Disclaimer- I own zilch. Comprende?
-*-*-*-
Looking at the great wreck that once was Isengard, Boromir felt a deep hatred for the wizard that had lived here. Still the dregs of resentment for Gabrielin's death at the hands of the wizard's creation, as well as the abduction of two dear companions lingered in his heart. But the anger washed away as he spotted figures on the wall, two small boys. There was laughter from the pair, and Hasufel neighed, drawing the pair's attention. Merry stood, more than a little tipsy. He bowed flamboyantly, gesturing wide with his arms.
"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard." He waved a hand in the direction of the darkened tower in the middle, a hate blackened spike. Gimli was affronted.
"You young rascals! A merry hunt you've led us on, and now we find you feasting and, and smoking!" Pippin looked at him to correct him, swallowing the last of his mug.
"We are sitting on a field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts. The salted pork is particularly good." Gimli looked longingly at the young hobbit.
"S-salted pork?" Gandalf frowned.
"Hobbits." Merry looked at the assembled, a king, his marshal, two heirs, a wizard, and a dwarf.
"We're under orders from Treebeard who has taken over management of Isengard." Boromir looked at him, half frowning, and half smiling. Gandalf questioned the young hobbit.
"Where is Treebeard, Meriadoc?" The hobbit pointed to the moving object in the distance, coming towards them. Boromir pulled the hobbit off the wall.
"Off you get, Merry."
Aragorn pulled Pippin into the saddle, and the horses trotted their way through the half marshy land, a foot deep in the waters of the Isen. The tree Shepard greeted them.
"Hm, young Master Gandalf, I'm glad you've come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master. But there is a wizard to manage here -- locked in his tower."
"There Saruman must remain, under your guard, Treebeard."
"Well, let's just have his head and be done with it." Gimli interjected.
"No, he has no more power anymore."
"The filth of Saruman is washing away. Trees will come back to live here. Young trees, wild trees." Pippin looked at some flashing in the water, and jumped off Brego to investigate. Aragorn chided him.
"Pippin!" The hobbit removed from the water a large glass ball, holding it up to the amazement of the company.
"Bless my bark!" Treebeard looked at the ball with curiosity. Gandalf held a hand out for it, his voice sharp.
"Peregrin Took, I'll take that, my lad. Quickly now." The hobbit handed the palantir to Gandalf, who wrapped it carefully in his cloak, as though loathe to touch it.
-*-*-*-*-
The great hall of Meduseld was filled with Rohirrim, Théoden standing at his throne, flanked by his niece and nephew.
"Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!" The crowd raised their cups in tribute, with a shout of 'Hail!' and drank. Beside him, Boromir saw Aragorn pause, deep in thought, and then raise the cup to his lips.
Later in the evening, Boromir was sitting, mug in hand, watching with a lazy eye the goings in the hall. Éowyn approached Aragorn, bearing a carven, gilded cup. She held it out for him to drink, and he took it, looking into her eyes as he did so.
"Westu Aragorn hál!" The traditional Rohirric blessing sounded too soft from her lips to be true Rohirric. Aragorn walked away, and Théoden came up to speak with his niece. Boromir turned away from their conversation to look at Merry and Pippin, who were dancing on a table and singing one of the many Shire drinking songs they were yet to hear this night.
"You can search far and wide
You can drink the whole world dry
But you'll never find a beer so brown
As the one they drink in my hometown
You can keep your fancy ales
You can drink them by the flagon
But the only brew for the brave and true
Comes from the Green Dragon!"
Boromir smiled, and walked to the porch, looking to sky as if it held all his answers. Aragorn joined him.
"The stars are veiled, else I would show you the constellations of my city, as my brother often did. But there is something stirring in the East, a sleepless malice. The eye of the enemy moves." Aragorn nodded, austerely serene. Boromir was awoken from what would have been the best silence he'd had in a while by the furious screaming of a hobbit. Rushing into the room where they were to be sleeping, the two were met with a strange sight.
Between his hands, Pippin held the palantir, his face white as death.
"Help! Gandalf! Someone help him!" Aragorn wrenched the palantir from Pippin's frozen hands and started to convulse himself. Boromir steadied his shoulders as the older man nearly fainted, eyes rolling in his head, and the palantir rolled away, seemingly harmless again. Gandalf awakened in the blink of an eye.
"Fool of a Took!" He wrapped the palantir up again, and then turned to Pippin, still cold as ice. He knelt over the hobbit, and he awoke, sputtering.
"Gandalf. Forgive me!"
"Look at me. What did you see?"
"Ah... a tree. There was a white tree, in a courtyard of stone. It was dead!" Aragorn saw comprehension, and then fear dawn in his companion's eyes; Boromir knew exactly of what Pippin spoke.
"The city was burning." Boromir gasped.
"Minas Tirith. Is that what you saw?" the Gondorian's voice was incredulous that any harm should come to his beloved city while he still drew breath.
"I saw... I saw him! I could hear his voice in my head."
"What did you tell him? Speak!"
"He asked me my name. I didn't answer. He hurt me."
"What did you tell him about Frodo and the Ring?" Pippin gave him a blank look.
-*-*-*-*-
Later in the hall, Gandalf paced. It was after breakfast, and Pippin was seated, disheartened, on a stool, slumped over, Merry at his shoulder. The wizard spoke as if the hobbit were not there.
"There was no lie in Pippin's eyes. A fool, but an honest fool he remains. He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring. We've been strangely fortunate. Pippin saw in the palantir a glimpse of the enemy's plan. Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat at Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing. He knows the heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still -- strength enough, perhaps to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the peoples of middle earth uniting under one banner. He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a king return to the throne of Men. If the beacons of Rohan are lit, Rohan must be ready for war."
"Tell me, why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?" Théoden looked in Boromir's eyes, and the younger man stared back, a grim truth there hidden; Gondor was owed nothing of Rohan-what debt of gratitude had Rohan need to pay? Aragorn looked at the wizard, starting for the doors.
"I will go."
"No."
"They must be warned. We cannot send Boromir-the façade of death hangs still in his father's mind." He paused, giving Boromir a sorry look. "Your supposed demise makes your father weak, and I know he will not see me as king." Boromir looked at his brother at arms, unyielding. When he spoke, his voice was cold, as thought the man to whom he refferec was no kinsman of his.
"Then let he who swore to hold oath and office till the return of the king burn where hellfire is reserved for traitors." Gandalf pulled Aragorn aside, their faces close. The wizard looked back at the king of the Riddermark.
"Understand this; Things are now in motion that cannot be undone. I ride for Minas Tirith. And I won't be going alone." He threw a meaningful look at Pippin, who quailed.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It was nearly a week after Gandalf had left that Aragorn ran into the hall, his face lit with some hidden light.
"The beacons of Minas Tirith! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid." Théoden looked up from the map he was looking at with his nephew. Éowyn came to stand by them. The king paused for a moment.
"And Rohan will answer. Muster the Rohirrim!" At his call, one of the guards in the hall ran to the bell tower, and the clear notes of the brass bell rang across the valley.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aragorn and Boromir were readying horses for the ride to Dunharrow, where the army would muster. Aragorn turned to see Éowyn determinedly knotting ties on her saddle.
"You ride with us?"
"Just to the encampment. It is tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men." Aragorn flipped up the saddle blanket, revealing a sword. Éowyn slighted his hand, and covered the weapon again.
"The men have found their captain. They will follow you to battle, even to death. You have given them hope."
The mass of riders rode forward, surging like the tide of war they rode on.
-*-*-*-*-*-
At Dunharrow that afternoon, Théoden walked through the ranks, calling to his captains.
"Grimbold, how many?"
"I bring five hundred from the Westfold, my Lord."
"We have three hundred more from Fenmarch, Théoden King."
"Where are the riders from Snowbourne?"
"None have come, my Lord." Théoden nodded, and behind him, Boromir and Aragorn could just see the small slump in his proud shoulders.
-*-*-*-*-*-
In the camp at the rise of the mountain, he told them why.
"Six thousand spears. Less than half of what I'd hoped."
"Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor."
"More will come."
"Every hour lost hastens Gondor's defeat. We have until dawn. Then we must ride." Boromir and Théoden both nodded, stern and stiff-backed. Outside the tents, Boromir looked around: there was a silence in the air of grim tidings. A horse neighed, and nearly broke free of its tether.
"The horses are restless and the men are quiet. Why is it so, Éomer- Eomundson? There are not orcs in plenty about, and the battle is yet a few days off." Éomer looked at him.
"They grow nervous near the shadow of the mountain." Gimli pointed with an axe to the narrow gorge through the heart of the mountain.
"That road there, where does it lead?"
"It is the road to the Dimholt, the door under the mountain. I know the tales as well as any man, but now is not the time for ...ghost stories." Éomer looked at the mountain again, his voice bordering on caution.
"None who venture there ever return. That mountain is evil." Gimli started Aragorn from his thoughts, the Dunadan visibly shaken by the surprise.
"Aragorn! Let's find some food."
-*-*-*-*-*-
The sun had quit her lofty fired chair, and the moon had risen to her majesty when Boromir, sitting in the light of a fire, sharpening his sword, heard a yell from the tent he was sharing with Aragorn. Boromir cleared all thoughts of murder from his head as the spooked captain walked behind the Rohirrim to the king's tent, where ten minutes before a cloaked figure in black had entered, leaving his white horse by the opening. Having no tether, the horse had stayed remarkably still.
Boromir watched the shadows dance on the tent walls, and saw the ranger unsheathe the sword the man handed him. A few minutes went by, and then both emerged, Boromir catching a glimpse of the stranger's face; it was Lord Elrond. Aragorn sat down heavily by the fire.
"How is it that we are brothers of fate and destiny, and yet you refuse to wield the weaponry like to the swords your men use-" Boromir stopped short as Aragorn showed him the sword.
"N-N-Narsil reforged? Truly, I sit in the king's sight, then." Aragorn brushed the comment away.
"It was over this sword that we first met, son of the south."
"And it is with that sword that you will command victories, my king."
"Boromir, I am not yet your king. For now, only a brother and a friend. I have had counsel to take another road-but this road is most certainly not golden." He looked at the mountain, foreboding and dark.
"You cannot think to take the Dimholt." Boromir looked at his captain as if he had said he wanted to send Sauron flowers.
"It is the path we must take. Already a path has been strayed with Gabrielin's death-we must not alter what can be any further. I ride in the morning. Get some rest." He retired to his tent, Boromir looking at the shadow of flames dance on his blade, and then following his superior to bed.
-*-*-*-*-*-
In the early hours of the day, Aragorn was talking to Éowyn. The younger woman turned away, nearly in tears, and Aragorn led his horse past Boromir and Gimli.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Not this time. This time you will stay, Gimli. This is my road alone, and I alone must keep it." Boromir came up behind him, carrying a saddle.
"Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of dwarves?"
"You might as well accept it. We're going with you, laddie." Aragorn frowned. Boromir laid a hand on his shoulder.
"The first duty of the steward is to hold oath and office until the king shall return. Since I am not steward, and I have sworn no oath, I can promise you only my sword, my heart, and my brotherhood. Take them in their stead."
Aragorn looked into his friend's eyes, and smiled. The three mounted up, and rode into the mountain, not looking back at the cries from the riders.
The path was desolate, barren of flowers or plant life beyond the weeds. Rocks and bleached bones littered the way.
"What kind of an army would linger in such a place?" Gimli looked at the carrion crows circling overhead with an edge on his voice.
"One that is cursed. The story is well known in Gondor and my brother knows the old tales well enough. Long ago the Men of the mountain swore an oath to the last King of Gondor, to come to his aid, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor's need was dire, they fled, vanishing into the darkness of the mountain. And so Isildur cursed them, never to rest until they had fulfilled their oath." Boromir frowned at Gimli- he hated to tell such tales; they made his blood run cold. Gimli echoed his thoughts.
"The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away." The three of them dismounted, and looked around at the door hewn in the rock.
"I cannot read these runes, but my brother has told the tale oft enough- the way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut." A ghostly breath blew from the doorway, whispering. The horses started at the sound, and bolted down the path back to Dunharrow. Aragorn shouted after them, his voice echoing, but they paid him no heed. He turned back to the door, decorated with skulls and bones, resolute.
"I do not fear death." He took a deep breath, steeling his face, and walked into the tunnel. With a last glance, Boromir followed him. From behind, Gimli was heard to say,
"Well this is a thing unheard of! When men will go underground when a dwarf dare not! Oh, Oh! I would not hear the end of it." Boromir could hear his short steps catching up, and would have let the dwarf run into him if Aragorn had not lit a torch, flooding the tunnel in light. Cautiously, the three made their way to the carven halls of the men of the Wold.
The tunnel opened to the stone remains of what had once been a great city. A grim green phosphoresce clung to the walls, and slowly, the form of a man, wraithlike crown on his head, appeared before them. Aragorn was not fazed. The apparition spoke.
"Who enters my domain?"
"One who will have your allegiance."
"The dead do not suffer the living to pass."
"You will suffer me." The king laughed, and as the chilling sound escaped his mouth, a floodtide of Dead streamed from the walls, a ghost city unfolding before their eyes.
"The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it." The dead began to appear faster, surrounding the trio. How does one kill something that is already dead? "The way is shut. Now you must die." Boromir sliced through the king's tattered cloak, a stroke that would have taken his arm off. But the rent quickly closed. Aragorn continued.
"I summon you to fulfill your oath."
"None but the king of Gondor may command me." He unsheathed a sword, glowing green like the rest of his dead domain. Aragorn laid forth Anduril, the flame of the west, Narsil reforged; and parried the dead king's blow. The Dead one was surprised, and fearful.
"That blade was broken!"
"It has been remade. Fight for us, and regain your honor. What say you?" he walked to face the soldiers; they drew back.
"What say you?"
"You waste your time Aragorn. They have no honor in life, they have none now in death." Gimli said sagely. Aragorn continued, showing the blade to the crowds.
"I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me, and I will hold your oaths fulfilled." There was an eerie pause. "What say you?"
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aragorn piloted the ship down the river, the king at his back, creating a chill presence. Arriving at the dockside, he heard a knurly voice- an orc.
"Late as usual! Pirate scum! There's knife work here that needs doing! Come on, you sea-rats. Get off your ships!" Aragorn jumped over the side, followed by Gimli and Boromir. The orcs looked at them, unimpressed. Gimli looked at Boromir.
"There are plenty for the both of us. May the best dwarf win." Boromir looked at the dwarf.
"I am not a dwarf, but I intend to, thank you." Aragorn ran forward, sword held high, and behind him, the dead streamed in vaporous waves.
-*-*-*-*-*-
They had been fighting for nigh on an hour when Boromir remembered something. He gestured to Aragorn.
"Aragorn, this way." The Dunadan hacked another orc, and followed. Boromir nimbly climbed a rock outcrop, stopping at a door in the wall of the city. Opening it, he climbed inside. Aragorn followed, more than a little confused.
The door opened on a garden, silent and deserted. Boromir held a finger to his lips, and the two crept through the upper levels of the city. At the gates, Boromir pressed his ear to the wall, and pulled them back into the shadows of the alleyway to the seventh level. The gates opened, and Denethor stalked past, a litter behind him, upon which the unconscious form of Faramir rested. The Steward was muttering to himself. Quietly, the pair followed the morose train down to Rath Dinen, the Silent Street, the mausoleum of the Stewards. Another way kept and made by the dead.
"There is another door to the Rath Dinen. Come." The two stalked off like truant schoolboys stealing apples.
The silent street was musty, the smell of the dead and decay saturating everywhere. The two watched from the shadows of the crypt as preparations were made for...something.
"No tomb for Denethor and Faramir; No long slow sleep of death embalmed. We shall burn, like the heathen kings of old. Bring wood and oil!" Faramir's prone form groaned. Aragorn looked at Boromir, who was staring in horror.
"When you said let him burn, did you mean in the literal sense of the word?"
"Some device of the dark lord has poisoned his mind. Now I care not; Let him burn, for I know this man no longer." Faramir groaned again, and Denethor looked at his dying son.
"The house of his spirit crumbles. Faramir is burning, already burning." A small boy rushed in, clad in the livery of the tower, and the voice that issued from his helmet was a familiar one.
"He's not dead! He's not dead!" He made to disassemble the pyre, but Denethor dragged him away, still screaming.
"No! No! No! No! He's not dead! No!" The small guard turned his face towards their corner in the desperate struggle, and the light fell on his face: it was Pippin.
"Come now, Peregrin son of Paladin." Denethor spoke to the hobbit before casting him out the doors. "I release you from my service. Go now and die in what way seems best to you." He closed the doors on Pippin's pleas for sanity, and called to his servants.
"Pour oil on the wood! Set a fire in our flesh." The guardsmen looked uncertainly at each other, pausing for a minute or two. Boromir made to rescue his brother, but Aragorn put a arm to stop him.
"The path...must not be strayed. It is not written that we two should be here. We run rank risk to interfere." Boromir took a breath, vexed, but he made no further move, watching with desperation. Suddenly, Shadowfax broke through the door, Gandalf atop the rearing stallion.
"Stay this madness!" He shouted at the steward. The guards drew back; fear of the wizard came before fear of a madman. Denethor grabbed a torch, and set aflame the pyre. Pippin, also astride the horse, jumped from Shadowfax's back onto the flames, pushing Faramir onto the floor with him as he jumped. Pippin knelt on the floor, patting out flames with gloved hands, trying to save the steward's son.
"You will not take my son from me!" Denethor screamed at Pippin, attempting to get off the pyre. The horse knocked him back in the flames. As the fire licked around Denethor's oil drenched cloak, Aragorn and Boromir emerged from the shadows, and to the burning steward, it seemed as though two ghosts had emerged from nothingness. His eyes grew wide. He screamed, and jumped from the pyre, but tripped as he tried to run through the doors to the parapets, falling and yelling in pain. One of the servants patted the flames down, and Boromir, looking at the body of his father, could see that the elderly man had gone into a death-like sleep.
"Does he still live?" the servant looked on at him in awe and dropped to one knee. Another put a hand to his lips, feeling for a faint breath.
"Aye, my lord...my steward." Boromir turned away at the title.
"If he still lives, than I am not yet fully come into my inheritance. Get my father and brother to the houses of healing; I will come and see to them when the time is fit. Now...now I must fight."
"Boromir, the men will follow your command. To the gates!" The two men nodded, unsheathing swords as they ran off down to the gates. Gandalf and Pippin hurried off as well, leaving the oil soaked Faramir and Denethor in the care of the servants watching with a scared eye.
-*-*-*-*-*-
As the doors in front of them were pounded to bits, Pippin looked at his sword miserably.
"I didn't think it would end this way." Gandalf looked at him.
"End? The journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one we all must take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it."
"What? Gandalf? See what?"
"White shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise." Pippin thought about this.
"Well, that isn't so bad."
"No, no it isn't." Gandalf smiled a bit, weary and feeling as old as ever.
"I guess that's why Gabrielin called it the golden path?" Gandalf looked at Pippin, bewildered.
"How did you hear of that?"
"Aragorn was speaking of it to Boromir; I listened where I should have not." Gandalf smiled benignly at the hobbit.
"Yes...it was her golden path, to die for another's sake, selfless. Now come, Peregrin Took, summon your courage, for it may yet be that your golden path is close at hand." The hobbit held his sword tighter, and closed his eyes.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aragorn and Boromir crept out the way they had come, finding Gimli where they had left him not an hour ago, with dead bodies around and an axe blade that ran dripping with blood.
"Eighty, eighty one," Gimli's count kept up with his axe, numbers and severed limbs flowing in an effortless stream.
"Seventeen, Eighteen," Boromir was not stayed by the injury of a father long bereft and a half dead brother- and if he was, the anger only flowed through his blade.
"Eighty two! That's still mine!" shouted Gimli as he embedded his axe in an orc and it went down, a large hash mark in it's back and a grinning Boromir behind it. The tall man looked behind him as Aragorn shouted,
"Legolas!" The creature, looking much like Gabrielin, jumped swiftly on the mumakil, shooting the oliphaunt full of elven wood. Boromir un-strapped the bow from his back again, and began to shoot the riders off the grayling's broad back.
"Thirty-three, thirty-four." The creature called Legolas was still at work on the mumakil, cutting ropes and causing the rack on the creature's back to slide, the tower coming down and crushing it's occupants when the body of the mumak fell on it as well. Gimli looked at the fallen beast, and then at the elf, dubious.
"That still only counts as one!" The field was relatively empty, the dead swarming over the city with un-living speed, anything and everything in their path that was foe falling at their ghostly tide. Aragorn, covered in blood, looked at Boromir, who was looking at Legolas as though he had seen a ghost.
"Boromir, this is Gabrielin's brother, Legolas of Mirkwood." Boromir bowed, guilty for having to meet his savior's kinsman.
"It is an honor to meet you face to face. Please, accept my sincerest apologies that your sister is dead for my sake." The elf smiled in his critical, elevated way.
"Your apology is accepted, man of the south. Many things must pass-that is but one- and many brave souls shall leave our company. She died as she lived, with honor and fighting for something she loved- her home and others. We have a score to settle with the orcs and your city, man of the south. Let us go to it with all haste." Boromir smiled.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The army was obliterated, the field littered with dead riders, orcs, mumakil, and the battered pieces of a city and a dream. The white wizard and the boy at his side walked wearily from the gates. Aragorn was speaking to the king of the Dimholt.
"Release us." Gimli looked up at Aragorn.
"Bad idea. Very handy in a tight spot, these lads, despite the fact they're dead." The king frowned.
"You gave us your word." Aragorn nodded.
"I hold your oath fulfilled. Go. Be at peace." The dead king smiled in his weirding way, and he and his company vanished into whispers on the wind.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The army of the enemy turned back to their dark abysses, Aragorn held council in the grand chamber of the hall of kings.
"Frodo has passed beyond my sight. The darkness is deep." Gandalf had been gazing off into oblivion, his eyes glazed.
"If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it."
Aragorn was gazing at the throne; Boromir was glancing at the black steward's seat in which Gimli was smoking with equal apprehension.
"It's only a matter of time. He has suffered a defeat, yes, but, behind the walls of Mordor our enemy is regrouping."
Gimli took his pipe out of his mouth.
"Let him stay there. Let him rot! Why should we care?"
"Because 10,000 orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom. I've sent him to his death."
"No. There's still hope for Frodo. He needs time, and safe passage across the plains of Gorgorath. We can give him that."
Gimli looked at him as if he had gone mad.
"How?"
"Draw out Sauron's army. Empty his lands. We will gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."
The dwarf coughed. Éomer came forward, booted feet echoing in the hall; the new King of the Mark had been silent all day. From the moment he had seen his sister's body on the Pelennor till the moment the healers had borne her off to the halls of healing, he had not uttered a word, only cried.
"We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms."
"Not for ourselves, but we can give Frodo a chance if we keep Sauron's eye fixed upon us -- keep him blind to all else that moves." Aragorn's eyes were light with the energy of one of the verge of a revolution.
"A diversion." Boromir looked at Aragorn's face, understanding in his eyes.
"Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait." Gandalf's voice was quiet, strained.
"Certainty of death, small chance of success. What are we waiting for?" Gimli leapt up from his chair. There was a cry from the back of the hall, and the men turned. A raven-haired young woman ran up, and threw herself into Boromir's arms, spinning around.
"They told me you were dead...and then the king was in the city with you...and I had to give you this before you left! And...Oh, Boromir, it has been too long! " She was weeping. Boromir looked at her, smiled, relieved, and turned to face his comrades, all of who had varying degrees of bewilderment and, in more than one case, mirth, written in their faces.
"May I introduce to you the lady Rhoswen, my bride to be. Rhoswen, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, King Éomer of the Riddermark, you know Mithrandir, and Aragorn...Isildur's heir." He seemed to stumble over the last name, but smiled at his friend. Each man acknowledged her in his turn, Gimli and Éomer bowed, Gandalf nodded, and Aragorn stepped forward, and kissed her hand.
"We have heard much of you, milady. All of it in the highest of reverences." The young woman looked at him in amazement, and then dropped low into a curtsey.
"It is an honor to meet my king, and a joy that he thinks well of me." She withdrew a carefully folded piece of cloth from its package, which she had been carrying.
"Allow me to present your majesty with a standard. It has seen many battles, and has been flying over Osgiliath these few weeks past. I apologize for the plainness- the king should have much better- but it is all I have to offer, such as it is." Aragorn unfurled the banner, a little weather worn, but still white and proud, the tree riding in full force in the middle.
"It will be my pleasure to carry this, along with another made by one who holds me in high regards. I thank you, milady, from the depths of my heart." She bowed, and left quickly. Gimli was still restraining laughter. When the doors closed behind her, he let lose a chuckle. Boromir's eyes flashed, and Gimli quickly turned the chuckle into a hacking cough. Aragorn drew Boromir aside as the rest of the group left the congress.
"A company of riders from the North-my kinsmen- have come to help us. Their captain, and my dear friend, died on the Pelennor. I would command them myself, but-"
"You are the king. You have legions at your fingers. I will take your postion as it is offered." Aragorn withdrew a brooch from his pocket. It was a silver star, arrayed like a sun with an amber stone set at its center.
"This is the badge of Arnor of old. Wear it and show that you serve the king." Boromir bowed, his face set in an expressionless line.
"It will be as my liege commands."
-*-*-*-*-*-
The men of the armory were more than delighted to oblige the future king outfitting for the trip to the black gates. Boromir jogged to his rooms, and came back with the smock embroidered with the tree across the chest in gold thread, his wedding garb, as well as his own armor.
"There. You look a king, my friend." Boromir's armor had proven too big for Aragorn, and the large man strapped it on himself, then helping his king into the corselet of chain mail, and his plate armor. Aragorn frowned as his friend buttoned the coat.
"I do not feel right taking your matrimonial coat." Boromir brushed it away like a fly.
"I have others. The army awaits, my liege."
-*-*-*-*-*-
Pippin looked out anxiously from his seat in front of Gandalf, the hobbit back in armor once more, helm covering his face.
"Where are they?" Aragorn raised a hand to Boromir, who, along with Gimli, Éomer, Merry, Gandalf, Pippin, and Gimli, rode up to the towering gates, the flag Rhoswen had sewn rippling with the breeze from the pole Boromir carried, a second flag bearer at his side with a black standard sewn with seven starry eyed gems and a pure white tree chased in gold and silver. Aragorn shouted up to the gate.
"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him!" There was creaking, and the gates began to open, revealing hordes of orcs. The group of horsemen cantered back to the small group waiting. The ranks seemed to close, tightening together in fear.
"Hold your ground! Hold your ground!" He paced Brego back and forth in front of his lines, shouting his lines of heartening and courage.
"Sons of Gondor, of Rohan! My brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down. But it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good Earth. I bid you stand, Men of the West!"
Swords were drawn, scowls etched obdurate on faces. The orc army swarmed out, and Boromir knew this would be the end- a bitter end indeed, and one oft sung, if there would be any singing in the new order. Gimli piped up.
"I never thought I'd die, fighting side-by-side with an elf, and a Gondorian." Legolas and Boromir, on either side, looked at him queerly.
"What about side-by-side with your friends?" Gimli thought about it.
"Aye, I could do that." Boromir looked at the eye, so close the flaming watch might look at him, and a whisper like a death rattle ran through the ranks.
"Aragorn... Elessar." The king looked up, captivated. He looked from the eye to Boromir, and smiled. Boromir swallowed.
"Your friends will follow you, Aragorn, to what ever end you lead us."
"To whatever end? I will hold you to those words, Boromir of Gondor. But this is not the end...it is only the beginning." Boromir's grin widened, as well as Pippin's, Merry's, and Gimli's. With a mad spur of inspiration, half hoping against hope that gods would save them from death, the king of Men rushed headlong into the hordes ere his courage failed him.
And behind him, the army roared like the sea and followed.
There was a pause, and a rumbling behind the hordes of darkness started. The Free Peoples looked up. The Great Eye blinked, and fizzled, losing form as the tower it topped began to crumble, taking the land around it with it, sinking into the earth. The black gates, too, fell, crushing the orcs, or delving them into the ground, leaving the land upon which the free peoples stood unscathed. Merry shouted with joy, grinning from ear to ear.
"Frodo, Frodo!" The mountain of doom began to shake, fire spewing out in all directions. Pippin sank to his knees in this tearstained victory-so much loss for so much gain.
"Frodo!" The hobbit shed tears like rain. But Merry looked up.
"The eagles! The eagles are coming!"
-*-*-*-*-*-
Rhoswen looked out over the high white walls, the still rancid smell of death and burning flesh lingering in the air, even with a brazier of sweet smelling herbs beside her, tears of nothing but the purest joy staining her face as she watched the small black speak that was the Company of the West march away from the still crumbling remains of unadulterated evil.
"Sound the trumpets! Give word to the heralds that the lords of Gondor have returned victorious!" Rhoswen called to the nearest page, who scampered off with a newly renewed smile on his face. And Rhoswen turned her face to the sun and smiled.
"So, my friend, you have not deserted me after all? The sun really does shine for me, happiest of happy hearts in this, most blessed of hours.
So it was that Boromir's foretelling that the Tower Guard should take up the call that the lords of Gondor had returned, and call home those valiant hearts with silver trumpets ringing clear across the Pelannor, with banners caught high in the breeze, the tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver in the newly found sun.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Boromir looked at the little hobbit, so small, and so brave. His deeds would be the stuff of legend. He laughed with the others, a voice full of relief that his friends were still alive.
"Boromir! Aragorn!" The big folk stood in the background, watching the joyous reunion with smiles.
When the rest had left, Boromir stayed back.
"Frodo, I have to-" the hobbit smiled at him, and held up a hand. Boromir stopped, frightened as he had never been in all his life.
"Boromir, I met your brother, and he was easily taken in as you. The ring is gone-it is the past now, and we must not dwell in the past, because there is nothing we can do to change it. You need not beg forgiveness, for it is freely given."
"I think it...most gratifying...that you should forgive me readily."
"All sin and darkness perished with the destruction the root of sins suffered, Boromir. Forgiveness came when the black tower fell- I am only a bearer of news. Now go, Boromir. I have heard tell that the one you love is in the city. Go to her, and do not let your heart be troubled with the past, for it is the only thing you cannot change." The big man smiled in relief, and left, happy that his most grievous sin had been now been atoned for. But there were other sins not his own that needed tending to.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The Eldest son of the Steward sat at his father's bedside, the older man not moving, the gentle breathing the only sign that he was still with living. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Aragorn.
"Why are you here?"
"I came to see you and your father...has he stirred?"
"Nay." Boromir's face fell even more, as if he was giving up, yet again, the most precious commodity in the universe in times like these-hope.
"May I?" Aragorn drew from a pouch at his waist several leaves, and dropped them in a bowl of water at the steward's bedside, where a cloth lay, seeping in the warm moisture. Very gently, he washed the elderly man's forehead. After what seemed an eternity, the steward's head moved, and ever so slowly, his eyes opened, as though his vision swam.
"Burning...everything was burning...what a dream...and..." He seemed incoherent, like what he said was not his own.
"Father? Father, can you not hear me? Can you not see your son?" Boromir seemed close to tears- his father was so close, and yet...so far.
"I had a son once...but he is dead. Am I not now dead too, that he is before me?" Denethor mumbled to himself, or no one in particular.
"I am not dead, father! I am not dead, and nor is Faramir! Why, why will you not wake? Why must this madness you suffer make me suffer in twain?" Boromir began to cry, and he laid his head on his father's hand. The old man hesitated, struggling to remember, and slowly, he began to stroke his son's hair.
"Boromir...Boromir...they told me you were dead."
All Boromir could do was cry.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Rhoswen looked into her father in law's room to see her king wiping his hands on a towel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling knowledgably, and her fiancé crying and trying to speak at the same time. Denethor looked to the door, and with an aged hand, beckoned her in.
"Rhoswen..." his face cracked a smile. Now he seemed much older, lined and wizened, white haired and sunken in appearance, as if a hundred years of troubles had been brought down upon him while he slept
"It pains me to see you like this, milord. My best wishes for your continued good health. I would take Boromir, if it pleases milord. He and I have much to speak of." Denethor waved a hand to carry on, and Rhoswen gently led Boromir out of his father's room, and down the hall, offering a handkerchief.
"There is something I'd like you to see, love." She took his hand and led him through the streets to the houses of healing. She pointed from the balcony looking over the gardens to two figures, one clad in white with a great azure cloak billowing about her, golden hair rippling in the wind, and the other with a rich green cloak, tawny locks blowing about with the chill breezes. The two were gazing off into the Pelannor, and the woman in blue drew nearer the man; they were talking.
"Yonder is your brother, and I have heard it from his own lips that he fosters a love in his heart for the lady Éowyn."
"The lady Éowyn? The wraithbane? Truly, to the gentle go the spirited, and to the spirited go the gentle-a union of opposites. Shall I call to him?" Rhoswen pulled him away from the balcony, a light of pleading in her eyes.
"You must not! Please, Boromir-would you have liked it if Faramir had walked in on us kissing? Leave them- you and I have better things to speak of." She took his big hand and led him away, to talk of the battle, and other ceremonials besides.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The courtyard of the citadel was packed with people. In the midst of the crowd, Boromir and Rhoswen stood alongside Faramir and Éowyn, both looking haler for their sojourn into shadow. Gandalf set the ancient circ of pearl and silver, with wings like those of a sea bird, upon his head. Boromir, gazing at his friend, seemed to see him in a changed light, more noble than ever before, taller, and the perfect vision of a king. But had Boromir ever found in his mind the doubt that Aragorn could not be, would not be his sovereign? No, never since the Dúnadan had saved his life.
"Now come the days of the king. May they be blessed." Gandalf said as he laid the crown on Aragorn's dark hair. Aragorn took a breath, and faced the masses.
"This day does not belong to one man, but to all. Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace." There were many cheers, and Aragorn, in his musical voice, began to sing.
"Et Earello Endorenna utulien. Sinome maruvan are Hildinyar tenn Ambar- metta." Such were the words, as Faramir and many other scholars could tell you, that Elendil spoke as his feet were set on Middle Earthen sand. 'Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.' He raised his hands for silence, and the cheering subsided.
"We enter now into the days of the king- Mercy shall be given justice, courage will be rewarded honor, and fidelity, merit. But Gondor is a land renewed, and councils shall be taken to let her glories and honors be restored as well as her kings. And it is my hope that these tasks shall not be delegated to one man alone, but to many men, all who have shown that his heart lies with his country, his city, and his people. My friends, my brothers, reward shall be given in it's turn for you, you who have served me so well when your hearts should have lain with those closer in blood than I." He looked at Boromir and Faramir, brothers alike in their creamy white surcoats, girded at the waist in belts of leaves, one in silver and the other gold, crafted so well by elvish hands.
"You are the keepers of the City, my stewards, sworn to hold oath and office until the king shall return. I hold your oaths fulfilled, but do not release such fine thanes from my service hastily. Boromir, my council, and ever my friend, the lands I have called home for long years past need stewardship. I gift you freely, and with my good will, the princedom of Arnor. It is only with you, and those of your line that I leave in keeping the lands that have been precious to me. And Faramir, my newest brother, your council, too, is much needed here. But I will keep you at my call nearest; I know your heart lies to the east-Ithilien is your domain, as a captain and now, as a Prince. May the sun shine brighter on your fields for it."
The king walked down the carpet flanked by joyous onlookers. He stopped, and Boromir, Faramir, Éowyn, Rhoswen, and Éomer bowed in their turn. A group of elves approached, led by Gabrielin's brother, clad in silver gray. The two embraced like brothers, and Legolas, smiling as if with a secret, stepped back from the banner shielding a woman.
Aragorn's face changed expressions slowly, going from serious to confused to joyful. As the woman holding the banner let her face be seen, Boromir understood why; this was Aragorn's elven princess. She lowered her head, and Aragorn looked at her for a moment, and then suddenly pulled her into a kiss. The crowd cheered. The Princess laughed, a wonderful sound, and the king and his soon to be queen continued through the crowd.
When the two approached the hobbits, the Pherianniath made to bow, but Aragorn stopped them.
"My friends! You bow to no one." And the king of Gondor knelt, and the crowd knelt with him.
Aragorn rose, and the crowd as a tide rose with him. He turned from the hobbits to Boromir, standing, joyful, with Rhoswen by his side, both resplendent in whites and pearls.
"My friend, today is to be my wedding, and...I would share that joy with you." Boromir frowned.
"I could not presume..." Aragorn held up a hand.
"A wise woman told me once that we were brothers Fate had not gifted by blood, both floundering in an ocean of love, far away from the shores of the source, and therefore also in the same boat on that deepening sea. So I ask you, brother, share with me my joy. Let my happiness also be yours on this day, this blessed day of all blessed days." Boromir looked at him, tears starring his eyes, and Aragorn pulled his friend into a hug. Boromir whispered into his ear,
"It shall be as my lord commands." Aragorn whispered back,
"I wish you would stop saying that." Boromir smiled, and the king released him, faces wreathed in smiles, and processed into the hall with his soon to be queen, and the sons of the steward came in behind, followed by the happy multitudes awaiting not one royal marriage, but two.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aii, but that was certain sacrilege. I do humbly beg forgiveness for whatever wrongs that I have done, for grievous is the crime for which I should be punished without mercy.
If you wish it, tell me what it is that deserves your merit, and you in turn shall be rewarded in a way that will suit what you may have done for me. The bard and poet both live not, kind sirs, on empty words and unspoken praises.
And if you understood any of my methodical English rambling, then you are truly worthy of reviewing my story.
Mercury Gray
-*-*-*-
Looking at the great wreck that once was Isengard, Boromir felt a deep hatred for the wizard that had lived here. Still the dregs of resentment for Gabrielin's death at the hands of the wizard's creation, as well as the abduction of two dear companions lingered in his heart. But the anger washed away as he spotted figures on the wall, two small boys. There was laughter from the pair, and Hasufel neighed, drawing the pair's attention. Merry stood, more than a little tipsy. He bowed flamboyantly, gesturing wide with his arms.
"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard." He waved a hand in the direction of the darkened tower in the middle, a hate blackened spike. Gimli was affronted.
"You young rascals! A merry hunt you've led us on, and now we find you feasting and, and smoking!" Pippin looked at him to correct him, swallowing the last of his mug.
"We are sitting on a field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts. The salted pork is particularly good." Gimli looked longingly at the young hobbit.
"S-salted pork?" Gandalf frowned.
"Hobbits." Merry looked at the assembled, a king, his marshal, two heirs, a wizard, and a dwarf.
"We're under orders from Treebeard who has taken over management of Isengard." Boromir looked at him, half frowning, and half smiling. Gandalf questioned the young hobbit.
"Where is Treebeard, Meriadoc?" The hobbit pointed to the moving object in the distance, coming towards them. Boromir pulled the hobbit off the wall.
"Off you get, Merry."
Aragorn pulled Pippin into the saddle, and the horses trotted their way through the half marshy land, a foot deep in the waters of the Isen. The tree Shepard greeted them.
"Hm, young Master Gandalf, I'm glad you've come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master. But there is a wizard to manage here -- locked in his tower."
"There Saruman must remain, under your guard, Treebeard."
"Well, let's just have his head and be done with it." Gimli interjected.
"No, he has no more power anymore."
"The filth of Saruman is washing away. Trees will come back to live here. Young trees, wild trees." Pippin looked at some flashing in the water, and jumped off Brego to investigate. Aragorn chided him.
"Pippin!" The hobbit removed from the water a large glass ball, holding it up to the amazement of the company.
"Bless my bark!" Treebeard looked at the ball with curiosity. Gandalf held a hand out for it, his voice sharp.
"Peregrin Took, I'll take that, my lad. Quickly now." The hobbit handed the palantir to Gandalf, who wrapped it carefully in his cloak, as though loathe to touch it.
-*-*-*-*-
The great hall of Meduseld was filled with Rohirrim, Théoden standing at his throne, flanked by his niece and nephew.
"Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!" The crowd raised their cups in tribute, with a shout of 'Hail!' and drank. Beside him, Boromir saw Aragorn pause, deep in thought, and then raise the cup to his lips.
Later in the evening, Boromir was sitting, mug in hand, watching with a lazy eye the goings in the hall. Éowyn approached Aragorn, bearing a carven, gilded cup. She held it out for him to drink, and he took it, looking into her eyes as he did so.
"Westu Aragorn hál!" The traditional Rohirric blessing sounded too soft from her lips to be true Rohirric. Aragorn walked away, and Théoden came up to speak with his niece. Boromir turned away from their conversation to look at Merry and Pippin, who were dancing on a table and singing one of the many Shire drinking songs they were yet to hear this night.
"You can search far and wide
You can drink the whole world dry
But you'll never find a beer so brown
As the one they drink in my hometown
You can keep your fancy ales
You can drink them by the flagon
But the only brew for the brave and true
Comes from the Green Dragon!"
Boromir smiled, and walked to the porch, looking to sky as if it held all his answers. Aragorn joined him.
"The stars are veiled, else I would show you the constellations of my city, as my brother often did. But there is something stirring in the East, a sleepless malice. The eye of the enemy moves." Aragorn nodded, austerely serene. Boromir was awoken from what would have been the best silence he'd had in a while by the furious screaming of a hobbit. Rushing into the room where they were to be sleeping, the two were met with a strange sight.
Between his hands, Pippin held the palantir, his face white as death.
"Help! Gandalf! Someone help him!" Aragorn wrenched the palantir from Pippin's frozen hands and started to convulse himself. Boromir steadied his shoulders as the older man nearly fainted, eyes rolling in his head, and the palantir rolled away, seemingly harmless again. Gandalf awakened in the blink of an eye.
"Fool of a Took!" He wrapped the palantir up again, and then turned to Pippin, still cold as ice. He knelt over the hobbit, and he awoke, sputtering.
"Gandalf. Forgive me!"
"Look at me. What did you see?"
"Ah... a tree. There was a white tree, in a courtyard of stone. It was dead!" Aragorn saw comprehension, and then fear dawn in his companion's eyes; Boromir knew exactly of what Pippin spoke.
"The city was burning." Boromir gasped.
"Minas Tirith. Is that what you saw?" the Gondorian's voice was incredulous that any harm should come to his beloved city while he still drew breath.
"I saw... I saw him! I could hear his voice in my head."
"What did you tell him? Speak!"
"He asked me my name. I didn't answer. He hurt me."
"What did you tell him about Frodo and the Ring?" Pippin gave him a blank look.
-*-*-*-*-
Later in the hall, Gandalf paced. It was after breakfast, and Pippin was seated, disheartened, on a stool, slumped over, Merry at his shoulder. The wizard spoke as if the hobbit were not there.
"There was no lie in Pippin's eyes. A fool, but an honest fool he remains. He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring. We've been strangely fortunate. Pippin saw in the palantir a glimpse of the enemy's plan. Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat at Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing. He knows the heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still -- strength enough, perhaps to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the peoples of middle earth uniting under one banner. He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a king return to the throne of Men. If the beacons of Rohan are lit, Rohan must be ready for war."
"Tell me, why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?" Théoden looked in Boromir's eyes, and the younger man stared back, a grim truth there hidden; Gondor was owed nothing of Rohan-what debt of gratitude had Rohan need to pay? Aragorn looked at the wizard, starting for the doors.
"I will go."
"No."
"They must be warned. We cannot send Boromir-the façade of death hangs still in his father's mind." He paused, giving Boromir a sorry look. "Your supposed demise makes your father weak, and I know he will not see me as king." Boromir looked at his brother at arms, unyielding. When he spoke, his voice was cold, as thought the man to whom he refferec was no kinsman of his.
"Then let he who swore to hold oath and office till the return of the king burn where hellfire is reserved for traitors." Gandalf pulled Aragorn aside, their faces close. The wizard looked back at the king of the Riddermark.
"Understand this; Things are now in motion that cannot be undone. I ride for Minas Tirith. And I won't be going alone." He threw a meaningful look at Pippin, who quailed.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It was nearly a week after Gandalf had left that Aragorn ran into the hall, his face lit with some hidden light.
"The beacons of Minas Tirith! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid." Théoden looked up from the map he was looking at with his nephew. Éowyn came to stand by them. The king paused for a moment.
"And Rohan will answer. Muster the Rohirrim!" At his call, one of the guards in the hall ran to the bell tower, and the clear notes of the brass bell rang across the valley.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aragorn and Boromir were readying horses for the ride to Dunharrow, where the army would muster. Aragorn turned to see Éowyn determinedly knotting ties on her saddle.
"You ride with us?"
"Just to the encampment. It is tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men." Aragorn flipped up the saddle blanket, revealing a sword. Éowyn slighted his hand, and covered the weapon again.
"The men have found their captain. They will follow you to battle, even to death. You have given them hope."
The mass of riders rode forward, surging like the tide of war they rode on.
-*-*-*-*-*-
At Dunharrow that afternoon, Théoden walked through the ranks, calling to his captains.
"Grimbold, how many?"
"I bring five hundred from the Westfold, my Lord."
"We have three hundred more from Fenmarch, Théoden King."
"Where are the riders from Snowbourne?"
"None have come, my Lord." Théoden nodded, and behind him, Boromir and Aragorn could just see the small slump in his proud shoulders.
-*-*-*-*-*-
In the camp at the rise of the mountain, he told them why.
"Six thousand spears. Less than half of what I'd hoped."
"Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor."
"More will come."
"Every hour lost hastens Gondor's defeat. We have until dawn. Then we must ride." Boromir and Théoden both nodded, stern and stiff-backed. Outside the tents, Boromir looked around: there was a silence in the air of grim tidings. A horse neighed, and nearly broke free of its tether.
"The horses are restless and the men are quiet. Why is it so, Éomer- Eomundson? There are not orcs in plenty about, and the battle is yet a few days off." Éomer looked at him.
"They grow nervous near the shadow of the mountain." Gimli pointed with an axe to the narrow gorge through the heart of the mountain.
"That road there, where does it lead?"
"It is the road to the Dimholt, the door under the mountain. I know the tales as well as any man, but now is not the time for ...ghost stories." Éomer looked at the mountain again, his voice bordering on caution.
"None who venture there ever return. That mountain is evil." Gimli started Aragorn from his thoughts, the Dunadan visibly shaken by the surprise.
"Aragorn! Let's find some food."
-*-*-*-*-*-
The sun had quit her lofty fired chair, and the moon had risen to her majesty when Boromir, sitting in the light of a fire, sharpening his sword, heard a yell from the tent he was sharing with Aragorn. Boromir cleared all thoughts of murder from his head as the spooked captain walked behind the Rohirrim to the king's tent, where ten minutes before a cloaked figure in black had entered, leaving his white horse by the opening. Having no tether, the horse had stayed remarkably still.
Boromir watched the shadows dance on the tent walls, and saw the ranger unsheathe the sword the man handed him. A few minutes went by, and then both emerged, Boromir catching a glimpse of the stranger's face; it was Lord Elrond. Aragorn sat down heavily by the fire.
"How is it that we are brothers of fate and destiny, and yet you refuse to wield the weaponry like to the swords your men use-" Boromir stopped short as Aragorn showed him the sword.
"N-N-Narsil reforged? Truly, I sit in the king's sight, then." Aragorn brushed the comment away.
"It was over this sword that we first met, son of the south."
"And it is with that sword that you will command victories, my king."
"Boromir, I am not yet your king. For now, only a brother and a friend. I have had counsel to take another road-but this road is most certainly not golden." He looked at the mountain, foreboding and dark.
"You cannot think to take the Dimholt." Boromir looked at his captain as if he had said he wanted to send Sauron flowers.
"It is the path we must take. Already a path has been strayed with Gabrielin's death-we must not alter what can be any further. I ride in the morning. Get some rest." He retired to his tent, Boromir looking at the shadow of flames dance on his blade, and then following his superior to bed.
-*-*-*-*-*-
In the early hours of the day, Aragorn was talking to Éowyn. The younger woman turned away, nearly in tears, and Aragorn led his horse past Boromir and Gimli.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Not this time. This time you will stay, Gimli. This is my road alone, and I alone must keep it." Boromir came up behind him, carrying a saddle.
"Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of dwarves?"
"You might as well accept it. We're going with you, laddie." Aragorn frowned. Boromir laid a hand on his shoulder.
"The first duty of the steward is to hold oath and office until the king shall return. Since I am not steward, and I have sworn no oath, I can promise you only my sword, my heart, and my brotherhood. Take them in their stead."
Aragorn looked into his friend's eyes, and smiled. The three mounted up, and rode into the mountain, not looking back at the cries from the riders.
The path was desolate, barren of flowers or plant life beyond the weeds. Rocks and bleached bones littered the way.
"What kind of an army would linger in such a place?" Gimli looked at the carrion crows circling overhead with an edge on his voice.
"One that is cursed. The story is well known in Gondor and my brother knows the old tales well enough. Long ago the Men of the mountain swore an oath to the last King of Gondor, to come to his aid, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor's need was dire, they fled, vanishing into the darkness of the mountain. And so Isildur cursed them, never to rest until they had fulfilled their oath." Boromir frowned at Gimli- he hated to tell such tales; they made his blood run cold. Gimli echoed his thoughts.
"The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away." The three of them dismounted, and looked around at the door hewn in the rock.
"I cannot read these runes, but my brother has told the tale oft enough- the way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut." A ghostly breath blew from the doorway, whispering. The horses started at the sound, and bolted down the path back to Dunharrow. Aragorn shouted after them, his voice echoing, but they paid him no heed. He turned back to the door, decorated with skulls and bones, resolute.
"I do not fear death." He took a deep breath, steeling his face, and walked into the tunnel. With a last glance, Boromir followed him. From behind, Gimli was heard to say,
"Well this is a thing unheard of! When men will go underground when a dwarf dare not! Oh, Oh! I would not hear the end of it." Boromir could hear his short steps catching up, and would have let the dwarf run into him if Aragorn had not lit a torch, flooding the tunnel in light. Cautiously, the three made their way to the carven halls of the men of the Wold.
The tunnel opened to the stone remains of what had once been a great city. A grim green phosphoresce clung to the walls, and slowly, the form of a man, wraithlike crown on his head, appeared before them. Aragorn was not fazed. The apparition spoke.
"Who enters my domain?"
"One who will have your allegiance."
"The dead do not suffer the living to pass."
"You will suffer me." The king laughed, and as the chilling sound escaped his mouth, a floodtide of Dead streamed from the walls, a ghost city unfolding before their eyes.
"The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it." The dead began to appear faster, surrounding the trio. How does one kill something that is already dead? "The way is shut. Now you must die." Boromir sliced through the king's tattered cloak, a stroke that would have taken his arm off. But the rent quickly closed. Aragorn continued.
"I summon you to fulfill your oath."
"None but the king of Gondor may command me." He unsheathed a sword, glowing green like the rest of his dead domain. Aragorn laid forth Anduril, the flame of the west, Narsil reforged; and parried the dead king's blow. The Dead one was surprised, and fearful.
"That blade was broken!"
"It has been remade. Fight for us, and regain your honor. What say you?" he walked to face the soldiers; they drew back.
"What say you?"
"You waste your time Aragorn. They have no honor in life, they have none now in death." Gimli said sagely. Aragorn continued, showing the blade to the crowds.
"I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me, and I will hold your oaths fulfilled." There was an eerie pause. "What say you?"
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aragorn piloted the ship down the river, the king at his back, creating a chill presence. Arriving at the dockside, he heard a knurly voice- an orc.
"Late as usual! Pirate scum! There's knife work here that needs doing! Come on, you sea-rats. Get off your ships!" Aragorn jumped over the side, followed by Gimli and Boromir. The orcs looked at them, unimpressed. Gimli looked at Boromir.
"There are plenty for the both of us. May the best dwarf win." Boromir looked at the dwarf.
"I am not a dwarf, but I intend to, thank you." Aragorn ran forward, sword held high, and behind him, the dead streamed in vaporous waves.
-*-*-*-*-*-
They had been fighting for nigh on an hour when Boromir remembered something. He gestured to Aragorn.
"Aragorn, this way." The Dunadan hacked another orc, and followed. Boromir nimbly climbed a rock outcrop, stopping at a door in the wall of the city. Opening it, he climbed inside. Aragorn followed, more than a little confused.
The door opened on a garden, silent and deserted. Boromir held a finger to his lips, and the two crept through the upper levels of the city. At the gates, Boromir pressed his ear to the wall, and pulled them back into the shadows of the alleyway to the seventh level. The gates opened, and Denethor stalked past, a litter behind him, upon which the unconscious form of Faramir rested. The Steward was muttering to himself. Quietly, the pair followed the morose train down to Rath Dinen, the Silent Street, the mausoleum of the Stewards. Another way kept and made by the dead.
"There is another door to the Rath Dinen. Come." The two stalked off like truant schoolboys stealing apples.
The silent street was musty, the smell of the dead and decay saturating everywhere. The two watched from the shadows of the crypt as preparations were made for...something.
"No tomb for Denethor and Faramir; No long slow sleep of death embalmed. We shall burn, like the heathen kings of old. Bring wood and oil!" Faramir's prone form groaned. Aragorn looked at Boromir, who was staring in horror.
"When you said let him burn, did you mean in the literal sense of the word?"
"Some device of the dark lord has poisoned his mind. Now I care not; Let him burn, for I know this man no longer." Faramir groaned again, and Denethor looked at his dying son.
"The house of his spirit crumbles. Faramir is burning, already burning." A small boy rushed in, clad in the livery of the tower, and the voice that issued from his helmet was a familiar one.
"He's not dead! He's not dead!" He made to disassemble the pyre, but Denethor dragged him away, still screaming.
"No! No! No! No! He's not dead! No!" The small guard turned his face towards their corner in the desperate struggle, and the light fell on his face: it was Pippin.
"Come now, Peregrin son of Paladin." Denethor spoke to the hobbit before casting him out the doors. "I release you from my service. Go now and die in what way seems best to you." He closed the doors on Pippin's pleas for sanity, and called to his servants.
"Pour oil on the wood! Set a fire in our flesh." The guardsmen looked uncertainly at each other, pausing for a minute or two. Boromir made to rescue his brother, but Aragorn put a arm to stop him.
"The path...must not be strayed. It is not written that we two should be here. We run rank risk to interfere." Boromir took a breath, vexed, but he made no further move, watching with desperation. Suddenly, Shadowfax broke through the door, Gandalf atop the rearing stallion.
"Stay this madness!" He shouted at the steward. The guards drew back; fear of the wizard came before fear of a madman. Denethor grabbed a torch, and set aflame the pyre. Pippin, also astride the horse, jumped from Shadowfax's back onto the flames, pushing Faramir onto the floor with him as he jumped. Pippin knelt on the floor, patting out flames with gloved hands, trying to save the steward's son.
"You will not take my son from me!" Denethor screamed at Pippin, attempting to get off the pyre. The horse knocked him back in the flames. As the fire licked around Denethor's oil drenched cloak, Aragorn and Boromir emerged from the shadows, and to the burning steward, it seemed as though two ghosts had emerged from nothingness. His eyes grew wide. He screamed, and jumped from the pyre, but tripped as he tried to run through the doors to the parapets, falling and yelling in pain. One of the servants patted the flames down, and Boromir, looking at the body of his father, could see that the elderly man had gone into a death-like sleep.
"Does he still live?" the servant looked on at him in awe and dropped to one knee. Another put a hand to his lips, feeling for a faint breath.
"Aye, my lord...my steward." Boromir turned away at the title.
"If he still lives, than I am not yet fully come into my inheritance. Get my father and brother to the houses of healing; I will come and see to them when the time is fit. Now...now I must fight."
"Boromir, the men will follow your command. To the gates!" The two men nodded, unsheathing swords as they ran off down to the gates. Gandalf and Pippin hurried off as well, leaving the oil soaked Faramir and Denethor in the care of the servants watching with a scared eye.
-*-*-*-*-*-
As the doors in front of them were pounded to bits, Pippin looked at his sword miserably.
"I didn't think it would end this way." Gandalf looked at him.
"End? The journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one we all must take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it."
"What? Gandalf? See what?"
"White shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise." Pippin thought about this.
"Well, that isn't so bad."
"No, no it isn't." Gandalf smiled a bit, weary and feeling as old as ever.
"I guess that's why Gabrielin called it the golden path?" Gandalf looked at Pippin, bewildered.
"How did you hear of that?"
"Aragorn was speaking of it to Boromir; I listened where I should have not." Gandalf smiled benignly at the hobbit.
"Yes...it was her golden path, to die for another's sake, selfless. Now come, Peregrin Took, summon your courage, for it may yet be that your golden path is close at hand." The hobbit held his sword tighter, and closed his eyes.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aragorn and Boromir crept out the way they had come, finding Gimli where they had left him not an hour ago, with dead bodies around and an axe blade that ran dripping with blood.
"Eighty, eighty one," Gimli's count kept up with his axe, numbers and severed limbs flowing in an effortless stream.
"Seventeen, Eighteen," Boromir was not stayed by the injury of a father long bereft and a half dead brother- and if he was, the anger only flowed through his blade.
"Eighty two! That's still mine!" shouted Gimli as he embedded his axe in an orc and it went down, a large hash mark in it's back and a grinning Boromir behind it. The tall man looked behind him as Aragorn shouted,
"Legolas!" The creature, looking much like Gabrielin, jumped swiftly on the mumakil, shooting the oliphaunt full of elven wood. Boromir un-strapped the bow from his back again, and began to shoot the riders off the grayling's broad back.
"Thirty-three, thirty-four." The creature called Legolas was still at work on the mumakil, cutting ropes and causing the rack on the creature's back to slide, the tower coming down and crushing it's occupants when the body of the mumak fell on it as well. Gimli looked at the fallen beast, and then at the elf, dubious.
"That still only counts as one!" The field was relatively empty, the dead swarming over the city with un-living speed, anything and everything in their path that was foe falling at their ghostly tide. Aragorn, covered in blood, looked at Boromir, who was looking at Legolas as though he had seen a ghost.
"Boromir, this is Gabrielin's brother, Legolas of Mirkwood." Boromir bowed, guilty for having to meet his savior's kinsman.
"It is an honor to meet you face to face. Please, accept my sincerest apologies that your sister is dead for my sake." The elf smiled in his critical, elevated way.
"Your apology is accepted, man of the south. Many things must pass-that is but one- and many brave souls shall leave our company. She died as she lived, with honor and fighting for something she loved- her home and others. We have a score to settle with the orcs and your city, man of the south. Let us go to it with all haste." Boromir smiled.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The army was obliterated, the field littered with dead riders, orcs, mumakil, and the battered pieces of a city and a dream. The white wizard and the boy at his side walked wearily from the gates. Aragorn was speaking to the king of the Dimholt.
"Release us." Gimli looked up at Aragorn.
"Bad idea. Very handy in a tight spot, these lads, despite the fact they're dead." The king frowned.
"You gave us your word." Aragorn nodded.
"I hold your oath fulfilled. Go. Be at peace." The dead king smiled in his weirding way, and he and his company vanished into whispers on the wind.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The army of the enemy turned back to their dark abysses, Aragorn held council in the grand chamber of the hall of kings.
"Frodo has passed beyond my sight. The darkness is deep." Gandalf had been gazing off into oblivion, his eyes glazed.
"If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it."
Aragorn was gazing at the throne; Boromir was glancing at the black steward's seat in which Gimli was smoking with equal apprehension.
"It's only a matter of time. He has suffered a defeat, yes, but, behind the walls of Mordor our enemy is regrouping."
Gimli took his pipe out of his mouth.
"Let him stay there. Let him rot! Why should we care?"
"Because 10,000 orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom. I've sent him to his death."
"No. There's still hope for Frodo. He needs time, and safe passage across the plains of Gorgorath. We can give him that."
Gimli looked at him as if he had gone mad.
"How?"
"Draw out Sauron's army. Empty his lands. We will gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."
The dwarf coughed. Éomer came forward, booted feet echoing in the hall; the new King of the Mark had been silent all day. From the moment he had seen his sister's body on the Pelennor till the moment the healers had borne her off to the halls of healing, he had not uttered a word, only cried.
"We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms."
"Not for ourselves, but we can give Frodo a chance if we keep Sauron's eye fixed upon us -- keep him blind to all else that moves." Aragorn's eyes were light with the energy of one of the verge of a revolution.
"A diversion." Boromir looked at Aragorn's face, understanding in his eyes.
"Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait." Gandalf's voice was quiet, strained.
"Certainty of death, small chance of success. What are we waiting for?" Gimli leapt up from his chair. There was a cry from the back of the hall, and the men turned. A raven-haired young woman ran up, and threw herself into Boromir's arms, spinning around.
"They told me you were dead...and then the king was in the city with you...and I had to give you this before you left! And...Oh, Boromir, it has been too long! " She was weeping. Boromir looked at her, smiled, relieved, and turned to face his comrades, all of who had varying degrees of bewilderment and, in more than one case, mirth, written in their faces.
"May I introduce to you the lady Rhoswen, my bride to be. Rhoswen, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, King Éomer of the Riddermark, you know Mithrandir, and Aragorn...Isildur's heir." He seemed to stumble over the last name, but smiled at his friend. Each man acknowledged her in his turn, Gimli and Éomer bowed, Gandalf nodded, and Aragorn stepped forward, and kissed her hand.
"We have heard much of you, milady. All of it in the highest of reverences." The young woman looked at him in amazement, and then dropped low into a curtsey.
"It is an honor to meet my king, and a joy that he thinks well of me." She withdrew a carefully folded piece of cloth from its package, which she had been carrying.
"Allow me to present your majesty with a standard. It has seen many battles, and has been flying over Osgiliath these few weeks past. I apologize for the plainness- the king should have much better- but it is all I have to offer, such as it is." Aragorn unfurled the banner, a little weather worn, but still white and proud, the tree riding in full force in the middle.
"It will be my pleasure to carry this, along with another made by one who holds me in high regards. I thank you, milady, from the depths of my heart." She bowed, and left quickly. Gimli was still restraining laughter. When the doors closed behind her, he let lose a chuckle. Boromir's eyes flashed, and Gimli quickly turned the chuckle into a hacking cough. Aragorn drew Boromir aside as the rest of the group left the congress.
"A company of riders from the North-my kinsmen- have come to help us. Their captain, and my dear friend, died on the Pelennor. I would command them myself, but-"
"You are the king. You have legions at your fingers. I will take your postion as it is offered." Aragorn withdrew a brooch from his pocket. It was a silver star, arrayed like a sun with an amber stone set at its center.
"This is the badge of Arnor of old. Wear it and show that you serve the king." Boromir bowed, his face set in an expressionless line.
"It will be as my liege commands."
-*-*-*-*-*-
The men of the armory were more than delighted to oblige the future king outfitting for the trip to the black gates. Boromir jogged to his rooms, and came back with the smock embroidered with the tree across the chest in gold thread, his wedding garb, as well as his own armor.
"There. You look a king, my friend." Boromir's armor had proven too big for Aragorn, and the large man strapped it on himself, then helping his king into the corselet of chain mail, and his plate armor. Aragorn frowned as his friend buttoned the coat.
"I do not feel right taking your matrimonial coat." Boromir brushed it away like a fly.
"I have others. The army awaits, my liege."
-*-*-*-*-*-
Pippin looked out anxiously from his seat in front of Gandalf, the hobbit back in armor once more, helm covering his face.
"Where are they?" Aragorn raised a hand to Boromir, who, along with Gimli, Éomer, Merry, Gandalf, Pippin, and Gimli, rode up to the towering gates, the flag Rhoswen had sewn rippling with the breeze from the pole Boromir carried, a second flag bearer at his side with a black standard sewn with seven starry eyed gems and a pure white tree chased in gold and silver. Aragorn shouted up to the gate.
"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him!" There was creaking, and the gates began to open, revealing hordes of orcs. The group of horsemen cantered back to the small group waiting. The ranks seemed to close, tightening together in fear.
"Hold your ground! Hold your ground!" He paced Brego back and forth in front of his lines, shouting his lines of heartening and courage.
"Sons of Gondor, of Rohan! My brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down. But it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good Earth. I bid you stand, Men of the West!"
Swords were drawn, scowls etched obdurate on faces. The orc army swarmed out, and Boromir knew this would be the end- a bitter end indeed, and one oft sung, if there would be any singing in the new order. Gimli piped up.
"I never thought I'd die, fighting side-by-side with an elf, and a Gondorian." Legolas and Boromir, on either side, looked at him queerly.
"What about side-by-side with your friends?" Gimli thought about it.
"Aye, I could do that." Boromir looked at the eye, so close the flaming watch might look at him, and a whisper like a death rattle ran through the ranks.
"Aragorn... Elessar." The king looked up, captivated. He looked from the eye to Boromir, and smiled. Boromir swallowed.
"Your friends will follow you, Aragorn, to what ever end you lead us."
"To whatever end? I will hold you to those words, Boromir of Gondor. But this is not the end...it is only the beginning." Boromir's grin widened, as well as Pippin's, Merry's, and Gimli's. With a mad spur of inspiration, half hoping against hope that gods would save them from death, the king of Men rushed headlong into the hordes ere his courage failed him.
And behind him, the army roared like the sea and followed.
There was a pause, and a rumbling behind the hordes of darkness started. The Free Peoples looked up. The Great Eye blinked, and fizzled, losing form as the tower it topped began to crumble, taking the land around it with it, sinking into the earth. The black gates, too, fell, crushing the orcs, or delving them into the ground, leaving the land upon which the free peoples stood unscathed. Merry shouted with joy, grinning from ear to ear.
"Frodo, Frodo!" The mountain of doom began to shake, fire spewing out in all directions. Pippin sank to his knees in this tearstained victory-so much loss for so much gain.
"Frodo!" The hobbit shed tears like rain. But Merry looked up.
"The eagles! The eagles are coming!"
-*-*-*-*-*-
Rhoswen looked out over the high white walls, the still rancid smell of death and burning flesh lingering in the air, even with a brazier of sweet smelling herbs beside her, tears of nothing but the purest joy staining her face as she watched the small black speak that was the Company of the West march away from the still crumbling remains of unadulterated evil.
"Sound the trumpets! Give word to the heralds that the lords of Gondor have returned victorious!" Rhoswen called to the nearest page, who scampered off with a newly renewed smile on his face. And Rhoswen turned her face to the sun and smiled.
"So, my friend, you have not deserted me after all? The sun really does shine for me, happiest of happy hearts in this, most blessed of hours.
So it was that Boromir's foretelling that the Tower Guard should take up the call that the lords of Gondor had returned, and call home those valiant hearts with silver trumpets ringing clear across the Pelannor, with banners caught high in the breeze, the tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver in the newly found sun.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Boromir looked at the little hobbit, so small, and so brave. His deeds would be the stuff of legend. He laughed with the others, a voice full of relief that his friends were still alive.
"Boromir! Aragorn!" The big folk stood in the background, watching the joyous reunion with smiles.
When the rest had left, Boromir stayed back.
"Frodo, I have to-" the hobbit smiled at him, and held up a hand. Boromir stopped, frightened as he had never been in all his life.
"Boromir, I met your brother, and he was easily taken in as you. The ring is gone-it is the past now, and we must not dwell in the past, because there is nothing we can do to change it. You need not beg forgiveness, for it is freely given."
"I think it...most gratifying...that you should forgive me readily."
"All sin and darkness perished with the destruction the root of sins suffered, Boromir. Forgiveness came when the black tower fell- I am only a bearer of news. Now go, Boromir. I have heard tell that the one you love is in the city. Go to her, and do not let your heart be troubled with the past, for it is the only thing you cannot change." The big man smiled in relief, and left, happy that his most grievous sin had been now been atoned for. But there were other sins not his own that needed tending to.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The Eldest son of the Steward sat at his father's bedside, the older man not moving, the gentle breathing the only sign that he was still with living. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Aragorn.
"Why are you here?"
"I came to see you and your father...has he stirred?"
"Nay." Boromir's face fell even more, as if he was giving up, yet again, the most precious commodity in the universe in times like these-hope.
"May I?" Aragorn drew from a pouch at his waist several leaves, and dropped them in a bowl of water at the steward's bedside, where a cloth lay, seeping in the warm moisture. Very gently, he washed the elderly man's forehead. After what seemed an eternity, the steward's head moved, and ever so slowly, his eyes opened, as though his vision swam.
"Burning...everything was burning...what a dream...and..." He seemed incoherent, like what he said was not his own.
"Father? Father, can you not hear me? Can you not see your son?" Boromir seemed close to tears- his father was so close, and yet...so far.
"I had a son once...but he is dead. Am I not now dead too, that he is before me?" Denethor mumbled to himself, or no one in particular.
"I am not dead, father! I am not dead, and nor is Faramir! Why, why will you not wake? Why must this madness you suffer make me suffer in twain?" Boromir began to cry, and he laid his head on his father's hand. The old man hesitated, struggling to remember, and slowly, he began to stroke his son's hair.
"Boromir...Boromir...they told me you were dead."
All Boromir could do was cry.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Rhoswen looked into her father in law's room to see her king wiping his hands on a towel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling knowledgably, and her fiancé crying and trying to speak at the same time. Denethor looked to the door, and with an aged hand, beckoned her in.
"Rhoswen..." his face cracked a smile. Now he seemed much older, lined and wizened, white haired and sunken in appearance, as if a hundred years of troubles had been brought down upon him while he slept
"It pains me to see you like this, milord. My best wishes for your continued good health. I would take Boromir, if it pleases milord. He and I have much to speak of." Denethor waved a hand to carry on, and Rhoswen gently led Boromir out of his father's room, and down the hall, offering a handkerchief.
"There is something I'd like you to see, love." She took his hand and led him through the streets to the houses of healing. She pointed from the balcony looking over the gardens to two figures, one clad in white with a great azure cloak billowing about her, golden hair rippling in the wind, and the other with a rich green cloak, tawny locks blowing about with the chill breezes. The two were gazing off into the Pelannor, and the woman in blue drew nearer the man; they were talking.
"Yonder is your brother, and I have heard it from his own lips that he fosters a love in his heart for the lady Éowyn."
"The lady Éowyn? The wraithbane? Truly, to the gentle go the spirited, and to the spirited go the gentle-a union of opposites. Shall I call to him?" Rhoswen pulled him away from the balcony, a light of pleading in her eyes.
"You must not! Please, Boromir-would you have liked it if Faramir had walked in on us kissing? Leave them- you and I have better things to speak of." She took his big hand and led him away, to talk of the battle, and other ceremonials besides.
-*-*-*-*-*-
The courtyard of the citadel was packed with people. In the midst of the crowd, Boromir and Rhoswen stood alongside Faramir and Éowyn, both looking haler for their sojourn into shadow. Gandalf set the ancient circ of pearl and silver, with wings like those of a sea bird, upon his head. Boromir, gazing at his friend, seemed to see him in a changed light, more noble than ever before, taller, and the perfect vision of a king. But had Boromir ever found in his mind the doubt that Aragorn could not be, would not be his sovereign? No, never since the Dúnadan had saved his life.
"Now come the days of the king. May they be blessed." Gandalf said as he laid the crown on Aragorn's dark hair. Aragorn took a breath, and faced the masses.
"This day does not belong to one man, but to all. Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace." There were many cheers, and Aragorn, in his musical voice, began to sing.
"Et Earello Endorenna utulien. Sinome maruvan are Hildinyar tenn Ambar- metta." Such were the words, as Faramir and many other scholars could tell you, that Elendil spoke as his feet were set on Middle Earthen sand. 'Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.' He raised his hands for silence, and the cheering subsided.
"We enter now into the days of the king- Mercy shall be given justice, courage will be rewarded honor, and fidelity, merit. But Gondor is a land renewed, and councils shall be taken to let her glories and honors be restored as well as her kings. And it is my hope that these tasks shall not be delegated to one man alone, but to many men, all who have shown that his heart lies with his country, his city, and his people. My friends, my brothers, reward shall be given in it's turn for you, you who have served me so well when your hearts should have lain with those closer in blood than I." He looked at Boromir and Faramir, brothers alike in their creamy white surcoats, girded at the waist in belts of leaves, one in silver and the other gold, crafted so well by elvish hands.
"You are the keepers of the City, my stewards, sworn to hold oath and office until the king shall return. I hold your oaths fulfilled, but do not release such fine thanes from my service hastily. Boromir, my council, and ever my friend, the lands I have called home for long years past need stewardship. I gift you freely, and with my good will, the princedom of Arnor. It is only with you, and those of your line that I leave in keeping the lands that have been precious to me. And Faramir, my newest brother, your council, too, is much needed here. But I will keep you at my call nearest; I know your heart lies to the east-Ithilien is your domain, as a captain and now, as a Prince. May the sun shine brighter on your fields for it."
The king walked down the carpet flanked by joyous onlookers. He stopped, and Boromir, Faramir, Éowyn, Rhoswen, and Éomer bowed in their turn. A group of elves approached, led by Gabrielin's brother, clad in silver gray. The two embraced like brothers, and Legolas, smiling as if with a secret, stepped back from the banner shielding a woman.
Aragorn's face changed expressions slowly, going from serious to confused to joyful. As the woman holding the banner let her face be seen, Boromir understood why; this was Aragorn's elven princess. She lowered her head, and Aragorn looked at her for a moment, and then suddenly pulled her into a kiss. The crowd cheered. The Princess laughed, a wonderful sound, and the king and his soon to be queen continued through the crowd.
When the two approached the hobbits, the Pherianniath made to bow, but Aragorn stopped them.
"My friends! You bow to no one." And the king of Gondor knelt, and the crowd knelt with him.
Aragorn rose, and the crowd as a tide rose with him. He turned from the hobbits to Boromir, standing, joyful, with Rhoswen by his side, both resplendent in whites and pearls.
"My friend, today is to be my wedding, and...I would share that joy with you." Boromir frowned.
"I could not presume..." Aragorn held up a hand.
"A wise woman told me once that we were brothers Fate had not gifted by blood, both floundering in an ocean of love, far away from the shores of the source, and therefore also in the same boat on that deepening sea. So I ask you, brother, share with me my joy. Let my happiness also be yours on this day, this blessed day of all blessed days." Boromir looked at him, tears starring his eyes, and Aragorn pulled his friend into a hug. Boromir whispered into his ear,
"It shall be as my lord commands." Aragorn whispered back,
"I wish you would stop saying that." Boromir smiled, and the king released him, faces wreathed in smiles, and processed into the hall with his soon to be queen, and the sons of the steward came in behind, followed by the happy multitudes awaiting not one royal marriage, but two.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Aii, but that was certain sacrilege. I do humbly beg forgiveness for whatever wrongs that I have done, for grievous is the crime for which I should be punished without mercy.
If you wish it, tell me what it is that deserves your merit, and you in turn shall be rewarded in a way that will suit what you may have done for me. The bard and poet both live not, kind sirs, on empty words and unspoken praises.
And if you understood any of my methodical English rambling, then you are truly worthy of reviewing my story.
Mercury Gray
