Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters
and/or places thereof
*****
"I want you to leave Minas Tirith." Boromir could hardly believe the words were out of his mouth, but he felt liberated, powerful and proud to have said them. Clenching his fists, he gazed into the grey-blue eyes of his enemy, expecting fully to see anger, but he was met only with confusion. This did somewhat annoy him, the innocence of the look, but he endured this.
"For what reason do you ask this?" Thorongil asked. Boromir was angry with him, any fool could see that. Why? What had he, Thorongil, done to offend Boromir? Racking his memories, Thorongil found nothing. Perhaps Boromir disliked recalling the earlier years, when Thorongil had been a captain of Minas Tirith twelve years ago. Those had not been dark days, but the death of Ecthelion had certainly colored Boromir's memories darkly.
"For the safety of my family." Boromir practically spat the words in his anger.
This only served to confuse Thorongil further. "What in all Middle-earth are you talking about?" The two met on even enough measures; Boromir requested a private word with Thorongil and, because he was the Steward's son and Thorongil a man of no such importance, this was done. They walked together along a corridor easily referred to as a portrait gallery, it was so heavily hung with likenesses of Stewards and Kings past. Boromir spoke lovingly yet without strong emotion of his forebears and of his country in general, too nervous to speak his mind until at last he lost control and spoke so bluntly.
"I saw--" Boromir began, then realized his voice was raised and spoke in quieter tones, hardly whispering, "I saw my brother last night, after you left his bedchamber."
And, all at once, Thorongil understood. The poor boy; Boromir must think Thorongil had caused such harm to his little brother! Certainly it must have looked as such! "Lord Boromir, I never harmed your brother."
"Then how do you propose to explain the wounds?" Boromir shot back.
Thorongil's face softened and he looked as though he understood Boromir's predicament. Kneeling, Thorongil placed his hand over his heart in a display of truth and met the younger man's eyes. "I know this is difficult for you, but it was not I who harmed young Lord Faramir, but someone much closer to his heart. And to yours."
For a few moments Boromir stared uncomprehending into Thorongil's eyes, then his own orbs widened in understanding. "You do not know your place."
"My Lord, I mean only to help your brother. Steward Denethor has the right to treat his sons as he will and I see in your eyes that Faramir receives a different treatment than you, that you do not believe my words. For your father's sake, you are inclined to cast aside my speech, I understand this. Think, Lord Boromir, for your brother for a moment. He is in danger." Thorongil saw a chance--a slim chance, but a chance nevertheless--and took it. "Help me, Lord Boromir. Help me take your brother out of harm's way."
Boromir could hardly believe his ears. This strange man came into his city, hardly respected his father, harmed his brother, and asked Boromir's aid in kidnapping a young child, a noble child? Had he no sense? Boromir's anger was as easily quelled by Thorongil's words as the tides turned back for a man who shakes his fists in anger.
"You remember me, Lord Boromir, I know you do. I was your captain, you remember this. You trusted me once. Trust me now, as you did those years ago," Thorongil appealed.
"You were my captain," Boromir replied, "and you left." Old wounds reopened clearly upon his face.
Thorongil once more saw that young boy, whose eyes had been forbidden from welling with tears. "I had no choice, aran-nin. Your father bid me leave; ordered me leave. I am sorry I had to abandon you; your grandfather's death must have been difficult. But you realize, Lord Boromir, that only with Lord Ecthelion dead could Lord Denethor expel me?"
Boromir swallowed a lump in his throat. No, he willed himself, you must not! This is a time to be strong! "You will not poison me with your words!" Aware of their location, Boromir hissed at his companion, "Now be gone! You are lucky I am not going to tell my father of this, Thorongil! Be gone!" And Thorongil stood, towering over Boromir and striking fear into the heart of the Steward's eldest son, and bowed, and left.
*****
"We have to leave."
With no further words, Thorongil angrily gathered the few things he had taken from his pack and shoved the items until the pack would close. Mithrandir observed, half-amused and very worried at his friend's anger. The old wizard saw that a protruding knife kept Thorongil's pack from closing, but he neglected to say this. At long last the Ranger discovered the knife, slipped it deeper into his pack and tied it closed. He turned to the wizard. "Why do you stand by in idle? Did you not hear me? We must leave this place!"
"Thorongil, calm yourself. What is going on?" Mithrandir asked. It had been long since he had seen Thorongil so. . .angry? Frenzied? What exactly was Thorongil?
"The Steward's son tells us we must leave. I said to you, Mithrandir, that he was as his father! Just as Denethor bid me leave so many years ago, Valar forbid I should corrupt his young child!"
"Thorongil!" Mithrandir spoke as sharply as he could, deeming it necessary. And the rebuke did its job: Thorongil froze, looking at the wizard, waiting for what he next would say. More gently Mithrandir intoned, "You must calm yourself. You are beyond control. Is this about Boromir, Thorongil?"
The Ranger sighed, and closed his eyes as if in thought, then sunk down upon the bed. He ran his hands over his face and gripped his hair tightly. The wizard sat beside the Ranger and waited. "Mithrandir, I apologize. Leaving Boromir was difficult, those years ago. Leaving Faramir. . .sweet Iluvatar. Boromir thinks I hurt his brother. He threatens to tell his father if we do not leave at once. I am sorry, my friend. You warned me against getting involved."
"All the while knowing you would not heed me," Mithrandir replied kindly. "I knew your heart would lead you in another direction completely to the one I dictated. We can do nothing for Faramir, Thorongil, and never could we have, no matter your situation with his brother. We have no power here."
"But someday!" Thorongil replied, lifting his head and meeting the wizened gaze of the old wizard. "Some day I will have power here. We must hold on to that day."
Mithrandir nodded. "Your hold on that day is not strong, Thorongil. You must believe it will come. The hour now seems dark; it is not. There is hope yet, for Faramir and for you. Don't give up."
Now it was Thorongil who nodded. "I have not lost hope," he stated firmly. "But we must leave this place. Boromir did not jest; I believe he will tell Denethor what he suspects if we are not gone very soon."
In silence, but amicable and not at all worried silence despite the danger they were in, the wizard and the Ranger gathered their belongings, buckled on their swords, and prepared to depart. Mithrandir swept his eyes over the space they had so briefly occupied. "You have delivered the letter?" he asked, just to make certain.
"Yes--no!" Thorongil realized. "I have not."
Mithrandir nodded. "You deliver the letter now, and I will meet you in the stables."
"All right." Thorongil nodded and was on his way. A part of him fluttered, a long-silent place deep inside, and he realized that he hoped for something to happen which was highly unlikely. He knew then that he still wished to aid Faramir, and it took his complete self-control to head straight for the Steward's study, where he would deliver his letter--then be gone.
*****
To be continued
Alex: You're picking nits there, dear.
Galorin: Thanks! Always a pleasure hearing from you. Yes, Boromir indeed believes that his brother has been beaten up by the Ranger.
Gpup: Not really. It's what anyone would naturally assume in his position, and think of the loyalties involved. He's no evidence against Denethor, no reason to suspect him.
Angel of Harlem: Definitely not Faramir!
Joshua Nenya: Ah, but Boromir's help is. . .misdirected. As for English, I completely understand! Learning Spanish this year has opened my eyes to the awkwardness of the English language.
*****
"I want you to leave Minas Tirith." Boromir could hardly believe the words were out of his mouth, but he felt liberated, powerful and proud to have said them. Clenching his fists, he gazed into the grey-blue eyes of his enemy, expecting fully to see anger, but he was met only with confusion. This did somewhat annoy him, the innocence of the look, but he endured this.
"For what reason do you ask this?" Thorongil asked. Boromir was angry with him, any fool could see that. Why? What had he, Thorongil, done to offend Boromir? Racking his memories, Thorongil found nothing. Perhaps Boromir disliked recalling the earlier years, when Thorongil had been a captain of Minas Tirith twelve years ago. Those had not been dark days, but the death of Ecthelion had certainly colored Boromir's memories darkly.
"For the safety of my family." Boromir practically spat the words in his anger.
This only served to confuse Thorongil further. "What in all Middle-earth are you talking about?" The two met on even enough measures; Boromir requested a private word with Thorongil and, because he was the Steward's son and Thorongil a man of no such importance, this was done. They walked together along a corridor easily referred to as a portrait gallery, it was so heavily hung with likenesses of Stewards and Kings past. Boromir spoke lovingly yet without strong emotion of his forebears and of his country in general, too nervous to speak his mind until at last he lost control and spoke so bluntly.
"I saw--" Boromir began, then realized his voice was raised and spoke in quieter tones, hardly whispering, "I saw my brother last night, after you left his bedchamber."
And, all at once, Thorongil understood. The poor boy; Boromir must think Thorongil had caused such harm to his little brother! Certainly it must have looked as such! "Lord Boromir, I never harmed your brother."
"Then how do you propose to explain the wounds?" Boromir shot back.
Thorongil's face softened and he looked as though he understood Boromir's predicament. Kneeling, Thorongil placed his hand over his heart in a display of truth and met the younger man's eyes. "I know this is difficult for you, but it was not I who harmed young Lord Faramir, but someone much closer to his heart. And to yours."
For a few moments Boromir stared uncomprehending into Thorongil's eyes, then his own orbs widened in understanding. "You do not know your place."
"My Lord, I mean only to help your brother. Steward Denethor has the right to treat his sons as he will and I see in your eyes that Faramir receives a different treatment than you, that you do not believe my words. For your father's sake, you are inclined to cast aside my speech, I understand this. Think, Lord Boromir, for your brother for a moment. He is in danger." Thorongil saw a chance--a slim chance, but a chance nevertheless--and took it. "Help me, Lord Boromir. Help me take your brother out of harm's way."
Boromir could hardly believe his ears. This strange man came into his city, hardly respected his father, harmed his brother, and asked Boromir's aid in kidnapping a young child, a noble child? Had he no sense? Boromir's anger was as easily quelled by Thorongil's words as the tides turned back for a man who shakes his fists in anger.
"You remember me, Lord Boromir, I know you do. I was your captain, you remember this. You trusted me once. Trust me now, as you did those years ago," Thorongil appealed.
"You were my captain," Boromir replied, "and you left." Old wounds reopened clearly upon his face.
Thorongil once more saw that young boy, whose eyes had been forbidden from welling with tears. "I had no choice, aran-nin. Your father bid me leave; ordered me leave. I am sorry I had to abandon you; your grandfather's death must have been difficult. But you realize, Lord Boromir, that only with Lord Ecthelion dead could Lord Denethor expel me?"
Boromir swallowed a lump in his throat. No, he willed himself, you must not! This is a time to be strong! "You will not poison me with your words!" Aware of their location, Boromir hissed at his companion, "Now be gone! You are lucky I am not going to tell my father of this, Thorongil! Be gone!" And Thorongil stood, towering over Boromir and striking fear into the heart of the Steward's eldest son, and bowed, and left.
*****
"We have to leave."
With no further words, Thorongil angrily gathered the few things he had taken from his pack and shoved the items until the pack would close. Mithrandir observed, half-amused and very worried at his friend's anger. The old wizard saw that a protruding knife kept Thorongil's pack from closing, but he neglected to say this. At long last the Ranger discovered the knife, slipped it deeper into his pack and tied it closed. He turned to the wizard. "Why do you stand by in idle? Did you not hear me? We must leave this place!"
"Thorongil, calm yourself. What is going on?" Mithrandir asked. It had been long since he had seen Thorongil so. . .angry? Frenzied? What exactly was Thorongil?
"The Steward's son tells us we must leave. I said to you, Mithrandir, that he was as his father! Just as Denethor bid me leave so many years ago, Valar forbid I should corrupt his young child!"
"Thorongil!" Mithrandir spoke as sharply as he could, deeming it necessary. And the rebuke did its job: Thorongil froze, looking at the wizard, waiting for what he next would say. More gently Mithrandir intoned, "You must calm yourself. You are beyond control. Is this about Boromir, Thorongil?"
The Ranger sighed, and closed his eyes as if in thought, then sunk down upon the bed. He ran his hands over his face and gripped his hair tightly. The wizard sat beside the Ranger and waited. "Mithrandir, I apologize. Leaving Boromir was difficult, those years ago. Leaving Faramir. . .sweet Iluvatar. Boromir thinks I hurt his brother. He threatens to tell his father if we do not leave at once. I am sorry, my friend. You warned me against getting involved."
"All the while knowing you would not heed me," Mithrandir replied kindly. "I knew your heart would lead you in another direction completely to the one I dictated. We can do nothing for Faramir, Thorongil, and never could we have, no matter your situation with his brother. We have no power here."
"But someday!" Thorongil replied, lifting his head and meeting the wizened gaze of the old wizard. "Some day I will have power here. We must hold on to that day."
Mithrandir nodded. "Your hold on that day is not strong, Thorongil. You must believe it will come. The hour now seems dark; it is not. There is hope yet, for Faramir and for you. Don't give up."
Now it was Thorongil who nodded. "I have not lost hope," he stated firmly. "But we must leave this place. Boromir did not jest; I believe he will tell Denethor what he suspects if we are not gone very soon."
In silence, but amicable and not at all worried silence despite the danger they were in, the wizard and the Ranger gathered their belongings, buckled on their swords, and prepared to depart. Mithrandir swept his eyes over the space they had so briefly occupied. "You have delivered the letter?" he asked, just to make certain.
"Yes--no!" Thorongil realized. "I have not."
Mithrandir nodded. "You deliver the letter now, and I will meet you in the stables."
"All right." Thorongil nodded and was on his way. A part of him fluttered, a long-silent place deep inside, and he realized that he hoped for something to happen which was highly unlikely. He knew then that he still wished to aid Faramir, and it took his complete self-control to head straight for the Steward's study, where he would deliver his letter--then be gone.
*****
To be continued
Alex: You're picking nits there, dear.
Galorin: Thanks! Always a pleasure hearing from you. Yes, Boromir indeed believes that his brother has been beaten up by the Ranger.
Gpup: Not really. It's what anyone would naturally assume in his position, and think of the loyalties involved. He's no evidence against Denethor, no reason to suspect him.
Angel of Harlem: Definitely not Faramir!
Joshua Nenya: Ah, but Boromir's help is. . .misdirected. As for English, I completely understand! Learning Spanish this year has opened my eyes to the awkwardness of the English language.