Soon it became clear to Boromir as to where Aragorn was headed. He had not given it much thought since they left; he was so glad of companionship that direction mattered little. As they reached the top of a ridge, they could see in the distance the stern form of Helm's Deep, its tower stretching menacingly into the sky, dominating the surrounding landscape. From the exterior, this place looked dark and cold, entirely hostile to the outside world. But Boromir knew that here, Aragorn would find refuge, and more than his share of welcomes.
It was when Aragorn saw the structure that he began to increase his speed, now faced with a reachable goal. Boromir was forced to run alongside him, although, such as he was, he did not tire easily. Something that this curse had given him was freedom -freedom, as he had never felt. Although Minas Tirith was his home, and he loved it dearly, he could not help but feel trapped, trapped in a cage of honour and duty, one whose bars would not break without consequence. Perhaps he was a fool to have succumbed to his father's restrictions so easily, he thought to himself. But it was too late to change what he had done, too late to change the past – and if he could not live with his mistakes, he could not live with himself.
Approaching the great gate, Boromir stared in wonder at the great structure that stood before him. This was a stronghold of Men, where many had found refuge before, a safe haven from the outside world. And yet, as he passed through the entrance, he did not feel truly secure. Something inside was warning him; some unknown sense that he could not understand, for all seemed calm in the Deep.
It was quickly spread by word-of-mouth that the unthinkable had happened. A murmur of voices could be heard as Aragorn dismounted the horse, and Boromir could see, over the parapets and the walls, the faces of men, their expressions incredulous and disbelieving. Aragorn had returned! The Ranger acknowledged each one of them, but remained surprisingly unruffled by the attention he had raised. Boromir knew that it would be as if he were back from the dead. He frowned sourly, his mind turning back to the fact that he could have no such reunion, no matter how he longed for it.
Aragorn turned, heading for the doorway that would take him to his friends. As Boromir followed him, a thought occurred to him that had not entered his mind before. He almost stopped in disbelief as he considered it further. If he had survived after death, lived on after all hope seemed lost…then why not his mother? Surely she would have experienced the same as he. Boromir pondered this thought as he paced the long, stone corridor, barely noticing the people either side of him. If she was here, then where was she? She had not shown her presence in any way that he could see. Despairing, he wondered whether she was there at all.
A familiar gruff voice could be heard above the shouts and cries of the men, and Boromir smiled as he saw Gimli thrusting his way through the crowds to meet his friend. The Dwarf looked up at Aragorn, an expression of disbelief on his face.
"You are the luckiest and most reckless man I ever knew!" he laughed, smiling widely. He embraced his friend, and Aragorn smiled warmly back at him. As much as he wanted to, Boromir found it hard to watch. Something caught in his throat as he saw this happy reunion; something that would refuse to leave him at peace. For Faramir did not have him any longer. He closed his eyes as he realised the utter finality of his death. All the things he had longed to be for his brother, he could be no more. The simplest thing – a shake of the hand, a familiar embrace – the simplest action was impossible. Boromir knew that his brother would feel the same lonely ache that haunted his own dreams. He has no family left, he thought pitifully, images of his father's stern gaze forming in his mind, nobody who will care for him. He pounded his fist against the other in hopelessness. He needed some way, just one way, to know if his mother was there - to know that she was with him on his journey, and that neither he nor Faramir were alone. Summoning up all his courage, he recalled what little memories he had of that time. Mother, he thought, almost aloud, are you there? Silence. "It is hopeless," he muttered, his voice catching on itself. He had promised to himself that he would never give up hope, but in times like these, the very concept of that seemed impossible. Inhaling deeply, he turned his gaze to Aragorn."Gimli, where is the King?" he heard him ask frantically. Gimli motioned ahead of them, and Aragorn nodded in thanks. Following his friend through the stone passage, he could hear the metallic sound of sword against shield echoing in the distance. There were many men here, tired and weary-looking, some with their heads buried in their hands, some staring blankly into space. Ironically to him, they felt almost ghost-like, as if devoid of life or spirit. He turned his glance away, attempting to avoid their empty expressions, for they filled him with incredible sorrow.Suddenly, he saw Aragorn halt. To Boromir's great surprise, before him stood Legolas, a wide smile on his face. The Elf said nothing, but merely nodded, as if he knowingly had predicted this event. Aragorn smiled in return, and they quickly embraced each other, glad of each other's renewed company. Speaking a few words of Elvish, which Boromir regretted that he could not understand, they began towards a large door, the likes of which he had seen only in the greatest strongholds of men. Aragorn spared no time in thrusting it open, his silhouette framed in the light of the doorway, his eyes firm, and his stance determined. Boromir admired his perseverance; his sense of spirit that was possessed by men few and far between was invigorating, and he carried with him a great sense of honour, no matter how Boromir tried to dissuade himself from the fact.
Boromir recognized the figure of Théoden as they approached. He did not look trusting; his eyes were slightly narrowed, and he had a weary expression that he could not quite place.
"Aragorn," he said slowly, almost unbelieving, unsure if some trickery was upon him. "I was told that you had fallen." The Ranger shuffled uncomfortably.
"Théoden King," he replied courteously, but with a hint of worry, "I bring news of a great host. All Isengard is emptied." Boromir noticed how he did not bring attention to his disappearance, or indeed, to his apparent return from the dead.
"A great host, you say?" he asked testily, neither pleased nor entirely assured of this information. He halted, his eyes riddled with concern. "How many?"
Aragorn's expression changed to one of great seriousness.
"Ten thousand strong at least." Théoden's eyes widened, and his lips parted in utter and genuine shock.
"Ten thousand?" he repeated, his eyes darting in worry. There was silence for a brief moment, as he tried to consider this overwhelming thought. Aragorn brought it upon himself to raise his voice.
"It is an army bred for a single purpose," he said carefully, holding Théoden's gaze, "to destroy the world of Men." Théoden looked away, attempting to free himself from Aragorn's overbearing stare. But Aragorn now gazed down, his face blanketed in shadow. "They will be here by nightfall."
Théoden closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth in bitterness. Aragorn was no King - he was but a Ranger. What did he know of these matters? Glaring at him, he opened his mouth to speak.
"Let them come," he said with great scorn.
What are you thinking? thought Boromir to himself, suddenly feeling drained numb. Helm's Deep is not strong enough to resist an attack of that scale! Had his irrationalities overridden his senses? Boromir sighed pitifully. He knew the men here were not trained for battle. He had seen them – seen their haggard, tired faces; seen the shock in their eyes when they were handed a sword, shield, or bow. These were no warriors – they were innocent people!
He followed them as they walked outside, determined, in some way, to help. Théoden was clearly adamant on his decision, issuing orders to his soldiers, preparing them for the siege.
"Send out riders, my lord," Aragorn pleaded, "you must call for aid." Théoden turned to face him.
"And who will come?" he spat. "Elves? Dwarves?" He eyed Aragorn's companions warily, and shook his head. "We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead." Aragorn stepped forward.
"Gondor will answer." Boromir caught his breath. Over all his travels with the Fellowship, through all their hardships and trials, he had never once heard Aragorn declare his allegiance to the race of Men…but with these thoughts crept back long-forgotten memories, memories that were only now being awoken…"I swear to you I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail…"Boromir steadied himself as the memory returned. It was as if he had been in a dream all this time, as if he had not seen through this barrier, this curtain which shrouded his last thoughts. It was as if a part of him had returned. And Aragorn…Aragorn had sworn his allegiance, to Gondor and his people…he remembered it all now. His breath trembled, and he raised a hand to his forehead, with the realisation that Aragorn was carrying his flame – and he would carry it to Gondor, and see its glory restored. He remembered how he had gulped in his last breath, spoken his last word, a word which only Aragorn would hear - how everything had faded to darkness, and all the pain was gone with the light – leaving him alone, until somehow, he had awoken again…these thoughts filled him with renewed hope he had not known in a long time. He is truly worthy of the crown of Gondor, he thought, smiling to himself. The utmost faith that Aragorn had in his beloved land had shown him this. "Gondor?" Théoden scoffed. "No, my lord Aragorn, we are alone." Boromir felt the pit of his stomach fall as he heard these spiteful words. Gondor has its own affairs, he thought, rather maliciously, though slightly ashamed at Théoden's distrust. If his land had caused the King of Rohan to feel so, who else might lose faith in the Stewards? Théoden turned, leaving Aragorn lost for speech.
"Get the women and children into the caves," he said sternly. It was clear that he was entirely adamant. In his mind, Helm's Deep would not be breached; could not be breached. "War is upon us!" Boromir knew that there was not enough time – he knew that they were not prepared – and yet, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. If he could not protect his people, for whom he had lived for, and for whose safety he had strived – if he could not do his duty to Gondor – then why was he here? He cursed quietly to himself. Battle was looming; he could feel it in the stale, dusty air. And he would not be a part of it.
The gate was secured, and the lengthy but hurried process of preparing for the siege began. Boromir separated from his companions, drawn to the plight of these men, of these families, torn apart by a power they did not understand. He saw many children, tears streaming down their frightened and innocent faces, as they were carried down to the safety of the caves. Their fathers and brothers would receive no such refuge. Men who had never wielded a sword now held one in their shaking hands – these men had never seen battle. Boromir could barely remember a time without it. What has caused this madness? he thought despairingly, a tear forming in his eye as he saw a young boy, his hand quivering in fear, gazing afraid at the weapon he held in his hand. He is but a child. He cannot carry this burden. But the burden was on all of them now, for none could escape it.Suddenly, in the distance, he heard an unmistakable sound. He quivered with utmost fear as he felt the pounding of boots shake the earth beneath him. They are coming, he thought, his breath trembling. There is not enough time…The shouts of men struck fear in the hearts of every would-be soldier, and Boromir heard a pattering of rain thrash against the window. Burning flames could be seen in the distance; flames of fury, menace and hate, steadily approaching the Deep for what seemed like an age. Boromir remained dutifully with the men – his men. He would not see them fall, not like he had. Tonight, they would be victorious!