothlórien had he felt the tug of manipulation, nor the sense that what he felt was not what he felt. No, only that under the gaze of the Lady, he had reconciled to the fact - for such he had believed it was - that the Ring could not be used.

But as the Golden Wood faded behind them, what sense of peace he had found there faded as well. Indeed, his desire, his need for this weapon seemed to have doubled and redoubled, as if to make up for the time it had lost, and he could not keep his glance from straying to the Ringbearer. And to the Ranger, who would be king, and who had watched him warily through Moria, even in Lothlórien, and now again.

What king did Gondor need? he thought bitterly. A king who looked with such doubt on her sons? Boromir felt the weight of that gaze like a stone on his heart, and he scarcely recalled the journey to Moria, and the friendship they had shared until that long darkness had enfolded them.

Aragorn had noticed the change in his companion, despite his own despair; had seen in Moria the strength of his will, misplaced though it was; had seen the mistrust in those silver-grey eyes, and the other's need for the Ring growing; had seen his ease in Lothlórien even as his own fear and doubt had trapped him; had noticed the warrior's need return now they were in the boats. He thought only briefly on it, only so much as to think 'well, he is a Man, and the blood of the Númenor is dimmed in Gondor; perhaps that is the difference.' Once, he had considered how he might shield Boromir from the lure of that thing, but his own heart was too pressed by the freshness of loss, by the voice of his grandmother caressing his mind in the woods of Lothlórien. He had little strength to love another, for the love he had already given was not returned to him, and the well, deep though it was, was running dry.

And now, the Ringbearer sat before him in the boat, those small shoulders rounded, his head bowed, not seeing the beauty around them. What had the Lady shown him, he wondered, or was this all his grief at Gandalf's fall? Aragorn bowed his own head then, struck again and suddenly by the harsh fear he felt each time he remembered the wizard. How was he to do this thing? Carry the Ring to Orodruin, bring aid to Minas Tirith, effect the surrender of the stern-willed Captain to his own claim - for if Boromir accepted him not, then Denethor, Faramir - what chance was there that they would? And if they did not accept his claim, what then? Take Gondor by force. Seize the jewel, prove his worth. Oh, but the blood that would be shed, and he felt a sudden anguish - the blood of Men, the weakness of Men, the blood that the Evenstar loved and denied. Ah, shed the blood, let the rivers flow with it, and repulsed by his own despair he closed his heart to it, and wondered how to claim the love of the Gondorian, who watched him now with eyes of steel, when he could not claim it from one who knew his heart as if it were her own.

The Anduin swept by as swift and bright as she had ever done, and Boromir stood on the shore, shading his eyes and watching, waiting, though he knew not for what. Perhaps for the end; perhaps a beginning. He recalled Lothlórien, wished that he had re-made a friendship with the Ranger there. Wished the Ranger had not turned from him. Or - or that he had not said whatever had caused the Ranger to turn away.

Aragorn stood at the edge of the trees, watching Boromir as he gazed at the river. Broad back, dark hair, eyes that seemed ever expecting conflict. So like his father, and yet so unlike. After a moment Aragorn approached, came to stand beside the Gondorian. They stood together, watching the glittering water that flowed away towards Ithilien, which lay like a green jewel in the shadow of Mordor. After a time Aragorn said softly, "Tell me of your brother," and Boromir glanced at him, hiding his wariness.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked.

Aragorn shrugged, wondered if this attempt to draw the other out would be a waste of time and energy. But he had started, and he supposed he should continue. Perhaps a friendship, if they could retrieve it after the blackness of Moria, might lend Boromir strength, who seemed so alone in their company. Perhaps they might lend each other strength.

"Is he like to you?" he asked finally. "I have heard that you greatly resemble each other. Has he your skill with the blade?"

Boromir smiled, thinking of Faramir. "He can rarely best me, but there are few who can," he said. "He is Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, and I think rivals you as a tracker. He might give the Elf a challenge with the bow, as well."

Aragorn chuckled. "Gandalf mentioned Faramir to me," he said, and his heart ached with the sudden memory of loss.

"Did he?" Boromir asked, surprised. He knew Faramir had seen in the wizard much to be admired, but he had not considered that the wizard might have been passing along news of Faramir to one such as this. "What did he say?"

"That your brother is a scholar," said Aragorn. "Little else. That he speaks some Elvish."

"Some sort of Elvish, or something akin to it," said Boromir. "All his Rangers do."

They stood in silence for a time, and then Boromir said, "Aragorn, why did you not tell me until Moria of your past in Gondor?"

Startled by the question, Aragorn did not answer at first. Remembered that night - or day, for who could tell in the blackness of that pit? - Boromir's sharp words, and his own sudden anger. The Gondorian's constant questioning of him - of he who had served the man's own grandfather and had rivaled Denethor in the elder's eyes - had finally broken through his reserve and he had told the other of his deeds under Ecthelion, had told of seeing the boy himself the day he was born. Even as the angry words had slipped from his lips he had regretted them, for only as he saw the other's eyes grow wide with shock, then with betrayal had he realized how precious were his memories of that time. And he had used them against the very one who embodied them.

"I knew not what might have been said of Thorongil in the passing years," he admitted finally. "I did not wish to threaten what bond had grown between us by mentioning the name of one I supposed you might have been taught to revile."

Boromir glanced away. He could not imagine this man to be Denethor's age, to say nothing of how impossible it was to envision himself so small and carried - carried! - in the arms of this northern Ranger. Yet he had spoken with the wizard, who had confirmed it, and loth as he had been to trust the old man himself, Faramir had revered him, and Boromir did not think his brother would have wasted time with one who lied.

And whence had come his mistrust of the wizard? Boromir tried to recall what had happened to plant the seed of doubt in his mind, but he could think of nothing. And now with the wizard gone, he felt strangely grieved not to have him near, but only this Ranger. A poor replacement he seemed, although apart from conceal his past, as any might have, Boromir could not recall what the Ranger had done either. Yet when he looked on the other, all he could see was deception.

"Boromir," said Aragorn finally. "I did not think to deceive you," and Boromir looked at him sharply, wondering if the other's time with the Elves had left him able to read thoughts as well. "My heart is troubled. It has been since," and he hesitated, "oh, since Elrond's council, I suppose." Though indeed, it had been much longer.

Boromir sighed. "Mine as well, Ranger," he said. "That weapon the Halfling carries has weighed heavy on my mind from the moment he brought it forth."

The Ring. The mention of it seemed to cast a pall over them both.

"In Lothlórien," said Boromir softly, "it seemed lessened. It seemed," and he hesitated, "it seemed as though the Lady stood between my heart and that thing, and my need for it grew less. If we cannot use it, I would that she had taken the desire from me all together."

Aragorn felt a sudden shiver of revulsion at the ease with which the Gondorian spoke of the Ring.

"And the Halfling seems so - so vulnerable," Boromir went on, his voice low, almost to himself. "I cannot but think that another might have been entrusted with it."

"One more able to defend it?" asked Aragorn sharply, "or one more willing to wield it?"

Boromir turned to him with a scowl. "Your temper will betray you, Ranger," he said, his tone equally sharp. "I did not speak of wielding it."

"The thought is always in your mind," Aragorn replied, "and in your heart."

"And not in yours?" the other asked archly.

Aragorn bit back a hard retort. "My mind and my heart are heavy enough without the burden of that thing," he replied, and like a shadow behind his eyes was the touch of the Evenstar, her warm hand on his skin, lips on his cheek. Had she only accompanied them, as he had asked, he knew what strength she would have given him, even if only as his sister.

He envied Boromir the love he shared with Faramir. If he could somehow transform his own love for the Evenstar back to the chaste brotherly affection she desired from him, that he had borne her as a child, or if he could win her heart as a lover... but he could do neither. And in the flame that made the shadow he saw the White City, and his own hand burning with cold fire.

"No," he said suddenly, his voice harsh, and he shook his head as Boromir turned to him.

"Search your heart more carefully," said Boromir, his voice low, and cold. "You may find we are more alike than you know."

Aragorn frowned, and resisted the urge to touch the man, or to strike him. "We are not. You still wish to use the Ring."

"I wish to use what means we have, whether it is fate or chance that brings it to us."

Shaking his head, Aragorn said, "We cannot, Boromir, you know this."

Angrily, the Gondorian turned to face him. "I know I have been told we cannot, Ranger," he replied. "But I have not yet been told why. No reason but the fears of the Elves and of an old wizard who was ancient when first I saw him and now is lost to us."

At the mention of Gandalf Aragorn's eyes grew cold. He had had enough of this Man and his arrogance, his mistrust, his insolence towards those he knew not. "The fears of the Elves and of Mithrandir should be reason enough for a Man of Gondor," he said, his voice low and stern. "For Gondor is ever in need of more wisdom than is possessed by Men."

With a snarl, Boromir turned away, back to the river. "Recall that you are a Man as well as I, Ranger," he said sharply, "as well as any in Gondor, which you would seize." He glanced at the other out of the corner of his eye. "Would you be a tyrant, then, lording your wisdom over those less than you?"

Aragorn scowled. "I will be your king, Gondorian, whether you will it or no. Better to make yourself my ally than my enemy."

Boromir laughed, and the sound was bitter. "Leave me in peace, Ranger," he spat. "And if you would have us be allies, show me some part of the faith you would ask of me."

And suddenly Aragorn was in front of him. Boromir took a startled step back, but the Ranger reached for him and with a fist in his hair pulled him close. His eyes were as Boromir had not seen them before, and though he could have easily broken the other's grip he found he was rooted in place, his breath stopped in his throat, and he knew suddenly the wrath of a king.

Aragorn's voice was a growl when he spoke, low and velvet. "You have yet to earn my faith, soldier of Gondor, nor will you as long as you deny me. For who should submit first? the king to his subject, or the subject to prove himself worthy of the king?"

The blood had left Boromir's face; he felt as cold and pale as if death had taken him, and he brought one hand up to grip the arm of the man who held him. He trembled, and reviled his own weakness, and said, "Release me, or Gondor's king will die before he ever takes the throne."

But his threat was meaningless, and both men knew it, for Boromir was helpless as a child under that fell gaze.

A long moment passed, and then with a sudden snarl Aragorn thrust Boromir from him, and the Gondorian stumbled and almost fell, one knee giving way; it was with effort that he stopped his collapse. "You will kneel before me yet, son of Gondor," said Aragorn softly, then turned and walked back towards the camp.

Recovering his footing, Boromir watched the other go, his heart pounding in his chest, his mouth dry, his skin hot where the Ranger had touched him. The smell of power lingered in the air.

They had made camp in the fading light of the afternoon, and when Boromir returned from the shores of the Anduin, hardness and ill-will surrounded him like a pall. Aragorn, to escape it, took the task of gathering wood for the fire, though he doubted the wisdom of lighting one. But his heart weighed on him more heavily than stones, and after a time he found his footsteps had carried him far from camp, and he was weary beyond the telling of it. On the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree he seated himself, and pressed his hands to shadowed eyes, and wished for peace. He had not meant to make an enemy of the warrior, had not meant to loose the power of his anger, his will on one whom he wished as an ally, but the disdain in the Gondorian's voice, the fire in his eyes had been a goad as surely as if the soldier had struck him. Aragorn closed his eyes, and pushed away the fear that tried to take him. Searched his heart for the one who could lend him strength.

A low groan escaped his throat as he tried to push those thoughts away. "I cannot," he murmured to himself, "I cannot." But what he could not do was unclear, even to himself.

Footsteps, and he glanced up to see the Ringbearer approaching. Aragorn felt his skin prickle, his fingers grow cold as the Halfling sat down next to him on the trunk of the fallen tree.

"I have not felt at peace since we left Lothlórien," Frodo said with a sigh.

"Nor have I," Aragorn replied wearily.

Glancing around as if to be sure they were alone, Frodo said cautiously, "Boromir is a valiant warrior. I know he would not try to hurt me when his mind is his own."

Aragorn looked at Frodo and said, "Has something happened?" If the Gondorian had attacked the Ringbearer, then Frodo would surely not be so unscathed, and yet Aragorn could not keep the fear from rising in his chest.

Frodo shook his head. "Not yet," he replied. "But I am afraid, Strider. For Boromir, and for myself if he should give in to his longing for the ... the thing I carry." The Halfling hesitated. "Perhaps you could speak with him?"

"I do not believe it would make a difference," Aragorn replied, but then hesitated. He did not want to admit to the frightened Halfling how hard the feelings had become between himself and the warrior. "Boromir would not do such a thing," he said finally, "and if he were no longer Boromir, then no words of mine - or of anyone's - would stay him."

Legolas had said as much to Aragorn in Lothlórien, had spoken openly of his distrust of the Gondorian, and of how easily the burly man could seize the Ring if he chose to. Legolas had seemed a bare breath away from suggesting they should send Boromir on to Minas Tirith, expel him from their company for fear of what he might do. Indeed, for a moment Aragorn had thought the Elf had been going to suggest that Aragorn carry the Ring, and so protect it, but Legolas' suggestion remained unspoken, though Aragorn was sure he had seen it in those ancient eyes.

Surely it would be no more difficult for him to resist it when it was in his own hands than when it was in Frodo's. Aragorn knew he could take it even more easily than Boromir could if he chose, for the Halfling trusted him, but if he had not done so in all these days, what reason was there to believe he would in the next? And Boromir would be less willing to make an attempt on the Ranger, and less able to succeed if he did.

And surely if the Halfling had died of his wound, or had not stood forward to the task, surely Aragorn would have been the one to bear the burden. Surely so. Was it not his doom to defeat, as it had been his ancestor's to fall to?

He glanced at Frodo, uncertain if this was the decision he should make, but the Halfling's bent shoulders and weariness pulled at him, and he wanted to hold him, carry him if he could. Carry his burden, at least, for a time, and give him respite from his fears. "Frodo," he said softly. "I, too, am concerned for our friend, but moreso for you, if he loses his battle."

Frodo managed a humourless laugh. "You do not reassure me, Strider," he said.

"I do not mean to," the Ranger replied. "Boromir is a good man," he went on, "an honourable man, but the Ring is treacherous, and if it claims him fully, he might -" and Aragorn hesitated, assailed by a sudden and unwelcome vision of the Gondorian wresting the Ring from Frodo's grasp; a sudden, terrible vision of the Ringbearer bloodied and still. "He might do you an injury," he finished softly.

Frodo made a small sound, his eyes on his own trembling hands. "How can I do this, Strider?" he asked softly, an unutterable weariness in his voice, and his small shoulders drawn in as though under the weight of mountains. "I should leave the company. I will bring ruin and death to us all."

Aragorn felt cold at the thought of Frodo going alone into the rank foulness of Mordor, and he shook his head. "There is no need, Frodo," he said. "You have sacrificed too much already, and I would not have you leave my protection for a lonely journey into death. If you are willing," he said gently, the words slipping almost of their own will from his lips, "I will bear the burden for you for a time. Boromir will not find me so tempting a target."

"Would you?" Frodo asked, looking at Aragorn with wide, weary eyes. "Could you, I mean? Would it not call to you as it does to him?"

"Its call to me is little more than a whisper," he answered. "I am twice Boromir's age, and have spent so long fighting the Enemy and my own desires that I dare say it is easier now to fight than to surrender." He smiled, feeling suddenly that this was indeed the right path. How could the Halfling bear such a burden and not crumble? And how could he stand to see this innocence fail? "I can do this for you, Frodo," he said. Frodo gazed up at him with tired eyes, and Aragorn felt his breath catch in his throat at the sadness he saw there. "Let me help you, my friend," he said. "Let me help you."

Boromir glanced up from his sword when the Ranger and the Ringbearer returned to camp. Under careful strokes from the stone, his blade had regained its sharpness, and across that razor edge Boromir saw first the Ringbearer, the Halfling who carried the weight of Gondor's salvation around his neck. He braced himself for the familiar ache that always came.

But it did not.

Wary, and surprised, Boromir looked from Frodo to Aragorn and was struck by a sudden certainty: the Ring had changed hands. But no, that was not possible. Boromir met Aragorn's eyes and saw in them everything Elrond and the wizard had said, saw in that gaze the utter impossibility of using the Ring. And beneath it, he saw triumph. Perhaps it was triumph in refusing the gift Frodo would have made of the Ring; perhaps it was something darker.

He held Aragorn's gaze for a long moment, testing, but finally, unresolved, he dropped his eyes back to the sword. 'I am mistaken,' he thought to himself. 'The Ranger would not take it, even were Frodo willing to surrender it.' He ran the stone along the steel, feeling the velvet rasp of it beneath his hands. 'I am mistaken.'

But he knew he was not.