SEAL ON MY HEART

by Soledad Cartwright

Disclaimer: see Introduction

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG–13, for implied m/m interaction.

Author's notes:

This is an alternate version of the original third part of ''A Heart for Falsehood Framed'', concentrating more on the Boromir/Elladan relationship and partially from Boromir's POV. The main structure has been a little changed, too, but so far this is the part that is closest to the original. From the next chapter on, the true differences will come.

ELROND'S COUNCIL

''Upon my bed by night
I sought him, whom my soul loves;
I sought him but found him not;
I called him but he gave no answer.

I will rise now and go about the city,
In the streets and in the squares.
I will seek him whom my soul loves.''

Song of Solomon, 3:1

Part Three

''The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom," Elrond announced solemnly. ''Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came." He looked up and around at each face in the circle, one after another. "One of you must do this."

Silence fell again. Boromir frowned, fingering the blackened silver clasp upon his throat as if for aid. For even in the fair, sunlit house of Elrond, he felt a dead darkness upon his heart – the same shadow that had first darkened it at Osgiliath and settled upon him forever, it seemed, when the wizard foolishly uttered those cursed words of binding power in the Black Speech.

One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all
and in the Darkness bind them.

These dark words of doom, it seemed, had been floating over him ever since Osgiliath. And now that they were spoken, he could see no way to escape his fate. What a pitiful way to fulfill one's destiny. To have been found by the Darkness, even before he would have learnt about the Ring. To be brought here, to the Ring itself. To fall before temptation.

At length he spoke, and his words came hissing through clenched teeth.

''One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash and dust. The very air you breathe is poisonous fume. It is folly. Not with ten thousand men could you do this.''

He glanced at Aragorn, and for the first time ever since this very Council had begun, he saw a flicker of understanding in those grey eyes, the ones of his so much alike. And he, too, understand at once that the words of his King-to-be about facing the perils of Mordor were no idle boasting, after all. The Ranger truly had walked the Black Fields.

Yet it was Legolas who answered him, fair Prince of Mirkwood, still irritated from his recent clash with Aragorn.

''Have you heard naught the Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!''

''And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?" Gimli the Dwarf asked in an acid tone.

''And what if we fail?'' Boromir snapped. ''What happens when Sauron takes back what is his? Curunír is a traitor – this I have known since I crossed the borders of Rohan – but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he must fear, I deem.''

Here, he had said it. Not everything that had been on his mind, but most of it.

All that needed to be said.

All that could be said.

''I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!" Gimli growled. ''Never trust an Elf!''

Boromir glared at him in mild shock, for this was a very foolish thing to say, even for a Dwarf whose people had long-held grudges against the Fair Folk. But soon he had forgotten all about the Dwarf, for it seemed to him as if he heard the Ring chant wordlessly in the darkening depths of his own heart, telling its name, and its terrible purpose, in the language of its Master.

The Council dissolved into arguing, and as Elves, Dwarves and Men were shouting at each other in ever-deepening anger and distrust, it seemed as if flames spread across the Ring, til it seemed like a wheel of dark fire. And Boromir's own heart filled with anger as well, and finally it poured out of its vessel as he raised his great voice, yelling as he would yell at unruly troops on a battlefield.

''Enough!''

The others looked at him in awe, faces still flushed with the heat of their anger, fists still clenched tightly.

''The men of Gondor are valiant, and they shall never submit," he added more softly, his heart warming with the thought of the many good and brave men that had gone into battle with him, ever since he was old enough to wield a sword, but also saddening with the memory of how few of them were still alive; ''but they may be beaten down. Valor needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!''

For one fleeting moment he almost believed that they would listen to him… the Dark Lord was their enemy as much as he was Gondor's. But after a look at Elrond's distant face his hopes faded into nothingness.

For Elrond only shook his head, and when he looked at the driven Man, there was great sadness in his eyes. For he knew well that they could not do as Boromir suggested and felt pity for him who only wanted to protect his land… even with means that surely would destroy it.

''Boromir," he said, and now his voice was almost gentle, "its strength is too great to wield it at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own.''

''Why cannot one of you take it, then?'' Boromir asked stubbornly. ''Are you not the great war heroes of the Last Alliance, you and Glorfindel? And what of Mithrandir? Is he not a wizard? Does he not know the old lore better than any among Men? Surely he could tame the power of the Ring when the need arises.''

''For us," Elrond responded gravely, ''the Ring holds an even deadlier peril. The very desire of it corrupts the heart. Consider Saruman. If any of the Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own arts, he would then set himself on Sauron's throne, and yet another Dark Lord would appear.''

To that Boromir could say nothing. The concept was far beyond his experience.

''And that is another reason why the Ring should be destroyed," added Elrond quietly; ''as long as it is in the world it will be danger even to the Wise. For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so. I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I shall not take the Ring to wield it.''

''Nor I," said Mithrandir.

Boromir looked at them doubtfully. Especially at the wizard, whom he trusted even less than the Elves. Was Mithrandir not a member of the same order whose very head was drowning the green fields of Rohan in blood at this very moment? Had he not been held prisoner in Isengard for a length of time? Who knew what orders he had been given before he fled – if he, indeed, had been rescued by the Great Eagle, as told, and not simply released by Curunír with a dark and evil errand. He had certainly spoken the Binding Curse in the Black Speech easily enough. Like someone who was used to that evil tongue.

Yet as a soldier Boromir knew when to accept defeat. He bowed his head towards Elrond.

''So be it," he said. ''Then in Gondor we must trust to such weapons as we have. And at the least, while the Wise ones guard this Ring, we shall fight on. Mayhap the Sword-that-was-Broken may still stem the tide," he added with bitter irony and a sideways glance at Aragorn, ''if the hand that wields it has inherited not a heirloom only, but the sinews of the Kings of Men.''

''Who could tell?" said Aragorn. ''But we shall put it to the test one day.''

''May the day not be too long delayed," said Boromir; once again, he felt the weariness spread through all his limbs. ''For though I do not ask for aid, we need it. It would comfort us to know that others fought also with all the means that they have.''

''Then be comforted," Elrond said. ''For there are other powers and realms that you know not, and they are hidden from you. Anduin the Great flows past many shores, ere it comes to Argonath and the Gates of Gondor.''

Boromir rolled his eyes at this very Elvish comment that sounded so pretty yet said naught, as usual- but he spoke no more. He cared no more. Now that these fools had, indeed, decided to destroy the One Ring – a plan whose success he greatly doubted – his only wish was to return home. Should the Heir of Isildur accompany him, it might give the people of Gondor new hope, as long as the fight went on. What might come after that, with his father and the Ranger King under the same roof, he dared not even to think about.

''But what then would happen, if the Ruling Ring were destroyed, as you counsel?'' asked Glóin.

''We know not for certain," answered Elrond sadly. ''Some hope that the Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would become free, and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and many fair things shall fade and be forgotten. That is my belief.''

''Yet all the Elves are willing to endure this chance," said Glorfindel, ''if by it the power of Sauron may be broken and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever.''

Lightly do you speak of endurance, my Lord Elf, Boromir thought grimly, yet what fate do you expect Gondor to endure? For you, the world may become a much darker place – dark enough, indeed, to leave it behind and sail to the Blessed Realm. But we – we shall be dead by then. My beautiful city in ruins, her people slain, the memory of her wise and valiant Kings forgotten. The fields of Rohan stained with the blood of its brave warriors and their horses. You shall be gone and live on for ever. But we… we shall be dead.

''Thus we return once more to the destroying of the Ring," Erestor said, ''and yet we come no nearer. What strength have we for the finding of the Fire in which it was made? That is the path of despair. Or folly I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.''

For the first time during this Council, Boromir found himself in complete agreement with an Elf. Not so Mithrandir, though, it seemed.

''Despair or folly?" he said, his deep eyes gleaming. ''It is not despair; for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.''

Speak for yourself, wizard.

''Well, let folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure that he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. Into his heart the thought shall not enter that any shall refuse it, that having the Ring we may seek to destroy it.''

/Why, indeed, should he think such a thing? Tis madness./

''If we seek this, we shall put him out of reckoning," Mithrandir finished, with a self-content glare around.

''At least for a while," Elrond added soberly. ''The road must be trod, but it shall be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.''

''And who, in your wisdom, would be seen fit for this burden?" Boromir asked.

No-one answered the question. The bell, signaling the ninth hour of the day, rang. Still no-one spoke. Boromir glanced at all the faces, but they were not turned to him. All the council sat with downcast eyes, as if in deep thought. Only the young hobbit, Frodo returned his glare, deep blue eyes wide with fear, a great dread on that small, innocent Elvish face as if he was awaiting the pronouncement of some doom that he had long foreseen and vainly hoped might after all never be spoken. An overwhelming longing to rest and remain in peace, too, here where no evil could touch him – for a while, at least.

How well Boromir himself knew this feeling! Having lived under the shadow so long, only to have the curse spoken over him at last, here, in Imladris, where he would expect to have his fate sealed the least. To fall into darkness ere it had even tempted his heart. For there were other hindrances on his path to bring him to fall, and his steps were faltering already, with or without the binding power of the Ring.

At last the small, trembling voice of the young hobbit spoke.

''I will take the Ring," Frodo said, and Boromir's heart went out for him, seeing the infinite sadness on that child-like little face, ''though I do not know the way.''

Elrond raised his eyes and looked at the hobbit, and his keen glance was piercing sharp like a dagger.

''If I understand aright all that I have heard," he said, ''I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will.''

Boromir felt like screaming. Were they all out of their minds? These, who called themselves the Wise, had they no pity for this fragile little creature? How could they seriously consider sending him out into the Black Lands, with the most dangerous weapon ever forged in Middle-earth, only to be slain? What hope could this innocent little fellow have where armies of Elves and Men had failed?

''But it is a heavy burden," Elrond added, stating the obvious like Elves always loved to do. ''So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I shall say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty Elf-friends of old, Hador, and Húrin, and Túrin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them.''

And we all know too well how they all ended, Boromir, well-versed in the legends of the Elder Days, as was fitting for a born ruler, added grimly. For indeed, all the Elf-friends of old had to endure great perils, torture and pain, and most of them had died young and painfully – and even in madness and dishonor. One could not say that being an Elf-friend was desirable for mortals, in any way.

''But you would not send him off alone surely, Master?'' another hobbit – Frodo's man-servant, as it seemed – jumped up from the corner where he had been quietly sitting on the floor.

''No indeed!'' said Elrond, turning towards him with a smile. ''You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

With that, the long and fruitless Council came to an end, with naught being decided beyond choosing two unfortunate hobbits for an impossible task. Elrond, for his part, offered to make preparations for them. Some of his scouts had been sent out already, and even more were to go in the next morrow. Elrond was sending Elves to get in touch with the Rangers of the North, and maybe with the people of Legolas' father, King Thranduil, in Mirkwood.

The sons of Elrond, too, left the dale on the same morrow, with many other scouts to scour the lands all round for many long leagues before any move should be made. Strider – Aragorn – went with them too, and Elladan left without saying farewell to his estranged lover. Not that Boromir would have been surprised by that. He knew he deserved it – and more, for he had treated Elladan badly and unjustly.

But Elrohir came to see him the eve before, and for once there was a hardness on his fair face that Boromir only had seen on the face of his twin before. For the first time, the blood of his mortal fathers burnt through those aloof Elven manners of his.

''I require a word with you, son of Denethor, ere we leave," he said in that cold voice Boromir had come to know as a sign of silent fury in Elves. And indeed, he looked as if he wanted to tear the Man to pieces with his bare hands.

''What do you want, Elrohir?'' Boromir asked wearily, though in truth he already had a good idea. ''To tell me what a fool I have been to throw away the greatest gift I have ever been given? I already know that.''

''I care not for your loss or your regret," Elrohir replied coldly. ''I only care for my brother who has been hurt badly. What has he done to you that he would deserve being treated so cruelly? What deed of his roused your wrath against him so much that you needed to lash out and break his very heart?''

For awhile, Boromir could only remain silent in shame and despair.

''The fault is not his but mine," he finally answered. ''That Council… it angered me very much that you kept Aragorn's claim hidden from me. Never in my life was I considered untrustworthy – until I came to your father's house. I did not deserve to be kept in the dark.''

''That might be true," Elrohir nodded, the steely glaze of his eyes softening a little, ''but Estel's true heritage has been concealed all these many years. The Chieftains of the Dúnedain of the North have always lived in great peril, and their lives are for the most part short, for the Dark Lord has never ceased to seek out and hunt down Isildur's Heirs. We are accustomed to protect our own. And the Kings of Númenór and all their progeny *are* our kindred.''

At that, Boromir raised his head again, his own gaze, too, becoming somewhat harder now.

''You would not need to protect him from me, my Lord Elf," he said. ''I was brought up to become the Steward of the House of Anárion, and always have I known where my duties would lie: to defend and watch over the White City of the King until he returns – and step down, should he ever return, even if he were but the last of a ragged House long bereft of lordship and dignity.''

''That is how you see Estel, then?" Elrohir frowned. ''Yet I say to you, would-be Steward of Gondor, he is a lot more than that. Why else would our father give his blessing to Arwen's desire to wed him? Or do you truly believe that Elrond would abuse his own children's happiness as tools in order to gain power over the kingdoms of Men?''

''I know not what to believe any more," Boromir sighed in defeat. ''I only see how lowly all you Elves think Men are – lesser beings you consider us for not having the gift to live forever and see and learn things you already have seen and learnt. Even you, who call yourselves Half-Elven, treat the mortal blood in your veins as a fault.''

Elrohir remained silent for a moment; then he closed his eyes in pain and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and full of regret.

''Had you spoken of any of us, even myself, you might have been, to my shame, right. Yet Elladan is closer to your kin than he is to the Firstborn; he always has been. He chose to share his heart with you for his roots in this earth are deep – and being with you has brought him great joy. Yet you wronged him badly, and because of that we might lose him. For he still is Elvish enough to fade away from grief.''

Boromir felt a pang in his heart at those words. The thought that a strong, brave Elf warrior like Elladan might die of broken heart was unsettling – moreso the bitter truth that he would be the cause of such a grievance himself.

Have I not caused enough pain yet to all those who are near me?, he thought in dismay. Not only did I greatly upset my father, destroying all his hopes for our House, and almost destroy my brother with the forbidden lust of my own heart; shall I now destroy the only one who gifted his undeserved love upon me as well? What has Elladan done, indeed, that I have treated him so unjustly?

''I know not how to make him well again," he admitted sadly.

''Nor do I," Elrohir responded, ''yet I do know that you are the only one who might succeed.''

''I very much doubt it. My hands are too rough for healing.''

''Yet you should try," the Elf said, ''for I would not lose the one closest to my heart over your harshness. We shall be gone for quite a long time… long enough for you to make up your mind.''

With that he turned and left the Man alone. And alone he was, indeed, for in the coming days, the Elves avoided him and Mithrandir kept company with the hobbits (not that Boromir desired to spend time with him), and his King-to-be, thankfully, was not around either.

Only the Lady Aquiel sought out his company time and again, which surprised him greatly, for he thought she would share Elrohir's opinion about him – which, to a certain extent, she did. But she visited him a few times nevertheless, and they would walk among the trees of the valley, and she would tell him about the long life of his lover, of Elladan's deeds in earlier times and about his struggle to find his own way through the tearing forces of his dual nature.

She knew a great deal about him, and much did she give Boromir to think about. Which was a good thing at the time, or else he might have been driven mad, all by himself for days, with only the nightmares to keep him company, unable to leave the dale ere the scouts returned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So the days slipped away, as each morning dawned bright and fair, greeted by the long, soft, sorrowful, and at times even wordless songs of the Wood-Elves, and each evening followed cool and clear, ere night fell and the nightmares, filled with fire and darkness, returned to torment Boromir's heart.

But autumn was waning fast; slowly the golden light faded to pale silver, and the lingering leaves fell from the naked trees, turning the wailing songs of the Wood-Elves even more sad, so sad it could have broken a Man's heart, had it not been in shards already. A wind began to blow chill from the Misty Mountains to the east, and Boromir felt the coming of a hard winter in his bones. The Hunter's Moon waxed round in the night sky, and put to flight all the lesser stars.

But low in the South one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter. Boromir could see it from the terrace of the guest house, freezing in the cold night but glad to have escaped from his dreams for awhile: deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley.

The great, lidless Eye of Mordor, framed with fire. He knew it well. He had seen it every day of his life, standing on the wall of his city. Minas Tirith, the white Queen of the South – she would be consumed by that fire one day. Of that, he was awfully certain… unless some wonder happened, something not even the Wise could foresee. And the weight of darkness grew on his heart, nearly unbearable.

Almost two months had he already spent in Elrond's house – or, to be nearer to the truth, in the guest house of the Lord of Imladris, with only Legolas' escort as his unseen company, for the Wood-Elves would vanish for days, to be with the immortal trees of the dale, and when they returned, they would not seek out his company. Not even Legolas came to him any more – Boromir did not know whether the Prince of Mirkwood was in Imladris at all or had left with the scouts as well.

Very lonely he was, more so than ever in his life, and were it not for the unfrequent visits of the Lady Aquiel, he probably would not have been able to endure it. Yet Lalaith's clear voice and musical laughter eased a little the burden of his heart, and so he went on, waiting for news, waiting for the longed-for day of his return to Gondor.

Hithui(1) had gone by with the last shreds of autumn, and girithron(2) was passing, when the scouts started to return, and Boromir was called to Elrond's house every time to hear their tidings. For that, he was grateful, even though having to endure Elrond's piercing glare made those meetings hard to bear.

In no region had the messengers discovered any signs or tidings of the Black Riders or other servants of the Enemy. Even from the Eagles of the Misty Mountains they had learned no fresh news. Nothing had been seen or heard of Gollum, either; but the wild wolves were still gathering, and were hunting again far up the Great River.

Of the Black Riders no other trace was to be seen than the dead bodies of their drowned horses: three in the flooded Ford and five more on the rocks of the rapids below it. Yet the presence of their Riders was nowhere to be felt. It seemed that they had vanished from the North.

''Eight out of the Nine are accounted for at least," said Mithrandir. ''It is rash to be too sure, yet I think that we may hope now that the Ringwraiths were scattered, and have been obliged to return as best they could to their Master in Mordor, empty and shapeless.''

To return to the neighborhood of Gondor. Empty and shapeless, you say, Mithrandir? The darkness that dwell in their empty shadow needs no shape to freeze the hearts of Men to ice and fill their minds with madness. Far worse they are without a shape, indeed, for so the restrains of a form shall not keep their darkness at one place but sends it out all over our lands…

''If that is so, it shall be some time before they can begin the hunt again," the wizard added, unaware of Boromir's dark thoughts. ''Of course, the Enemy has other servants, but they will have to journey all the way to the borders of Rivendell ere they can pick up our trail. And if we are careful that shall be hard to find. But we must delay no longer.''

And so Boromir learned that the wizard too was meant to go with the Ring-bearer to Mordor.

Yet they still had to wait for the sons of Elrond to return as the last of the scouts. Elladan and Elrohir had made a great journey, passing down the Silverlode into a strange country, but of their errand they would not speak to any save Elrond.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''I slept, but my heart was awake.
Hark! My beloved is knocking.
'Open to me, [...], my love,
my dove, my perfect one,
for my head is wet with dew,
my locks with the drops of the night.''

Song of Solomon 5:2

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After having spoken at length to our father, Elrohir went straight to Lalaith, whom he had been missing greatly all along, but I returned to my chambers, bone-weary and shaking with cold, wishing only to have a long, hot bath and then go to bed.

I felt the presence of my lover even before entering my bedchamber. And there, indeed, stood the son of Denethor, just outside the arched entrance, alone in the slowly pouring rain, anguish and stubborn determination fighting on his face.

I sighed. The last thing I wanted right now was another hurtful fight with this brick-headed Man. On the other hand, I already knew Boromir well enough to know that the Gondorian prince – for that was how I saw Denethor's son, who might have lacked the title but not the pride and the royalty – would stay in the rain for days if he had to.

''What do you want, Boromir?'' I asked tiredly.

''May I…" Boromir hesitated, ''may I have a word with you?''

I shrugged in defeat. I could just as well listen to the Man and be done with the whole unfortunate affair. If I can.

If I will ever get over him.

''Come in, then. It would do no good to stay outside in the rain and become sick ere you can leave for home.''

Boromir took a few tentative steps inside. I brought out a bottle of miruvor and poured us both a cup – I knew we both would need the strength ere this conversation was over.

Boromir's hand was trembling when he took the cup from me. No matter how different our feelings for each other had become, he did not want to part in anger, that much I could see. But having been the one who had hurt me badly, it was up to him to try to make things better.

I reached back, loosened the cord that held my hair together and shook it free with a sigh. It felt so good to let go, after all those long weeks in the Wild.

''You wanted to speak," I said. ''Speak then.''

And be done with it. All I want is to sleep and to forget.

''I… I want to ask your forgiveness," Boromir murmured, not daring to look straight at my face. ''I had no right to speak to you like… like I did.''

''That is very true," I replied flatly. ''Yet you did it nevertheless.''

''I… did not mean to hurt you," Boromir continued hesitantly, seeking for the right words and not finding any.

''Does it matter any more?'' I asked. ''Much as I wish that things could be between us as they were, we both know that they would not. Never again.''

''This I know," Boromir nodded, sorrowful. ''And I do know, too, that tis my fault alone… and I honestly, deeply regret hurting you.''

''I am nearly three thousand years old," I said, feeling the anger flash in me briefly. ''I have been hurt before. I got over it. Just as I shall get over this. Over you. I shall live.''

''Are you sure?'' Boromir asked quietly.

I glared at him, wondering what gave me the strength not to throttle him on the spot. What was he thinking I would be? A scorned maiden, fading away in grief after my shining knight's departure? I certainly grieved over my loss, but I had had almost a month to recover, and by now my hurt feelings were safely shut away in a corner of my heart where they could not bother me all the time.

''Very sure," I said with dismay. And I was. Healing, of course, would take a long time – if ever it came at all. But time was something I had aplenty.

''Your brother is not," Boromir said.

I thought again about throttling him. Mayhap I should throttle Elrohir in his stead? Why can my brother not stop interfering with my life? Did I protest when he betrothed Lalaith back when he had hardly reached maturity?

''My brother should not..''

''Your brother is worried about you," Boromir interrupted. ''It is his right, for he is your brother and he loves you. Yet it is of no importance. I would have come to you anyway.''

I raised a doubtful eyebrow. This was something I had not expected – and had a hard time believing.

''You would?''

Boromir nodded with deliberate slowness. ''I would.''

''What for?'' I asked with a shrug. ''You spoke your mind very clearly that last time. I know now what you think of me: that I only shared your bed to serve my father's purposes. What else could be said after that?''

''I… I never believed that…''

''You did. In that break during the Council, you did.''

''Nay… not truly…''

''Then why said you such horrible things to me?''

''I was angry," Boromir admitted. ''I truly believed that your father would secretly plot against mine – that he would take our land… our beautiful city… our inheritance… our very purpose – just to make his daughter a Queen.''

''You still believe thus?'' I asked. Boromir made a helpless gesture.

''What I do or do not believe is of little importance. Such as what I might or might not think of Aragorn. He is Isildur's Heir – for that I have seen enough proof, therefore I have no other choice but to accept his claim. I cannot fight him, not now, nor later. Gondor needs to stay strong in the upcoming dire times. That is our only chance to survive, if ever there is one.''

''And yet 'tis not a happy choice for you," I said. For it clearly was not. Boromir shook his head.

''Nay, 'tis not. He will from take me the only thing still worth living for: my shining city, my duties, my purpose. The only thing I had to offer the Lady Éowyn; so this will be the end of all her hopes as well. Yet I cannot fight him, for his claim is justified according to the laws of Arnor and Gondor, and should I turn against him, the fall of my people would be certain.'' He sighed, weariness creeping over his very being again. ''I only wish you could at least forgive me. I wish not part from you in anger.''

''I forgave you the very day Elrohir and I left," I said tiredly. ''I can even understand your mistrust of some of my father's dealings. But it hurt me very much that you would not trust me. That you believed I would deceive you.''

''And that I regret more than anything in my life," Boromir replied, ''for truly, never have I felt so safe as in your arms. And I cannot see how I could have doubted you, even for a fleeting moment.''

He paused. But I was too confused to answer, and so I only looked at him somewhat surprised; yet strangely, I felt much less tired now. Boromir sighed.

''I miss you," he added with a sad little smile. ''I miss the warm safety of your embrace; the touch of your soul that healed my heart, as far as it could be healed; your voice, singing to me in the darkness, keeping the nightmares away. With you, I almost felt like before the shadow had fallen upon me.''

''We are healers," I said simply, ''that is what we do. But you will be gone shortly anyway; and I will stay here. Our time has been measured short, from the beginning.''

''I know that," Boromir replied. ''I have known that all the time. The more I regret my folly that took from us the rest of even that short time.'' He paused again, looking for the right words. ''I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but… would you grant me one final wish?''

''I know not," I eyed him warily. ''What wish would that be?''

''Would you sing to me once again, so that I can sleep in peace one more time?'' Boromir whispered. From the sound of his voice I knew he would beg on his knees if he had to, and pride be damned. ''All my dreams are filled with fire and darkness… I cannot go on like that any more.''

I pondered his request for awhile. I could have made him beg – but did I truly want to hurt him, to humiliate him this way? I thought not. So I let him fret a little; then I nodded slowly.

''I need to rest first," I said, ''for I am weary beyond measure. Yet evening is still far away; right after sunset I will come to you.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

''Are you certain that you want to do this?'' Elrohir asked doubtfully. He came from the rain-soaked garden, just as Boromir had done.

''Were you listening?'' I shot back angrily. His fussing was beginning to upset me to no end. ''Even though I have shared my pain with you, do I not deserve some privacy?''

''I saw him waiting outside," Elrohir shrugged, ''and he seemed to be in a foul mood. I was getting worried… And you truly wish to go to him?''

''I am still concerned about him," I said. ''Those nightmares… they come from the darkness that fell over him during the battle of Osgiliath. Very evil things, they are, and getting worse. But whenever I sing to him in his sleep, they cannot reach him.''

''And you intend to do no more than that?'' Elrohir clearly did not think so.

I gave him a rueful smile. ''You know me too well, brother. But the truth is… I missed him, too. Short is the time fate granted us, and I wish not to waste any of it.''

''Do you want to get hurt again, this much?'' Elrohir asked, troubled about the spell this mortal had me under – at least that was what he thought, and he had told me that in no uncertain terms. I sighed.

''I wish to touch passion again. In mere days, he will be gone, never to return. Should the Valar allow him to survive, which I very much doubt, he will go home, wed the woman he is promised to and build up the House of the Stewards. For this is demanded of him, and he is a Man who takes his duties very seriously.''

''And what about you?'' Elrohir asked. I was silent for a moment; then I shrugged again.

''I shall have my memories.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''Oh that you would kiss me
with the kisses of your mouth!
For your love is better than wine [...]

Draw me after you, let us make haste [...]

We will exult and rejoice in you;
We will extol your love more than wine;
rightly do they love you.''

Song of Solomon, 1: 2-4

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And so my lover came to me after sunset and took me in his arms and sang to me in the soft darkness of my bedchamber. And I buried my face in the gentle crook of his neck and wept with guilt and sorrow.

I wept for my beautiful city that would fall into the hand of a stranger.

I wept for my father who would have taken from him the only purpose of his long, hard life – a purpose he had sacrificed anything for, including his family.

I wept for my brother who would be torn apart between his loyalty to our father and the loyalty to the new King.

I wept for the Lady Éowyn who would not become the shining white Queen of Gondor. For naught of what I had promised her would come true, I feared. I might not have become a King by title, but without Isildur's Heir crawling out of the Northern wilderness, I would have ruled Gondor one day, with the White Lady of Rohan on my side. Now, even if she chose to take me on my given word, she would only become the wife of a servant.

But she was born to rule, not to serve.

And so was I.

So I wept for myself, too, over the twisted ways of fate that took from me my shining city, the only thing that was left to me.

And over the twisted ways of my own heart.

For I could not bleed out of it the forbidden love towards my own brother, though mayhap Father would be content with me now. Had I not pledged myself to the Lady Éowyn whom he wanted me to wed? And even if I would never cease to love Faramir, did I not dutifully turn my lust towards another male?

What would Father say, I wondered, if he could see me in this very moment? He despises weakness above anything else.

Yet I am so broken, I cannot hold back any more.

And I wept for my beautiful Elven lover who had given me not only the comfort of flesh but his heart and soul as well, and to whom I had given only sorrow. Yet here he was, rocking me in his arms like he would soothe a frightened child, and singing to me in the dark.

And though I was still deeply ashamed about how I had treated him only a few weeks ago, I could not help but ask: ''Will you lie with me tonight?''

His voice trailed off, and I feared that I might have ruined everything between us again. But then I heard his quiet laughter.

''Tonight and any other that remains to us.''

And so he stayed with me and loved me, like he did in our first night together, touching the fire of passion in each other's soul, and once again, I felt ashamed for accepting his love, which I did not deserve and giving him naught in exchange. I tried to voice my troubled feelings, yet he only laughed softly in the darkness as if I had been but a child and quieted me in the most pleasant way: with his lips on mine. So I spoke no more, accepting gratefully his forgiveness which I deserved even less than I deserved his love, thanking the Valar for those unexpected gifts that brightened my path under the shadow.

And then we slept.

Side by side in my bed, we slept.

And I felt safe in his arms once again, more safe than I had ever felt in my short, harsh life, save mayhap in the womb of my mother.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now, I'd like to put up a challenge. By now everyone must guess who will go with the Fellowship instead of Merry (for the two youngest hobbits will be sent home by Elrond). The question is: who should go instead of Pippin? So far, I had two suggestions: Glorfindel (for obvious reasons: he is the Balrog Slayer after all), and Arwen, in order to give her something useful to do. Snicklepop suggested another Dwarf, for reasons of mathematical balance.

Although I do have my own preference in this matter, I'm not entirely closed to new suggestions. It's not decided yet, so tell me what you think. I can't promise I'll follow any of these suggestions, but they might give me excellent ideas for further stories, so please, tell me them in your reviews.

Soledad

End notes:

1) November – more or less.

2) December – approximately.